Chapter Six #2
Like anyone would notice Daire. Folks had called him good-looking once, and he’d never lacked for partners, but his scars more than marred his looks; they brought back memories better forgotten.
“I doubt it, but I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery.
” At the very least, he might get inspiration for a jack-off session once he went home.
Why would a hot guy look twice at Daire?
Sheila slapped Daire’s back, nearly sending him reeling if he hadn’t braced for her enthusiastic affection. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.” She ran a critical gaze over his body. “Hell, I might do you if I was into farm-boy types and wasn’t afraid the two of us might break a bed.”
Bless her heart for not mentioning his disfigurement. Where she got “farm boy” he’d never know. “You’re missing the biggest drawbacks. You’d also have to be into men and not have a wife at home who’d kick my ass.”
Sheila winked, grin never fading. “That too. Anyway, get your ass in there. The Stewart cousins are here, at least the cute ones.”
A Stewart or two—okay, maybe more—had filled Daire’s bed in the past as they preferred a good time to a pretty partner, but their share-and-share alike philosophy to lovers gave him pause.
Sleep with one, and the rest knew before the guy or gal got home, and how they rated on a scale of one to ten.
Anything over an eight meant more cousins crowding around.
Daire stopped his conquests at four Stewarts.
Still, on a lonely night like tonight, he might… .
No. Not happening.
He trudged past Sheila into the bar. Maybe he shouldn’t be here. He really wasn’t in the frame of mind to flirt or run off overeager twinks seeking a challenge, especially not after staying late at work. Maybe he should’ve waited until tomorrow night to come.
Or sworn off bars forever.
A cacophony of sensory input slammed into him the moment Daire entered the bar: the normal food smells, the biting aroma of alcohol, competing colognes and body odors, stale cigarette smoke clinging to patrons’ clothing, a wash of colors from basic black to neon tie-dyes.
Some powerful emotions prickled along his skin, from the young couple eye-fucking to a group of men about to settle an argument outside.
He paused for a few moments, adjusting to the bombardment of sensations while sweeping an assessing gaze over the crowd, searching for threats, an ingrained habit from his time as a court warrior.
Nothing but a group of drinking, laughing, dancing, pool-playing humans. Any ill intent wasn’t directed at him.
Mostly locals filled the place as Sheila had said, a few nodding in acknowledgment or lifting a hand in greeting.
If gazes reached his face, they either darted away or stared too long.
Daire ignored the clenching in his chest at being on display and simply nodded, noting familiar faces.
The Stewarts held court at the pool tables in back, and at least two people occupied most tables—one with extra chairs crowded around held a group of twenty-somethings, probably from the local university, with a few Sheila had no doubt carded.
As she’d said, the wall of shame behind the bar now sported a new enlarged photo of a dead snapping turtle with a stripe painted over its back.
At least, Daire thought it was dead. Only two open places remained at the bar.
Daire took one of them, checking for the mysterious biker.
Ah, over there. The faintest hint of beta dragon teased his nose the moment he received the visual.
The hottest man he’d seen in ages sat at the far end of the bar, surrounded by others, but seemingly completely alone. No one crowded him. He stared into his glass of amber liquid, reminding Daire of a song he’d recently heard on the radio.
The man appeared lost in his own world, glancing up occasionally to study the mass of bodies tucked into the unassuming brick building. He’d cut his dark brown hair short, and his two-day scruff added to his beauty.
He ran a callused finger around the rim of his glass.
That hand must’ve been battered by construction or other rough work, while his ample muscles appeared honed by labor, not gym visits.
A tightly stretched black T-shirt, so worn the image on the front had faded to obscurity, clung to his pecs.
Standing, he must be as tall as Daire, with wide shoulders.
Those muscles would be firm under Daire’s hands, the well-formed body solid.
The generous dusting of hair on his arms suggested a hairy chest, or did the guy shave?
Goddess, Daire hoped not. Muscles, hair, looking good enough to star in many a wet dream…
Was that ink peeking out of a shirt sleeve?
Oh, damn. Daire’s mouth went dry. He likely stood no chance in hell of seeing the full work etched across the man’s naked skin, but he could fantasize.
Everything else faded into the background, the click of balls on the pool tables, the music blaring from speakers, even the tidbits of too many conversations to count. Daire and the stranger would look good together, one dark and mysterious, the other less so.
Or rather, they’d look good with the stranger’s body covering Daire’s. What was he hiding under those clothes? Might be worth sacrificing a left nut to find out.
“Hey, Griff! Have you heard anything I said?” A hand waved in front of his face. Daire reluctantly stopped staring at the stranger to focus on the bartender. Ah. Had Keith said something?
“Oh, sorry, man. Lost in thought there for a minute.” Daire would love to get lost in the man at the end of the bar. Damn, what a vision. Dream on.
Keith grinned, teeth gleaming amidst a ginger beard and mustache.
“Better watch it there, darlin’. You’re about to hurt my feelings.
” He winked, cast his deep green-eyed gaze down the bar, and let out a low whistle.
“Then again, if it takes someone so damned beautiful to steal your attention away from me, my ego might survive.”
“What?” Daire shook his head. “Sorry. He just looks like…” He wasn’t sure what he’d been about to say.
“Trouble,” Keith replied, with a cheerful smile. He let out a sigh. “Yeah, pretty enough he might be worth whatever shitstorm comes after.”
Daire couldn’t agree more. It would hardly be the first time he’d brought home trouble from a bar—if the man showed any interest. Three of the Stewart cousins qualified as trouble.
“Looks like he might wanna be left alone.” Damn the luck.
Daire himself had dreadful nights when the longing for company lured him away from the house, only for him to find himself surrounded by folks and still totally alone, the same feeling he got from the stranger.
He usually surrendered to the bone-achingly deep sorrow and retreated home to get wasted on the couch while watching late-night talk shows.
Or attempted to get wasted. Thanks to his dragon metabolism, he’d never be a cheap drunk. And he didn’t want to be alone tonight.
Mr. Sex on Legs made eye contact, startlingly blue eyes so paralyzing Daire nearly forgot how to breathe.
It took him a moment to analyze the jolt of recognition.
Oh, right. Another dragon. A beta. How long since Daire shared a night with another dragon?
He shifted on his barstool, giving his interested dick room to grow.
Please let him not end the evening alone on the couch tonight.
His body needed attention other than from his own hand.
Daire cast his vote for the beta at the end of the bar.
He waited for the inevitable wincing and turning away, either from pity or horror. Instead, awareness shone from the stranger’s eyes, and he wet his lips with a flick of his tongue, all too reminiscent of a dragon signaling interest.
Daire’s own dragon raised its metaphorical head.
“Damn, boy. If that ain’t an invitation, I don’t know what is.” Keith ambled off down the bar before Daire could stop him. What was he up to?
Hey, wait a minute! I saw him first! Daire nearly protested. What an absurd thought! Keith likely delivered the guy’s drink, after all. He’d also gotten married last summer. As far as Daire knew, Keith’s relationship didn’t allow for a third.
Daire watched Keith stroll down the bar to the dragon. A damned dragon. But of which court? Was he sent by Sakaris? Or worse, Uncle Urien?
The stranger raised his glass, throat bobbing as he swallowed down the liquid and handed the empty glass to Keith. Keith gave him another drink. Blue-eyed hottie lifted the glass again in salute to Daire and took a sip.
Daire studied the hand holding the glass, and the other resting on the bar, covered by a black glove. Hell, if rock stars could wear one glove for no apparent reason, so could bikers, he supposed.
Keith returned, customary grin firmly in place. “I told him you sent him the drink.”
What? “But…I didn’t—”