Chapter 2
Hannah
Are You Looking For Your Friend?
While we wait for our next round, I take a moment to scope out the small room. Some people are tucked into the worn booths along the far wall, while others are losing themselves in the rhythm of the dance floor. The assortment of people is refreshing; no two are the same in any way.
I can feel the lingering heat of the Fireball in my throat. I close my eyes for a second, soaking in the buzz of voices, the thud of the bass, and the faint, familiar scent of cigarettes drifting in from the front door.
Before I met my ex, I was the one dragging my friends out every weekend. I like to think being social is like riding a bike—not something you ever really forget—but after being a hermit for so long, the whole scene feels slightly foreign.
Rose slides my vodka cranberry across the bar and I take a sip. The tart lime cuts perfectly through the sweetness, she put just the right amount in. Sipping happily, I follow behind Martin who’s gesturing toward the front of the bar.
“Follow me,” he says, his voice full of mischief. “I want you to meet someone.”
With the shot already hitting my system, I’m feeling a little more adventurous.
I’m a lightweight these days, but I grab my glass and follow him anyway.
Near the door, a group of people who look our age is huddled together, laughing loudly over the music.
Martin raises his arms wide as we approach, a massive grin on his face.
“Martin!” one of the guys yells, standing up. “Long time no see, man. How are you?”
They go in for a “man hug”—you know the one, that one-armed, back-slapping ordeal that looks more like a wrestling match than a greeting.
“I’m good, man. I want you to meet someone.” Martin gestures toward me. “This is my friend Hannah. Hannah, this is Derek. We were in the same dorm when I lived on base.”
It’s easy to forget that Martin was in the Air Force; I met him toward the end of his career, so I rarely saw him in uniform.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” I say, giving Derek my best “I’m being social” smile.
He’s cute and tall. Muscular but lean with a kindness in his eyes that balances out his “party animal” energy.
“How’d you end up here?” He asks, with a look that says I’m somehow out of place here.
Rolling my eyes playfully, I tilt my head toward Martin. “Him,” I reply. “He decided I needed a night out, and honestly? I couldn’t argue. I think I needed this.”
“Well, it may be a dive bar, but I think you’ll like it,” Derek replies.
“I think you’re right,” I say, keeping it light in hopes the conversation will end. “It was nice to meet you, Derek.”
“You too. You both have a good night—and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Derek calls out with a grin as we turn to leave.
Once we’re far enough away I lean in towards Martin. “Nice try, but I already told you I’m not looking for anything.”
Martin has the audacity to cock his head in false confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hannah. Can’t a guy introduce you to his friends?”
“Sure, absolutely he can. However, there were more people in that group than Derek...” I let the sentence hang.
“Derek was the only single one though.” Martin says on a wink.
My jaw drops open and I play-swat him in the arm while we bob and weave through the crowd. I definitely should have eaten more than a handful of chips while I was getting ready, but it’s too late now. I’m already feeling the alcohol take root in my system.
Martin heads toward the back of the building, stopping near the DJ booth to talk to the man behind the turntables. Waiting for him to be done talking, I absently bounce and sway to the music while sipping on my now almost empty glass.
My eyes catch on another room tucked behind the DJ booth, and right in front of me sit two pool tables. My jaw practically hits the floor. How did I miss those? Before, I wouldn’t even step foot in a bar if it didn’t have a table. Karaoke and pool—if a place had both, it was my sanctuary.
Martin follows my gaze, looking smug. He knows exactly what I’m gaping at. I suspect the pool tables were the real reason he chose this place, and I have to admit, he nailed it.
“Can we play?” I ask, eager to get my hands on a cue and even more eager to change the subject from Derek.
He pulls a stack of quarters from his pocket, clearly having anticipated this exact moment. “Dare I say no?”
Pulling the quarters into my fist, I feel like a kid in a candy store. It’s funny how something as simple as green felt and a set of stripes and solids can make me feel so pumped.
I love where this table is located. It sits tucked behind the DJ and near the bathrooms, while still within eyesight of the dance floor.
It’s not shoved into a dark corner, and there’s enough room to play without accidentally stabbing a passerby with a cue.
Plus, there are tall bistro tables nearby to set our drinks on.
Perfect.
Glancing up, I smile at Martin as I rack the balls, and he beams back. I’m becoming increasingly thankful that I came out tonight. This is the most fun I’ve had in a very long time.
We start to play, and I take my first shot—missing spectacularly. I can’t help but laugh at myself.
“You’re out of practice,” Martin teases, leaning on his cue.
“Clearly,” I mutter, lining up for the next one.
As we play, I keep scanning the bar from this new angle. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Part of me dreads a run-in with someone from my past after all the hateful lies Collin has spread. His scornful words ruined friendships without me there to defend myself.
While another secret and buried part of me hopes for a spark. Maybe someone to break the six-month dry spell that’s been my sex life lately. But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I push it away. My ex still haunts the corners of my brain, making the idea of being “turned on” feel impossible.
The alcohol is fully settled in now, and my bladder is officially protesting. I yell to Martin that I’ll be right back and head for the ladies’ room. Small miracle: there’s no line. I touch up my eyeliner, check my teeth, and step back out... straight into a wall of muscle.
I stumble back, blinking up at him. A man. A very, very cute man.
“Oh, I’m sorry, darlin’. You came out of nowhere. You okay?”
His voice is low, smooth, and warm, like a shot of whiskey with a Southern twang. He’s wearing dark jeans, cowboy boots, a plain black tee, and a leather vest. His wavy black hair is slightly flattened, like he’d just pulled off a helmet.
The hallway is narrow, with people brushing past us. Flattening myself against the wall, I try to make room for a passing group.
“I’m okay. Sorry about that,” I manage to reply, my voice sounding a little breathier than I’d like.
“Nothin’ to be sorry for.” He gestures with a knowing smirk. “After you.”
Forcing myself not to look back at him, I make it to the pool tables right as my name echoes over the music. Spinning around, I see Martin enthusiastically waving me over.
Lovely. He’s standing with the same group that Cute Stranger strode over to. I flatten my hands down my cut-off shorts a couple of times, and sheepishly wander over.
Reaching the group, I see that the social butterfly is deep in conversation.
This bunch is entirely male, and they must have snuck in while I was in the bathroom because they’re clustered directly behind the pool tables, and hard to miss.
A familiar rush of excitement fills me as my eyes consume the wall of leather and muscle.
“There she is!” Martin exclaims when he pauses long enough to notice I’ve joined the circle. “These guys right here are the regulars. Wolf, Raydar, Bear, Ace, Alex—this is Hannah.” He points to each one as he says their name.
I’ve always loved the concept of “road names.” It’s like they get to be two different people—the man the world sees, and the man the club knows.
I do a quick inventory of the testosterone before me.
Wolf is an absolute silver fox if I’ve ever seen one, Ace could pass as a rugged Abercrombie and Fitch model with his young chiseled face and beard combo, Bear somehow stands a head taller than all the men surrounding him and Raydar’s muscles have muscles.
The man who stands out is the one Martin calls Alex, aka Cute Stranger.
He’s likely a prospect or a hangaround since he has no patches on his black leather vest.
I offer the group a wide smile, my hand rising in a small, tentative wave. “Hey,” is all I can manage.
The small heel on my boots doesn’t stop my 5’5” frame from feeling tiny next to these men. They give me a few collective head nods, nothing special. They’re not dismissive, but not entirely welcoming either.
These bikers don’t need to announce they have authority here, their confidence and size alone says it for them. They loom over me in a way that makes me feel like a child in a room full of giants, their presence thick with the scent of motor oil and leather.
My body relaxes a little for the first time tonight because instead of intimidating me, these men fill me with a sense of peace and familiarity.
Spending my childhood with my hands tucked into my mom’s leather pockets, watching the world blur from the back of her bike, I realized early on that bikers are lot more than meets the eye.
“Alright,” Martin says, breaking the spell. “You want to finish our game?”
“Yeah, even though you’re kicking my ass,” I laugh, draining the last of my drink.
We play another round, but my focus is lacking. My eyes keep drifting back to the Cute Stranger from the hallway. He seems like the happy-go-lucky type, the kind of guy who is the life of the party without trying.
I nudge Martin as he lines up a shot. “So, what’s Alex’s story?”
Martin’s expression switches from playful to serious before shaking his head. “As much as I want to see you get laid, Hannah... not that one.”
I arch a brow, my curiosity piqued. “Why not?”
Martin sinks the eight ball with a sharp clack. “He’s got a reputation,” he says, leaning on his cue. “A real love ’em and leave ’em type. You don’t want to be the next notch on that belt.”
I grin. “Oh, so... he’s you?”
Martin clutches his chest as though I’ve wounded him. “Please. There’s only one of me. And unlike Alex over there, I’m not a total dick.”
“Douche. Got it,” I say, giving him a mock salute.
He laughs, racking the sticks up on the wall. “Another drink?”
I nod my head, the mix of liquor making me feel light on my feet. “Heck yes. I’ll go grab em’.”
I stride toward the bar, feeling giddy as I find my place in line. A few people are ahead of me, giving me a moment to people-watch. I spot Derek across the room, and my breath hitches. He’s about to take a shot of something that is literally on fire.
I watch intently, eyes wide. Do people actually drink it while it’s still lit? I can’t imagine so, but the thought makes my throat burn in sympathy.
Rose, the bartender, lingers in front of him.
Her lips are pursed in an exaggerated “O,” like she’s giving him a crash course in not burning his face off.
Derek seems to catch on; he leans in and makes a face like he’s blowing out birthday candles.
The flame flickers out instantly, and he tosses the liquid back to the cheers of the crowd.
Entertaining? Sure. Tempting? Not so much. Plus, my coordination isn’t exactly Olympic-level at the moment. I’d be the one to tip it over, causing the whole place to go up in flames.
It’s finally my turn to order, so I ask Rose for another round of the same, and head back toward the pool tables.
Except... Martin’s not there.
The corner we were in is now empty, balls racked like he just stepped away. I spin once, then again, scanning the crowd. Maybe I missed him. The longer I search, the more I get the overwhelming feeling I’m being watched.
“Are you looking for your friend?”
The voice cuts through the music—low, male. Not Martin.
I freeze before slowly turning toward the sound.