Page 16

Sometimes, this place blows my mind.

The plan wasn’t to come here and actually patch in. Most guys prospect for a year or longer. By then, Kael and I will be long gone. This is a job for me, never a family, but it’s hard not to be drawn in.

It’s hard not to want to have a family once more.

I got a bead that the place would be okay, and I trusted that gut feeling when I needed to, but I had no idea just how right it would feel once I got here.

My gaze is drawn irrevocably back to the woman in the corner.

She shares a small, unforced smile with the women around her and my heart stutters and twists.

She’ll never give me one of those smiles.

No secret expression or genuine lift of her lips.

She probably still hates me. I’ve been forced to endure many things in my life, deprivations, horrors, and gut wrenching grief, but this is somehow the worst of it.

Which probably makes me a fucking idiot.

Wizard claps me on the shoulder. Most of the guys in the club do that.

It’s like a version of a secret bro handshake.

As a rule, I don’t generally like to be touched, but I’ve learned to shut up and put up when it comes to this.

It’s not like it’s torture, and I know that for some reason, these guys have my back though I’ve done virtually nothing to earn their trust. Anyone would say that they’re stupid for giving it out so easily, but that’s not true at all.

I think they’re actually very careful about who they let close to the heart of them and their club.

Tyrant has something that most people don’t. Extraordinarily good instincts.

“I’m outta here then. Take care, yeah?”

“I’ll be back at the clubhouse later, or call if you need me for anything.”

“Will do.”

After he leaves, I mean to at least try to blend in with the other guys, even if that means more pool or tossing darts around, things I both detest. I’ve grown used to discipline over the years and it’s not a problem to enforce it on myself.

I’ve done a lot of things I haven’t liked.

Life isn’t about joy or comfort. I’m walking across the bar towards Grave and Decay—twin brothers who have the personalities of rotten potatoes, when I notice the young server bringing Kael and her group of women another round of drinks.

It’s a bar. Whatever.

But Kael hasn’t had anything to drink in a year that I’m aware of, and who knows what her tolerance was before that.

I should trust that she knows what she’s doing, and that she isn’t gonna get drunk and blurt out her history.

But she’s already well on her way to blowing this up completely, and that was after one brief gathering at her house that couldn’t have lasted for more than a few hours.

I force myself to keep walking, and then to engage in mind numbing conversation about jacked up trucks, who has the louder bike, and new gym routines and protein shakes.

Fuck, these guys are going to dust my last life by boring me to death.

The only advantage is that from where I’m standing, I can keep an eye on Kael.

Eventually, Tyrant comes to claim Lark, Raiden hauls up Ella to find a booth near the back of the place so they can eat each other’s faces like they’re sixteen and have five stolen minutes, Tarynn gravitates back to Crow and they split their attention between the servers she knows well because she used to work here and Patti—the motherly but tough lady who owns the place and is working the bar.

Willa and Lynette get pulled away by Atlas and Bullet and convinced to team up for a game of pool, and Gunner disappears with Diletta, who at least looks regretful about being the last to skip out on Kael.

She tries not to look disturbed at being left all alone, but she clutches her hands awkwardly in front of her and pivots onto the toes of her black leather ankle boots.

She looks everywhere except at me. Her eyes snag on the pinball machines in the corner by the entrance and she walks over, forcing herself to move slow and casual, like she’s not tremendously uncomfortable and adrift.

I leave Grave mid-sentence, going on about his truck, but he doesn’t stop talking, he just turns his attention to his brother, who apparently likes having his brain numbed.

I don’t like the heated stares that follow me as my boots tread over the worn hardwood.

I like the way the prospects zero in on Kael even less.

Halfway to the pinball machines, I let them have a foul stare, warning them off.

It works, at least temporarily. They turn their attention back to the women giggling and flirting at their booth.

Kael is plugging coins into a games machine that features monsters from all different horror movies and books.

I lean up against the other, a biker thing that doesn’t look nearly as interesting.

There are several beside it, flashing their lights on and off in the darkened corner obnoxiously.

They skate over Kael’s face, highlighting her perfect pale skin, deepening the contours of her face, deepening the sultry red of her lips, and casting starry gold flecks in her honey eyes.

Wait.

“Are you wearing contacts?”

She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip as she focuses on her game, mashing the buttons and sending the little silver ball pinging around the machine. It rewards her with another volley of flashing lights.

“ Calliope .”

She continues to ignore me, but her knuckles whiten on the edges of the machine.

“That’s not the name on your ID.”

“You have a new name. Why can’t I? Giant Dick. It’s quite… inventive , although I personally think that some alliteration would have livened things up. Dynamic Dick, for example, just has a nice ring to it. Or Proportional Peen. That one’s quite alliterative.”

“Jesus Christ, that’s not the name I’m taking. Everything they came up with was ridiculous. And Calliope isn’t a new name, you know what we agreed.”

“So what are you going to pick then?” she says, ignoring what I said.

“I don’t know. There’s time.”

“How about Soldier? Hunter? Stalker? Wait. I really like Cyclops. That was a good one.” There’s all sorts of wounded accusation in her tone, and I have no idea why.

She flicks the paddles so aggressively that the two balls she’s working with go wild, pinging violently all over the place. “Why didn’t you tell me about the eye?”

I watch her carefully. “I thought you knew.”

She mashes the paddles harder. “No. It’s very realistic.”

“Generally, they’re made to look that way. But the scars…”

She stays stubbornly silent.

“If I was missing a hand, would I tell you that I was missing a hand?”

“I have no idea, though it’d be pretty obvious. Whatever. It’s fine.” More mashing, more balls pinging all over. The monsters have yet to come to life, though the bright orange score flickering at the top keeps running up.

I just stand there trying to think of something to say that isn’t going to make her more pissed than she is.

She slaps a few buttons, and the machine makes encouraging noises. Her lips finally twitch at the corners, her poise evaporating. “How’s work going? How’s stalking me coming along?”

I don’t normally lower myself to goading, but she knows how to get under my skin, and I find myself responding to her needling, though I thought we had some sort of truce in place. “When do you want me to model for you?”

I don’t miss the tiny inhale that she tries to cover up.

“How about tomorrow?” She loses both balls at almost the same time and curses.

She waits impatiently, foot tapping in a way that makes her whole body shiver seductively and my dick start weeping in my boxers as my focus is drawn straight to her lithe curves and strong muscles somehow outlined by her jeans and fitted shirt.

“Did I mention that I require you to wear a loincloth?”

I have no idea if she’s joking or not. I know nothing about art.

I suppose a modesty patch or whatever those things are called that they use for filming intimate scenes in movies would be better than having to pose naked.

I suppose I never considered it. I’ve never been ashamed of my scars or flaws and don’t give a shit if they’re on display or not, but stripping down for her like that would be a different kind of vulnerability altogether.

“Maybe not a loincloth, but I’ll send you a list. I’d like you to follow it exactly.”

Fuck if that’s not ominous. I can only imagine what it’ll entail.

“I’m going to get a drink,” she announces after both balls plunge down into the abyss again. She doesn’t look at me. “Want one?”

“You are not getting a drink.” I put out my hand to stop her, but she dodges around it with ease, turning to blast me with a sassy smirk and absolute defiance oozing from every pore.

“I am. I’m a grown adult and I can make that choice for myself. Everyone else here is drinking and having fun. You wanted me to come, so let me blend in.” Her smirk turns coy. “Sure you don’t want one?”

“No.”

“Afraid I’ll drug it?”

“No.”

“Put laxatives in it?” She absorbs my incredulous expression. “As funny as seeing you shit your pants would be, I would never do that.” She motions to the machine, “I still have a few balls left. Don’t let anyone play it and if it’s going to time out, use them up.”

She leaves me behind like some kind of little dog, told to sit and stay. I can literally feel my eye starting to twitch with annoyance.

The twitch goes double time when two of the club women approach me.

Not old ladies either. The unattached kind of women.

They’re both bleached blondes with voluptuous bodies and tight outfits, one in a pink dress that is cut low and high in the wrong order, the other in a slashed up black tank and a black micro-mini skirt.

“Hey Dravin,” Cammi drawls, drawing out my name.

At least, I think she’s Cammi. I’m sure the other is Steph. Then again, I’m not sure at all.