Chapter Five #3
The parking lot is jammed full when I arrive. Bikes, cars, and scooters are scattered across the asphalt like restless metal beasts settling in for the night. I grip the handlebars as my pulse ticks faster, then cut the engine, swing my leg over the seat, and climb off.
Heat slams into me the moment I step inside The House of Saints, wrapping me in waves of noise, sweat, and whiskey-laced air. Music hammers from the speakers, bass crawling up through the floor and locking in with my racing pulse.
Leather. Smoke. Spilled beer. The sharp bite of liquor lingers, chased by something darker. That electric, buzzing energy you only find in rooms packed with bikers, bad choices, and dangerously beautiful men.
God, I love this place.
Mostly because he’s in it.
My gaze finds him instantly.
Tomcat leans against the bar like sin dressed itself in denim and a Saint’s Outlaws kutte.
He’s relaxed, dangerous, and criminally beautiful.
Low light glides over the ink winding up his arms, shadows sharpening the cut of his jaw.
His hat sits low, brim tilted just enough to give him that lazy, lethal edge that did deeply irresponsible things to my internal organs.
Some men occupy space, but Tomcat claims it in a way that’s effortless.
Rude. So unbelievably rude.
I sink deeper into the booth I’ve claimed, tucked safely behind a wall of loud, drunk locals passionately debating whether someone named Ricky had actually intended get a skull tattoo on his ass or if tequila had simply ruined his life.
Honestly, after listening to the story, it’s impossible to say.
My drink rests untouched between my fingers, condensation slick against my skin.
Because priorities.
And my priority is currently being contaminated by a blonde bombshell.
She’s gorgeous, obviously. Glossy hair, flawless makeup, and a bright, flirty laugh designed to wrap around male egos and set off every territorial alarm in my system.
Her hand slides along Tomcat’s arm in a casual, familiar way.
Totally unacceptable.
I narrow my eyes, and my jaw tightens.
I’m not jealous. Absolutely not jealous. Just…assessing. Like a pint-sized, emotionally frazzled security system running a full threat analysis.
Yes.
Very rational. Very sane.
She leans in, and his lips twist into that smirk that promises trouble is about to get personal.
My stomach flips in a violent, wildly inconvenient tumble.
Goddess, that mouth. That ridiculous, devastating, sinful mouth. It has no business existing on someone who already owns that voice, those hands, and the whole dark, broody, flirty biker package.
Pick a struggle, Tomcat.
Seriously.
Have some manners.
Sheesh.
His face shifts, giving her that look. Heavy-lidded, deliberate, loaded with the kind of intent that never ends in innocence. It’s the look of a man about to make a terrible decision and savor every second.
Blondie straightens, her entire body lighting up like Christmas morning.
Oh, honey.
No.
No, no, no.
We’re not doing this tonight.
Sorry, not sorry.
She slides off the stool, hips swaying with the kind of confidence that announces her bathroom break is a mission, not a retreat.
Perfect.
My pulse jumps, excitement unfurling warm and wicked through my chest.
Time to shine.
I wait a respectable five seconds because I’m not an animal, then I slide from the booth, weaving effortlessly through bodies, boots, and a whole lot of Saint’s Outlaws chaos.
No one notices, as usual, which is both impressive and a little insulting given my record of romantic sabotage for this club.
The bathroom door swings shut behind me, swallowing the noise just enough to soften the world.
Music dulls to a distant, vibrating throb.
The air shifts to something cooler, cleaner, tinged with perfume, hairspray, and the desperate tang of disinfectants fighting a losing battle against biker bar reality.
Blondie stands at the mirror, fixing her lipstick and grinning at her reflection. She radiates the confidence of someone convinced she’s about to scale Tomcat like the world’s most attractive jungle gym.
How adorable.
I lean casually against the counter beside her, my sweetest smile sliding into place.
Friendly, harmless, tiny-woman vibes activated.
“Oh, wow,” I say warmly. “You’re stunning.”
She beams instantly. Why wouldn’t she?
I’m delightful.
“Thank you.”
Her reflection glances my way, bright and open, blissfully unaware she’s just wandered into psychological warfare disguised as lip gloss and charm.
Bless her heart.
I lower my voice slightly, conspiratorial, like we’re girlfriends sharing secrets over overpriced wine. “You’re talking to Tomcat, right?”
Her smug little grin returns.
Oops.
Strike one, pretty lady.
“Yeah,” she says, clearly pleased with herself.
Ohhh, sweetheart.
You sweet, doomed little lamb.
Turns out I’m doing her a favor after all. At least she won’t end up limping home with a shattered heart like the rest.
I exhale softly, letting sympathy drip into my tone. My brows pinch just enough to sell concern.
And a healthy dose of world-class bullshit.
“Oh, honey…”
Confusion flickers across her face. “What?”
I tilt my head, voice soft and reassuring. “You’re aiming way too high for a first visit.”
Her smile falters just a hair.
There it is.
“He looks fun.” I pause, letting anticipation bloom before sliding the blade in, sweet and slow. “Until you realize he treats orgasms like a competitive sport.”
Silence floods the space between us.
Blondie blinks at me in the mirror, brain visibly buffering, and I almost laugh.
Almost.
I flash her my brightest, most innocent smile—the kind that really should come with a warning label if you’re paying attention.
“And trust me—” I give a tiny shrug. “You’re not taking home the gold. He always ensures he comes first.”
There it is. That microscopic fracture. That tiny, glorious crack in confidence.
It’s more beautiful than it should be.
Mission accomplished, I push off the counter, satisfied.
“Good luck, though,” I add cheerfully because I’m incredibly polite like that.
Plus, I can spare a little sympathy for her.
Then I drift out like the emotionally unstable little phantom menace I was clearly destined to be.
The noise of the bar crashes back in full force when I step into the hallway. I pull my hood up and melt into the crowd. Tomcat still stands at the bar, gaze fixed on the hallway with expectation.
My chest tightens in that stupid, fluttery way I absolutely refuse to examine too closely as I sit back in my booth.
Annoying.
Blondie emerges a few moments later, and oh, she’s changed. Her shoulders are tight, her smile brittle. She radiates the energy of someone already plotting her escape.
I lift my drink slowly and sip with pure satisfaction.
Tomcat leans toward her and says something in a low voice.
Probably something charming or sinful. Definitely something that would normally melt panties straight off bodies.
Frustration nips at me when I can’t hear them, so I slip from the booth again, letting the crowd sweep me closer.
Then I hear the magic start.
“Oh, um, I actually think I’m gonna call it a night.”
Confusion crashes over Tomcat’s face so fast it’s almost art. His brows knit, his posture shifts. There it is. That perfect flicker of what the fuck just happened?
Goddess, he’s adorable when his plans turn on him.
Blondie flees in a quick exit, without explanation or closure, leaving Tomcat standing alone at the bar, annoyed, confused, and gloriously sexually frustrated.
I smile into my drink. It’s soft. Probably possessive. Definitely completely unhinged. Because honestly? I did him a favor. She looked like she’d be absolutely boring in bed.
And I’m nothing if not considerate.