"Maybe you need to go out and get some tail," he suggested. "It's been a while."
Now that he mentioned it, it had been a while. While I was fine going out alone, hitting the bar by myself and waiting for the right woman to walk in was boring as fuck. So I had been spending most of my free time picking up extra guard duties at the compound to give all the guys with better things to do a break.
I did need to get out.
Get laid.
Clear my head.
"Yeah. You're right," I agreed, jerking my head over toward Cam, knowing that Roan was a lost cause. He'd been worse than usual lately. Like the storm wasn't just some Farmer's Almanac prediction, but an ache in his bones. "You up for Chaz's?" I asked when he gave me a raised brow.
His nod was all I was going to get.
"Let's go. Tell Peyt I said hey," I told Sugar, knowing that was where he would be when I got back. Peyton wasn't opposed to spending time in the clubhouse. In fact, she got a kick out of it. But she had this circle of friends all around her, ones that crashed at her place all the time, and she - understandably - would take their company over ours.
An hour and four beers later, I was starting to think my luck was going to run out. It was a fight night - some bullshit feud between two men faking bravado when you knew damn well they respected the shit out of each other in real life, but, hell, that didn't make great TV. The place was packed full of people not willing to shell out the cash to watch the fight in the comfort of their own homes. And women, well, they stayed far the fuck away from a bunch of drunk ass men cheering on brutal violence.
Cam was kicked back in a booth, head lulled back, a drink cradled in his hands, staring at one of the TVs, but I got the feeling he was looking through it instead of actually watching it, leaving me to do just about the same.
Cam wasn't a bad wingman.
In fact, in the time he had been with us, he had somehow managed to bag his fair share of women when we went out to the bars. How, when he couldn't talk to the women, I wasn't exactly sure. But it was a level of suave most men could only dream of aspiring to. Because you had to have a fuckload of game to get a modern-day, cautious, suspicious, untrusting - rightfully so - woman to go home with you when she didn't even catch your name.
After a cursory scan of the room once we stepped in, he seemed to abandon the idea of getting laid and set to just about ignoring everything.
Or so I thought until I felt a jab - elbow into my ribcage - making my head jerk over, brows lowered, finding his eyes on me. As soon as I caught his gaze, his chin jerked outward toward the bar I had been sure he'd been all but blind to.
Turning, I saw her.
And there was only a gap between seconds where I was curious as to how Cam had spotted her before me.
Especially because she was a living, breathing version of the perfect woman. Or, at least, my perfect woman.
We all had our preferences. Cam, for example, went for the soft girls. Creamy skin, lighter shades of hair - blondes and strawberries and ashy browns. Tall and willowy. Delicate, almost. The quiet ones who tagged along with their ballsier girlfriends. The introvert that the extroverts adopted and made it their mission to bring them of their shell.
That was his type.
But me? I went for darker skin tones. Shorter girls with curves a man could sink fingers into. And with that extra unspoken thing. That attitude that came through from somewhere deep, that clouded up the air around them without even having to hear them speak. A confidence. A hardness.
That was my type.
And this woman?
Fuck.
I caught a side view first, her head turned away, giving me only her short-average body with her thick thighs and ass clad in jeans I had no fucking idea how she got on since they clung like a second skin. A basic white tee, tailored, but not tight, hung out underneath a simple army green bomber jacket. A set of gold hoops peeked out from below her short, curly hair.
Then a noise - two guys yelling at the fight - made her head whip over in my direction.
And fuck if that wasn't the kind of face that could take a man out at the knees.
No one would ever accuse me of being a romantic, but there was no other way to say it.