Chapter 3 #2
I glanced behind the bar and spotted Tex on the opposite end.
Until Max interrupted him, the probie was obviously busy ogling Cherry, who was also stretched out on top of the counter.
Unlike Max, the sight of her made me want to roll my eyes.
She was so extra all the time. I never liked her, and it wasn’t merely because I wasn’t fond of petite little redheads.
Her auburn hue wasn’t natural, anyway. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but her desperation for attention gave me the ick.
At present, the only thing she had on was a G-string, heels, and nipple pasties. Her boobs were twice the size of mine but fake and hardly ever covered. After the sun went down, she was the resident topless sheep.
Max sitting on the bar was cute.
Cherry and her naked ass was gross.
I may have spent a few years as a club slut, but I was never that desperate.
“Sure. I’m on it,” replied Tex.
I fought a crooked smile as he eagerly did what Maxine requested, causing Cherry to glare in our direction.
The probie had eyes for the redhead, but that was only on account of the fact that he had a dick.
Who he really wanted was Maxine, and everyone knew it—except for maybe Maxine.
Either that, or she didn’t have it in her to break his heart, so she opted to play oblivious.
My guess was the latter. He was a couple years her junior, and he was still a bit young and dumb, but his crush was cute.
I especially liked the way it made Cherry jealous.
She didn’t even want the guy. She only wanted to be the most desired woman in the clubhouse.
Yeah. She definitely bugged me.
“What’s goin’ on here?” I looked over my shoulder as Cobra approached. He stopped in front of Cherry and asked, “You up here for body shots or some shit?”
The redhead smiled flirtatiously—the loss of Tex’s attention disregarded under the gaze of the VP.
It was hard to forget how there was an entire season of my life where I craved the attention of a man wearing the Vice President patch on his kutte.
I still remembered how he accused me of caring only about his title.
While I didn’t wear my heart on my sleeve or express my feelings like some women did, I played my part, and in the end recklessly fell hard in the process.
But it wasn’t about his title, and my aversion to Cobra proved it.
Sure, he was hot, with his dirty blond ponytail, his generous mustache and goatee, and enough tattoos that left nearly every visible inch of him covered—but he always rubbed me the wrong way. He was obviously a trusted Stallion, but he was kind of an arrogant dick.
“I’m down if you are,” cooed Cherry.
“Supposedly this is a party, but I’m still sober as an altar boy.”
“Where is the guest of honor, anyway? I didn’t get the chance to give him a proper hello before y’all left for your ride. It’s been hours.”
“Fucker’s been in a cage for too long. Our joy ride around town didn’t scratch that itch enough. He could be halfway to Gillette by now. Wouldn’t blame him.”
“Whiskey ginger,” said Tex, setting my drink in front of me. I was on the verge of offering him my thanks when I saw his attention shift toward the door. “Speak of the devil.”
I turned in my seat to catch a glimpse, and sure enough, there he was.
If I had to guess, I’d put him at six-two. Not the tallest of his pack, but arguably the hottest. In the five hours which passed since I last laid eyes on him, he’d changed, and my eyes were devouring his details.
He went to the barber. Now, rather than a mess of shoulder-length, blond curls, he had a cleaner cut.
It was short on the sides and back, but longer on top—long enough that a few of his big, loose curls had the length to dangle across his forehead.
His dark beard had been trimmed, too, but it was still thick and deliciously manly, his mustache curling over his top lip.
Aside from his hair, he changed his clothes, as well.
Under his kutte, he wore a dark-wash denim button-up that clung to his biceps and shoulders like it was on the cusp of being too small; the sleeves were rolled up over his elbows, showing off some of his tattoos.
He skipped the top four buttons, revealing a hint of chest ink and a couple necklaces with hanging pendants.
His black jeans were faded and fitted, sculpting a pair of thighs that made me want to squeeze mine together.
And the black German Shepherd with golden brown paws, who stood regally next to his booted feet, somehow made him even more alluring, dangerous, and attractive.
My belly clenched in excitement, and I found myself unconsciously tracing my tongue across the ridges of my top teeth as I admired him from afar.
Yeah. I wanted him for my birthday.
“Gotta admit, three years behind bars looks good on him,” I heard Cherry murmur, her voice wrapped in what sounded like genuine admiration.
Seeing as I’d barely met the man, I couldn’t say whether or not she was right—but there was no denying I liked what I saw.
So much so, the longing I heard in her tone only stoked the fire inside of me.
No doubt she was going to make a play. Aware of my environment and the pick of women who would be at Pistol’s disposal with nothing more than a nod, I took hold of my drink and crossed my legs, angling my body so as to put myself on display.
It was an invitation.
I was up for grabs.
Pistol knew as much about me as I did about him—which was hardly anything.
This was good.
It worked in my favor.
Moreover, he missed Carmy’s territorial visit earlier.
So far as this Stallion knew, I was nothing more than a pretty face.
And it was my birthday.
When I chanced another glance Pistol’s direction, I found him looking right at me. I fought a smile as I casually lifted my drink to my lips.
‘Heard you’ll be around tonight,’ I remembered him saying.
Seemed he didn’t forget.
Game on.
Two hours, two shots, and three whiskey gingers later, I was perched on the arm of a couch in the middle of the clubhouse, drunk on the chaos of a Stallions’ party, and loving every second of it.
The music was loud, the buzz of the crowded room palpable, and I was high from the sexual tension that seemed to leave the place charged with an invisible current that crackled with increasing frequency as the night wore on.
I wasn’t alone—Smokey, Buff, and Natalie sitting opposite Max, Tex and me—but I was barely paying attention to the conversation happening around me, too lost in the silent one I’d been having with Pistol since he arrived.
I wondered if the hum of electricity between us was entirely in my imagination or if anyone else could sense it. Feel it. Hear it.
As he had been for a while now, he was at a poker table behind me, on the left side of the room. He was to the right of the dealer, his dog snoozing at his feet, his gaze focused on his cards.
Until they weren’t.
As if he felt me peeking back at him from over my shoulder, he shifted his attention my direction.
Our eyes locked and held on. Back at the diner, when Max told me she wanted to introduce us, my first glimpse into those dark green eyes sent a slight shiver down my spine—the intensity of his stare not intimidating but completely and utterly alluring.
His eyes read cocky but not annoying.
Mysterious but not evasive.
Dangerous but in the most titillating sort of way.
Now, there was an unmistakable spark of desire in his gaze that burned right through me, making my insides spasm.
We’d been yards away from each other all night, with not a word exchanged between us, yet somehow, my thong was soaked through.
Fuck, but I wanted him.
I ached for him in a way that only made sense on account of I hadn’t been laid in months, I was tipsy, and he was smoking hot. I squirmed in my seat, certain if he didn’t make his move soon, I would have to.
The alcohol running through me made it difficult to contain the whimper that wanted to slither up my throat as I squeezed my thighs together, reminding me of my swollen clit—but I managed. Barely.
Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I righted myself, shifting my attention down to my heels, needing a second to catch my breath.
Fuck, but this was fun.
This was living.
I was totally on edge and loving every bit of it.
“Lyla, come on!” giggled Max, thrusting a full shot glass at me. “You’re not nearly drunk enough.”
She wasn’t wrong, so I didn’t fight her as I grabbed the glass, clinked it against the rim of hers, then threw it back. The burn of the clear liquid as it raced down my throat felt good, and I laughed as she made a face and shook her head at the taste.
“Oh, my god, I love this song!” cried Natalie.
Like Brooklyn—who had successfully seduced Crow, both of whom disappeared thirty minutes earlier—Natalie was close in age with Max.
Unlike Brooklyn and Maxine, Natalie resided at the clubhouse.
I watched her as she stood and climbed onto the wooden coffee table and swore I saw a vision of my former self.
We looked nothing alike. Her eyes brown to my blue.
Her hair warm honey to my dark chocolate.
Her pin-up body voluptuous to my thinner, more subtle curvature. But the spirit within her was familiar.
She was wild.
As she swayed her hips, wrapped in a pair of jeans so tight they could have been painted on, there was something entirely carefree that wafted from and swirled around her, giving new life to the song playing overhead.
When Buff decided to join in on the fun, crowding her on the table, she leaned into him, pressing her back to his front as she reached behind her and draped her arms around his neck.
He took this as an open invitation and brazenly slid his fingers underneath her crop top, liberally palming her breast with his huge hand.