Page 4 of Ruthless Creatures

“The pirate! He’s sitting at the end of the bar!”

“Epic-scruff guy?” I turn and crane my neck to see around the crowd. “Which one—”

That’s all I get out before I spot him, taking up a sizeable portion of the bar and dwarfing the stool beneath him. The impressions come fast.

Broad shoulders. Tousled dark hair. A hard jaw that hasn’t been acquainted with a razor in weeks. A black leather jacket paired with black jeans and a pair of combat boots, all of which look somehow both expensive and battered, carelessly worn. Chunky silver rings decorate the thumb and middle fingers of his right hand.

One is some kind of signet. The other is a skull.

A pair of dark glasses hide his eyes.

It strikes me as odd, wearing sunglasses indoors. Like he’s got something to hide.

“I’m not getting pirate as much as rock star. Or head of a motorcycle gang. He looks like he stepped right off theSons of Anarchyset. Ten bucks says he’s a drug dealer.”

“Who cares?” whispers Sloane, staring at him. “He could be Jack the Ripper and I’d still let him come all over my tits.”

I say with affection, “Floozy.”

She waves that off. “So I like dangerous alpha males with big-dick energy. Don’t judge.”

“Go make your move, then. I’ll get a drink and watch from the wings to make sure he doesn’t pull out a knife.”

I motion for the waiter. He gives me a chin jerk and a smile, indicating he’ll be over as soon as he can.

Sloane says, “No, that’s too desperate. I don’t chase men, no matter how hot they are. It’s undignified.”

“Unless you’re a cocker spaniel, the way you’re panting and drooling is undignified. Go rope that stallion, cowgirl. I’m going to the restroom.”

I stand and head toward the women’s bathroom, leaving Sloane gnawing her lip in indecision. Or maybe that’s lust.

I take my sweet time using the toilet and washing my hands, checking my lipstick in the mirror over the sinks. It’s a scarlet red called Sweet Poison. I’m not sure why I wore it, as I almost never wear makeup anymore, but I suppose it’s not every day your missing fiancé becomes legally dead, so what the hell.

Oh, David. What happened to you?

A sudden wave of despair crashes over me.

Leaning on the edge of the sink to steady myself, I close my eyes and blow out a slow, shaky breath.

I haven’t felt grief this strong in a while. Usually it’s a restless simmer I’ve learned to ignore. A dull ache behind my breastbone. A wail of anguish inside my skull that I can turn down until it’s almost silent.

Almost, but not quite.

People say time heals all wounds, but those people are assholes.

Wounds like mine don’t heal. I’ve just learned to control the bleeding.

Smoothing a hand over my hair, I take several deep breaths until I feel more in control. I give myself a quick pep talk, plaster a smile on my face, then yank open the door and head out.

And immediately crash into a huge, immovable object.

I jerk back, stumble, lose my balance. Before I can fall, a big hand reaches out and grips my upper arm to steady me.

“Careful.”

The voice is a pleasing, husky rumble. I look up and find myself staring at my own reflection in a pair of sunglasses.

It’s the pirate. The drug dealer. Big-dick-energy dude with the epic scruff.