Chapter 2 EMMETT
EMMETT
“Another beer?” Paul asked.
“One more. Then go ahead and close out my tab.”
He nodded and walked the length of the bar for the register.
The Betsy was busier tonight than I’d thought it would be for a Monday. Normally it wasn’t this crowded.
I’d come down after work to have a beer and play a game of pool with the regulars—a group of guys in their seventies who’d come down daily to reminisce about the old days. Each had his own stool and heaven help any man who dared to encroach.
Part of the reason I liked to come down and bullshit with the regulars was because a lot of times their reminiscing involved memories of my father. If he were alive, he’d have been one of the regulars. I’d have been coming to The Betsy for a drink with my old man.
Instead, I came down to be with those who missed him too. It was comforting to know I wasn’t the only person who remembered him.
The regulars were gone now, most of them leaving before six to go home. They all preferred The Betsy before it got busy. Now their stools were occupied by others who’d come down for an evening drink.
August in Montana meant long days. People capitalized on their social time while the weather was warm and the sun shined until well after nine each night. Not that you could see a glimpse of sunshine from inside The Betsy.
The few windows were tinted and obscured with neon signs. More of those signs cluttered the walls next to various beer paraphernalia. The jukebox glowed on the far side of the room, its lights synchronized to the beat of the Aerosmith song someone had chosen.
The tables in the center of the room were full of men who’d discarded their suit jackets and rolled up their starched shirtsleeves.
Along the bar, clusters of people stood to laugh and talk.
The pool tables, which had been empty when I’d walked in the door, were now overrun and a long line of quarters was piled on its edge.
I’d had a good run at pool tonight, winning straight for the past three hours.
But part of the fun in playing pool was who you played against, and during my last game, when the guys who’d been up next had only wanted to talk about rumors of my former motorcycle club, I’d taken it as a sign it was time to go home.
Paul came over with my bottle of Corona, leaving the top on and setting a lime wedge on a napkin. Then he set down my credit card and receipt with a pen. “Thanks, Emmett.”
“Have a good night, Paul.” I nodded and twisted the top off my beer.
About six months ago, a woman had slipped drugs into my friend’s drink. Dash, Leo and I had been here for a night of fun, taking tequila shots and hanging out. Dash had eventually gone home to his wife, Bryce. I’d left with a hookup. And Leo had been on his way home to his woman, Cass.
Except before Leo had made it out the door, he’d had one last shot. A shot that had been drugged, causing him to black out. The woman who’d done it had been paid by an enemy. A man connected to the Arrowhead Warriors.
The Warriors had been a rival club back in the days of the Tin Kings. Now, they seemed intent on ruining our lives, even though most of them were in prison.
The man who’d drugged Leo was the nephew of the Warriors’ president. Both the nephew and his uncle were now behind bars, but that didn’t mean we weren’t still at risk.
So we didn’t let other people touch our drinks. Paul let us open our own beers and if we were drinking liquor, we kept a careful watch with every shot poured.
I tipped the bottle to my lips and scanned the room for familiar faces.
Not all that long ago, Leo would have been here by my side.
He used to come to The Betsy nearly every night, but now that he had married Cass and they’d had a baby daughter, he had a better place to be.
Home. All of the guys from the shop had a better place to be.
Because the scene at The Betsy was wearing thin.
This had once been Clifton Forge’s dive bar, filled with bikers and men who weren’t afraid of a rough life. This had been the Tin King bar.
Now the place was packed with locals who wouldn’t have dared set foot inside ten years ago. The bar fights were fewer and fewer, something Paul was no doubt glad about. He’d just bought The Betsy from the original owner and was making it his own. It was cleaner now than it had ever been too.
The room was still dark, but the cobwebs were missing from the glass shelves behind the bar. The rack of pool cues that used to be loose and close to falling off the wall had been reattached. And Paul frowned upon couples using the storage room for a quick fuck.
The Betsy had changed.
We all had.
I took a long swallow of my beer, not feeling like finishing it, then quickly scribbled my name on the receipt, leaving Paul a decent tip. I tossed the pen down, ready to head for the door and ride home, when a glimpse of white lace molded around delicious curves caught my eye.
She sat on the opposite end of the bar, facing me, her shoulders straight and her posture perfect. Her black jacket rested on the bar in the empty place beside hers. On it sat a crocodile leather handbag.
Another suit.
But this one . . . this one I liked.
Her dark hair framed her face, spilling over her shoulders and down her spine. That lacey top was glued to her breasts and waist, leaving nothing to the imagination. The straps were so thin I could cut them with my teeth.
My cock twitched and my mouth went dry. I finished my beer after all, draining it in two gulps. Then I adjusted my hardening arousal before crossing the room, weaving around people and not once taking my eyes off her.
She sat perched on her stool, her eyes assessing the room. Her lips had a natural pout that she’d accentuated with a rosy lipstick. Her nude fingernails tapped on the martini glass in front of her.
Both seats beside hers were empty and nothing about the lazy way she took in the room showed she was waiting on a date or a colleague to join her. There was no ring on her left hand either.
Conversation and music drifted around me. Someone called my name but I ignored it, this woman stealing my entire focus.
Damn, but she was a stunner. She had to be new around town because that face was unforgettable.
Standing a head taller than most people in the bar had its advantages and when she lifted her cocktail to those lips, I had the perfect view of her tongue darting out to touch the rim before she took a sip.
She swallowed and set the glass on its napkin, then looked around again.
The moment she spotted me, her eyes traveled up my chest, landing on my face.
Then she held my gaze, her own unwavering, as I rounded the corner and leaned on the bar beside her seat.
She looked me up and down, only her eyes moving.
Her perusal wasn’t subtle.
Neither was mine.
At thirty-eight years old, I was done playing games when it came to women. When I wanted one, she knew it. I didn’t hide my intentions or pretend I wanted more than a casual hookup. What was the point? My friends might have settled down, but that wasn’t in my cards.
So I lived for the good times while they lasted. And if this beauty wanted a good time, I’d show her one.
Her perfume hit my nose, the rich, floral scent complicated and expensive. It chased away the smell of beer and people.
My gaze drifted to the pressed crease of her black slacks, down the line to the sexiest heels I’d seen in years. The strappy sandals were black and sleek. Her toes were painted fire-engine red, a color that matched the soles peeking out.
That red meant those shoes were expensive. Classy shoes for a classy woman.
What the hell was she doing at The Betsy?
“Nice shoes,” I said, meeting her gaze. Her irises were the color of coffee, so dark they were nearly black. Framed with long lashes and lined with a charcoal shadow, her eyes would bring a weaker man to his knees.
“Thanks.” Her voice was like a curl of smoke, swirling around us and blocking out the noise.
I held out my hand. “What’s your name?”
She looked at my fingers, then back up at my face. “You don’t really want it.”
I chuckled. No, I didn’t need her name. “Not really.”
“Good. I don’t need yours either. I like what I see. That’s enough.”
Well, fuck. I think I’d just met the female version of myself. I dropped my hand and twisted, leaning both forearms on the bar. I was close enough that my arm brushed against hers. “You good to drive?”
“Yes.” She slid off her stool and stood, taller than most women. Those six-inch heels had to help. Then she plucked up her purse and jacket. “Shall we?”
“Follow me.”
The crowd parted in my wake and every click of her heels was like a jolt of adrenaline through my veins and a blast of heat to my groin.
My body was thrumming with anticipation as we walked outside and into the yellow evening glow.
Going straight for my bike parked beside the door, I swung a leg over and straddled the seat.
She kept walking, straight across the parking lot to a car nearly as sexy as the woman herself. A ’69 Nova. Damn. That was a car I’d drool over later. At the moment I was too busy staring at the perfect shape of her ass as she walked.
This woman . . . damn, she had a way. Her hips swayed in a slow sashay. Her legs looked a mile long with those slacks and heels. My hands burned to grip those toned thighs and skate across the swell of her breasts.
I started the engine of the bike as she slid behind the wheel of her car. Even from behind the glass, I caught the smirk on her lips and the lust in her gaze.
Fuck, I was glad I’d come to the bar tonight.
I rolled out of the parking lot, resisting the urge to rev the bike’s engine. I didn’t want to lose her as we navigated through town. But the minute I hit the quiet county road that led toward the mountain foothills, I cut myself loose.
If she drove that hot-as-fuck car like a mouse, I’d be disappointed.