Her eyes narrow but tinge with the hint of concern. “You sure you want to stay? Blake and Layla are leaving too, so that’ll leave you with Mason and the boys.”
“No biggie. Besides”—I take one look over my shoulder at Blake and Layla, who have had their hands all over each other all night—“my guess? If Layla wasn’t already pregnant, she probably would be tonight. Being conceived in a bar is a sad story to have to tell Junior.”
As if on cue, Blake tilts in toward Layla and devours her mouth. I watch for a second, wondering what it would be like to be kissed like that again. To have someone who needs me so badly that he can’t help but touch me in public, consequences be damned.
Jonah drops into the seat next to mine, robbing me of the view.
“Yo, Slade. Where’s Rex?” I twirl my straw between my fingers. “Shouldn’t he be celebrating his own victory?”
“Didn’t want to come.” He scans the room, always looking like a watchdog. “Too tired, went home.”
That doesn’t sound like Rex at all. He’s usually the laid back one who would go along with anything the group was doing. Not to mention The Blackout is like his second home.
“That’s weird.” I take another pull from my straw.
“Yeah, I’m not sure what’s up with him, but . . .” His gaze moves toward the entrance of the club, and one of his two dimples pops. “Holy shit. He came.”
I follow his stare to find another fighter making his way toward us. I’m assuming he’s a fighter due to his size, probably a heavyweight like Jonah because he’s close to Jonah’s height, but he has Jonah beat on the width. This dude is huge!
He struts with the confidence of a prize-fighter through the room and toward us. His black pants fall perfectly down long legs and stretch taut across his thighs with each stride. I bet those thighs could throw some power behind that body in the bedroom. Wait, what? No! I want to move my eyes away, but instead they travel up to his crisp white, button-up shirt that’s tucked in against a flat stomach. It would look too dressy, almost stuffy if it weren’t for his sleeves that are rolled up in a casual sexy way. His shoulders are broad, and as his thighs do to his pants, the fabric pulls tight at his biceps. If he flexed hard enough, that thing would shred.
A warm and foreign feeling of lightheadedness floods my system. Damn, maybe I’m drunker than I thought?
As he gets closer, I blink as his face comes into view. Please be ugly; please be ugly. I squint through the club lighting to focus.
Aw, dammit. A thick square jaw leads to full lips that are held in a tight line. High cheekbones showcase a dark pair of eyes held in a permanent glare. Framing that deadly expression is chestnut hair cropped short on the sides with just enough length on the top to bury hands in and sideburns that lead into two-day-old facial hair that screams rugged and I don’t give a fuck.
“Damn.” The word falls from my lips on a whisper just as he steps up to a standing Jonah to exchange a fist bump.
“Glad you made it.” Jonah pulls Raven up, tucking her under his arm, and the familiar flare of envy fires in my chest.
Blake and Layla join the greeting committee just as Caleb and Mason seem to appear out of nowhere to do the same. Who is this guy that just his presence alone calls a crowd?
And why am I insanely irritated that no one is introducing me to this guy? Fuck it. Whatever. I have to pee.
I shove up from my seat and move around the group, disappearing into the belly of the club and toward the restrooms. Every step I take intensifies my pout. I don’t know why I care. I mean sure he’s handsome in a way that makes Justin Timberlake look like a girl, but I’m off men forever, especially superhot ones that don’t simply walk into a room. That guy prowled. He looks like the kind of man who, when faced with something he wants, doesn’t ask. He takes. A warm rush of excitement turns in my belly.
“No, no, no!” I slap myself in the face and push through the door to the ladies’ room. “Asexual. I’m asexual.”
I have to be. Because being attracted to a man seems to scramble my brain cells and leave me stupid with zero sense of self-preservation. Bad things happen to a woman when she lets go and gives her heart the freedom to roam.
Not me. Not anymore. I’m locking it away where no one can touch it.
I throw back my shoulders in resolve even as the tiny voice in my head says I don’t stand a chance.
*
Cameron
One drink and I’m leaving.
After the fight, the press conference and subsequent questioning sucked up every ounce of my good mood, not that there was much there to begin with. Gibbs might be gone, but that doesn’t keep reporters from drudging up the shit he caused and forcing me into a tight spot during questioning. I have to paint on the face of a CEO, when inside I’m a fighter who’s forced to sit around and listen to one too many mamma jokes.