Page 37 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter thirty-seven

T he club’s noise hits me like a fist when we step inside, but I don’t flinch. The bass is thumping against my chest, loud, chaotic, and absolutely perfect.

I’m sick of the quiet. Sick of playing games. Tonight? I’m getting loud. No work. No messages. No bullshit. Just me and Bobbie.

She throws me a damn-girl look as my coat comes off and doubles as a placeholder at a table.

Neon lights flicker across her deep brown skin, catching in the gold shimmer of her highlighter.

Her braids tumble down her back, tight but ready to misbehave.

Red bodycon dress, side cut-outs, sin and salvation rolled into one.

We didn’t coordinate, but clearly we’re on the same page.

I went full chaos mode: high-waisted black leather shorts, my sexiest plunging bra, and a sheer crystal-studded mesh top that glitters every time I move.

My hair’s up in a pull-me ponytail. Glam makeup.

No apologies. We achieved our goal, we look like trouble .

At 5'8", Bobbie’s got legs for days and enough presence to part a crowd without lifting a finger. I’m the short, sharp one, 5'3", with curves and a mouth no one’s shut yet. Together, we’re a problem.

Not a chance we’ll pay for a single drink tonight.

If we make it home without a stranger’s bodily fluid on us, I’ll call it a win.

Bourbon Street on a Friday night is unhinged in the best and worst ways.

Bobbie bumps my shoulder. “Tonight, we burn it all down?”

Stress is already bleeding out of me, making me grin. “Hell yes. Let’s give the universe something to watch.”

She’s riding high tonight, but I’ve seen the cracks. Bobbie’s been keeping her heart under lock and key since Colorado. Whatever’s happening with the big mountain of a man from the hospital? It’s cutting through her armor, and she hasn’t decided if that’s good or dangerous.

As one, we head to the bar. The bartender clocks us immediately.

“Whatever they want,” a guy to our left says, already leaning too close.

Bobbie doesn’t even look at him. “Don Julio Silver.” She flashes him a smile with zero warmth. “Thanks.”

Two tequila shots appear. We slam them back, and I grab her hand as we dive into the crowd.

The floor is alive. Bodies grinding, hands lifted, bass so deep it rattles your ribs. Sweat. Smoke. A thousand perfumes mixing into something dizzying. Perfect camouflage.

The music takes over, hips moving in time, arms in the air. Bobbie matches me beat for beat, her smile wild, eyes glittering. The week falls away as my head tips back and I belt out the lyrics to Crazy Bitch. Old, but still slaps.

We dance like we’re trying to sweat out every trace of the week.

And then it hits. That feeling. Being watched .

Damn it. My head swivels, searching for my two menaces. But it’s not that pull low in my abdomen. Just a presence. Watching.

I slow my scan to the upper level, and there he is.

As only a 6'7" man can be.

Tucked into the shadows at the upstairs railing, clad in all black. Not flashy. Not drunk. Watching like he owns the place. The crowd doesn’t touch him.

He’s not looking at me. He’s watching Bobbie.

I don’t nudge her. Not yet. She hasn’t seen him. But something in the way he watches her, focused, intense, almost reverent, makes me slow.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. And for all the noise around us, there’s a strange quiet between them, even with half the club in the way.

Bobbie turns, laughing at something I didn’t catch, and the man shifts. Barely. A subtle tilt of the head. A mutual acknowledgment: I’ve got her back. The look that follows? Wary trust. Interesting.

Leaning close to her ear so I can be heard, I shout, “Get another drink?”

She nods, and we weave toward the bar, my eyes still locked on him, my hand gripping hers. I finally turn forward after running into her back, knowing he’s still watching.

I smirk. Anonymous, huh? Let’s see if you’re as bold when she finally sees you.