Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Christian
With The Devil in I by Slipknot blasting through my subwoofers, I pull into my driveway feeling miserable as shit.
For a long moment, I just sit there and puff on a blunt while I let the music play. My neighbors on the other side of the duplex will probably bitch about the noise tomorrow, but I don't care.
The upside of Tay moving out means I can smoke weed in the apartment, I guess? Nah. Logan would have some shit to say about it, that fucking nerd.
Pfft. A nerd who's got a wife and a boyfriend.
Speaking of…
A wet slurp cuts through my spiraling thoughts. Glancing through the open window, I find Logan’s boyfriend, Owen, standing there with a soda in hand, dark waves of hair a mess.
“You look upset,” he says, straw squeaking obnoxiously as he takes another sip.
“How long you been standing there, little creep?”
He just shrugs and leans his elbows against the door, dressed in one of Logan’s dorky polos. “Long enough to watch you wipe away a tear. Is it because Taylor's not here?”
I smack my lips with a glare. “Don't you ever go home?”
Seriously, ever since Logan moved in, it’s like his boyfriend came with him.
Little guy is always lurking, eating all my food, following me around.
Sure, I’ve known him since college—he was friends with my ex—but that doesn’t mean I appreciate the fucker stealing all the toaster pastries.
Plus, Logan isn't even here right now. He's on a date with his wife.
Jesus Christ, what world am I in where everyone's partnered up except me?
“This is bullshit,” I mutter, crossing my arms against a cold autumn breeze. “One of these days, you people are gonna die of happiness, and I’ll be the only asshole left.”
Owen hums. “At least you’ll finally get some peace and quiet.”
“Yeah. Can’t wait.” I'm lying. That sounds fucking miserable.
He slurps again, drawing a scowl out of me. “You sound like a vacuum cleaner. Stop it!”
“Jealous of my sucking skills?”
That comment kicks up butterflies in my stomach. I glance up at the stars sparkling down on us, and try to force back the image of a set of whiskey-brown eyes gazing up at me from the ground. A sinful smirk and wicked tongue. Pierced lips stretched around my cock—
Nah. Fuck that shit. I ain't thinking of that rotten asshole again, not after he slept with Arya and nearly killed Logan.
Okay, technically, we were sharing my ex-girlfriend, but that's not the point.
Owen lets out a low whistle. “Y’know, I've got the perfect cure for a broken heart.”
“You're not sucking my dick, fool.”
“Even better,” he smirks. “Booze and dancing. Let's go to the bar.”
I scoff. “The last thing I want to do on my day off is hang around work.”
Which is a shame. The Prospector used to be my favorite place, but now that Tay and I work there full-time, it's no longer fun.
“So we'll go somewhere else,” he suggests, grinning around his straw. “There’s this new club that opened downtown. Logan said I’m not allowed to go alone because I can't keep my mouth to myself. He wants me to be safe.”
“You’re both weird.”
“So come with me. Let’s get your mind off Tay and find some babes for you to, uh, do whatever it is straight dudes do.”
The idea of sitting at home in silence sounds worse than dying of alcohol poisoning, that's for fucking sure.
Admittedly, my left wrist is starting to get sore.
There's only so much porn a guy can watch before it starts to get concerning.
Maybe Owen's right, I need to get laid. It's been a few weeks.
“Fine,” I sigh, cutting the engine. “You're driving, and there better be no cover charge.”
These pockets are dry. Logan’s accident last year—and the subsequent absence of his wife, Salem, because of it—really fucked with my finances. She was our marketing manager, and without her, the stunt bike brand I built with Tay—Twins of Terror—is slowly circling the drain.
I keep telling myself I’ll figure it out. Just need to catch up on sponsorship deadlines, film a few new clips, actually post them… But every time I think about it, my brain short-circuits.
Dirt bike tricks used to be fun. Now, without Salem handling the nitty-gritty for Twins of Terror, it just feels like work.
Owen snorts, once again snapping me out of my thoughts. “Oh, I'll get us in. The bouncer owes me a favor. Now change your shirt. You smell like mansweat.”
He’s already walking toward his car before I can argue, keys jingling.
I stare after him for a moment before swinging my gaze to the oil spot left behind by Taylor’s truck. It's been there so long that I hardly notice it anymore. Until now. The knowledge that his truck won't be back to cover it feels almost too much for me to handle at the moment.
Christ, Owen's right. Booze and dancing. Maybe a few lady friends. Anything right now to patch up this weird, lonely dread cracking my heart in two.
“This ain't my fucking scene.”
Crossing my arms, I stand on the sidewalk and gaze at the club Owen insisted we come to.
It's all brick and vine, with pastel purple lights illuminating the street.
A line full of preppy assholes stretches around the building.
Even the bouncer looks polished—trimmed beard, crisp black suit, sour-puss face.
I glance down at my patched denim vest, oil-stained jeans, and dirty combat boots. “This place looks expensive as fuck.”
Owen adjusts the collar of Logan’s polo snobbishly. “You look fine.”
“Tell that to the bouncer. He's looking at me like I just crawled out of a dumpster.”
“Oh, please. Derek loves me.”
This fucking blows.
Dragging a hand down my face, I study the chicks in line, but none of them catch my eye. Not many do lately, if I'm being honest. Ever since Arya dumped me and moved to Seattle, I've just been… shit, I don't even know. Depressed? Is this what depression feels like? Heartbreak?
Whatever it is, it's been killing my vibe for months. At least I had Taylor to hang out with and keep my mind busy. I mean, yeah, Logan lives with us too, but that guy's boring as fuck. Who enjoys computer games for nine straight hours? Jesus.
How he managed to pull not only a wife—who’s more badass than me, by the way—but this adorable little twink, too, is beyond me. Dude must have a magic dick or some shit. Maybe that's why Devon slept with him—
Ah, fuck.
I silently reprimand myself as I follow Owen, itching for something I can’t quite name. Told myself almost a year ago I'd stop thinking of that asshole, yet here I am doing it again.
Kill me now.
Before we get too close, the growl of a motorcycle catches my attention. I whip my head toward the sound and catch someone peeling off on a Harley down the road. Several others start up, a whole line of them, parked outside some run-down concrete building with a neon sign blinking in the window.
Arnie's.
The ‘n’ flickers red, and when a beefy-looking dude in a leather jacket steps outside, I spot pool tables through the open door. Metal music filters into the street.
Now, that's my kind of joint, not this ritzy uptown cocktail bullshit. Maybe we should go there instead.
A woman exits behind the guy in a tight little dress, further cementing my decision. I turn on my heel to start walking toward the place.
“Change of plans,” I call over my shoulder.
Owen rushes after me, but when he realizes where we're going, his pretty face goes pale. “Absolutely not.”
“One pitcher of beer and a game of pool. Then we can go back to your fancy nightclub.”
“Christian,” he squeaks, grabbing my arm in a death grip. “I don't think we're allowed in that place.”
I glance at him with a snort. “Who says? It's a bar. Pretty sure they're open to the public.”
“I’m serious. Places like that—”
“Serve alcohol,” I interrupt, prying his fingers off. “And last I checked, that’s why we left the house, fool.”
Poor guy looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. “You don’t get it. That’s a biker bar. They’ll eat me alive.”
“Nah, they’ll be too impressed with my pool skills to complain.”
Owen groans, but he follows anyway because even he knows there’s no stopping me once I’ve made up my mind.
The closer we get, the louder the music plays. Smoke leaks out through the cracked door, carrying the smell of weed and worn leather. A few more bikes pull up to the front, revving their engines loudly. Testosterone permeates the air.
Oh, yeah. This is exactly what I’m looking for.
The second we step inside, cigarette smoke chokes my lungs, and I fucking love it. Bad Things by I Prevail rattles the floor and vibrates the cracked walls. Heads turn when the door swings shut behind us, most of them men who would give the Hulk a run for his money.
Owen freezes like a deer in headlights. “Christian,” he hisses, eyes darting in every direction. “They’re staring.”
“They’re just curious,” I say as I tug him farther inside. “They’ve probably never seen a man in khakis before.”
“You’re a terrible human being.”
That just makes me laugh.
We weave through the crowd, past a few card tables and a group of bikers playing darts. One of them sneers our way and shouts something, but the music is too loud to hear it. Owen grips the back of my vest tighter.
When we reach the bar, I lean over the counter and eye the grizzly-looking bartender. “Pitcher of beer, please. Whatever’s cheapest.”
He glances up from wiping a glass and takes one long look at us before pouring from the tap without so much as a smile. Not much of a talker, I guess?
Owen groans beside me. “I don't even like beer. I was hoping for a Cosmo.”
Grinning over my shoulder, I open my mouth to respond, but the bartender mutters something under his breath. Something that I'm sure I misheard, because it sounded super offensive and ain't no way it came out of his fucking mouth.
I eye him for a moment, hoping he’ll say it with his whole chest, but he doesn't look our way, so I ignore him and scan the crowd instead.
It’s darker toward the back, shadows spilling over the booths.
A few guys sit hunched over a table as smoke curls in lazy rings around them.
Playing cards or something, typical bar behavior.
I go to move my gaze away, but freeze when one of them lights up a cigarette, orange glow flashing off a set of familiar piercings.
No fucking way.
My chest tightens, and I stand on my toes to get a better look, but the crowd closes in and blocks my view. Son of a bitch.
Owen elbows me in the ribs. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” I reply, whirling around. “Just… thought I saw a ghost.”
The bartender thumps a pitcher down in front of me with a grunt, hard enough to send beer sloshing over the side. “Thirty bucks.”
“Thirty?!” Gaping at him, I gesture at the torn menu taped to the mirror behind him. “That says seven dollars a pitcher. I wanted cheap.”
“Prices are for regulars only,” he scowls. His eyes bounce between Owen and me, lingering a little too long on the former.
Every instinct in me prickles, blood simmering, but I pull out my wallet and slide the bills across the counter without argument. “There. Keep the change, I guess.”
He snatches up the money before turning away silently.
Beside me, Owen exhales a shaky breath. “Told you we weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Chill,” I tell him, even though my muscles are tensing for a fight. “He’s probably just having a bad night.”
“Yeah, well, now I’m having one too. Can we chug our beer and go, please?”
I nod absently, my brain still stuck on that cigarette glow in the corner: those metal piercings and sharp jaw. There's no way it was him. Couldn’t be. Could it?
I glance over my shoulder again, just in case, but the corner table is empty now. Disappointment has me slumping against the bar.
It’s not like I wanted to see him, or anything. It ain't like that. Bartender just pissed me the fuck off and getting into a fight with some lying, cheating asshole sounds like a good way to blow off steam. That, or find a warm body to take home.
“Let's go play some pool,” I mutter, grabbing our pitcher without bothering to ask for glasses.
Owen reluctantly follows, and we push through the crowd for an empty spot.
Once we find one, I set the pitcher down before grabbing a cue off the rack.
Owen just hovers behind me with his arms crossed, looking uncomfortable as shit.
“Drink, little creep,” I smirk, racking up our pool balls. “You’ll feel better.”
He eyes the pitcher like it’s poison but lifts it up for a sip anyway.
A few tables over, some of the bikers watch us closely—rough-looking guys with inked necks and beards. One of them says something to the others, sending them into a chorus of booming laughter.
I try to ignore it, instead focusing on my shot, but then one of them calls out a homophobic slur over the music. My back stiffens.
“Christian,” Owen looks up in a panic. “Please don’t—”
“I’m not doing anything.” Taking my shot, I sink a stripe, all of my focus honed in on the men sneering at us. Blood roars in my ears.
Another slur makes Owen flinch, followed by obnoxious laughter.
“Be right back,” I say, calmly setting down my pool cue.
“Christian—”
Before he can grab me, I spin around and walk toward the group. A guy in the middle looks me over as I approach like he’s sizing up roadkill.
“Something funny?” I ask, planting my palms on the table.
His lip curls. “Yeah. You.”
“Well, tell me the joke. I wanna laugh too.”
“Didn’t know they let pretty boys in here,” he spits, glaring at Owen over my shoulder.
It's my turn to sneer back. “Guess they got tired of looking at your ugly ass, pendejo.”
Everyone laughs but the ogre in front of me. He shoves to his feet, towering above. “You got a mouth on you, huh?”
Smiling brightly, I blow the fucker a kiss. “That's what your mom said last night when I spread her wide for me.”
Owen’s voice cuts in faintly from behind. “Oh my god, why.”
The guy grins humorlessly, his fist rearing back for a punch.
Yes. Finally.
Before the hit can land, though, a series of shouts ring out near the back of the bar.
Everyone's attention turns toward the noise, where two massive bikers are crowding someone by the bathroom. One grips his collar while the other pummels his face.
“Let me go, you piece of shit!” The overhead lights catch on metal at his mouth and eyebrow, familiar piercings flashing as he twists violently, trying to break free.
My stomach drops through the floor.
I fucking knew it was him.