Down, Dick. She’s not interested in a quick grope and fuck. Nice girls like her want more—deserve more—and I can’t deliver.
I crank up the music, some punk rock shit Rafe gave me, and punch the wheel to the rhythm. Caught up in the beat, it takes me a while to realize it’s music from their group, Deathmoth, and that the powerful voice blasting out of the speakers is Dakota’s.
I turn off the stereo and grip the wheel so hard it creaks. I need to get drunk off my ass. Need to get so wasted I stop thinking of Dakota.
Problem is, even if I drink enough to forget my own name, I don’t think I’ll manage to forget her.
“Gimme another.”
Without batting an eye, Joe, the bartender of Bent, pours me another whiskey. It must be my fourth. Or fifth? Maybe sixth. I really have no fucking clue. I’ve been here for a while, and I’m still working on forgetting—Dakota, Emma, who I am and what I’m supposed to do.
Maybe I should get the bottle of whiskey and get out of here. A few girls have wandered over to chat me up, but I couldn’t bother. Not interesting. Not pretty. Not… Not Dakota, dammit.
Get your head out of your ass and pick one.
It’s just sex. Pick a chick, choose a quiet corner and just fuck the pain out of your system. Say goodbye, finish your drink and go home.
It’s worked for many years. It will work again.
I scan the thickening crowd. Music is blasting from the speakers, old rock, and voices rise over the din. It makes my already aching head feel like a time bomb about to explode. At the back of the room, I can see couples getting down and dirty against the wall, not concerned about being seen.
Perfect.
Grab a chick, bang her, then go home to finish getting wasted. That’s the plan.
My cell beeps. A message from Ash, asking where the hell I am, and if I want to go out for a beer. I already have text messages and missed calls from him, Tyler, Dylan, Erin, Audrey and Rafe with variations in the theme. They want to know if I returned safely. If I’m okay.
Fuck no, I’m not okay. I shove the cell back into my pocket and focus on the plan.
A blonde with an impressive rack smiles at me. I check her out. Good ass. Nice hips. She has the bold curves I usually go for, but…
Slight curves, wild dark hair, large blue eyes…
No, dammit! Why do I keep seeing Dakota in front of me?
I push off my stool, stumble a little and nod at the blonde. Her smile grows wider, and she sidles up to me. She’s wearing a micro skirt that shows off her long legs, made longer by dangerously high heels.
Yeah, she’ll do nicely. I grab her hand and drag her through the crowd. She squeals, then laughs, and I grit my teeth. Too high-pitched. Fake. No chimes and bells.
Oh, fuck’s sake, Zane.
I pull the blonde into the twilight zone behind the last tables and into the dimness. That’s my territory, my domain: the dark. I slow down to let her catch up and then swing her around, pushing her back to the wall. She yelps, teetering on those ridiculous heels.
“I have some rules,” I tell her. “Non-negotiable.”
She nods, her eyes wide.
“You don’t touch me. Only I touch you. You don’t put your arms around me, don’t even fucking think about touching my back, and no kissing.”
“Okay, babe. Whatever gets you off.”
For some reason, her eager submissiveness—and the pet name—pisses me off. Which is sick, since submissiveness is what I want from her.
“What’s your name?” she asks. “I’m Linda.”
I don’t reply. Not interested in her name, or in conversation of any kind. I grab her wrist with my other hand and slap it into the wall. She yelps again, giving me a wounded puppy look.
“You like it rough, huh?” She licks her red lips. “I don’t mind.”