Approaching the bar, my tequila was ready and waiting for me, the bartender standing with a huge grin on his face. “Still one on the hour, every hour?”
I took the shot glass and held it up, smiling back at him. “No lemon.”
“No lemon.” He placed a new beer on the counter and wiped his hands before tending to other customers.
The shot of tequila was instantly forgotten the second I swallowed. Alcohol had lost its ability to sting and burn my insides years ago. I couldn’t even remember the last time I cringed after drinking a shot.
The sound of roaring engines came from outside, a rolling thunder of power vibrating through the bar. I closed my eyes, loving the echo of what some people would interpret as noise, yet I appreciated as music. There was nothing quite like it, the low rumble of a Harley engine. Put a few of them together, and you had yourself a fucking melody.
I smirked to myself when I noticed all the curious eyes stare out the windows. One would think a bar like this would be used to motorcycle crew visits on a Sunday afternoon. After all, this place was the farthest out of town with a decent menu and reasonable prices. On a sunny day like this, it was every biker’s wet dream.
The doors opened, and I could hear their shit-kicker boots hit the concrete floor. Not even the eighties rock song playing on the jukebox in the corner could hide the sound.
I didn’t turn around. Didn’t pay them any attention. The entire bar was already making them feel like gods as they walked in.
The bartender held up a hand. “Yo, Granite. What can I get you, man?”
“The usual.”
“And for the lady?”
I took a quick glance over my shoulder at the lady in question—a petite blonde who practically disappeared at the side of the mountain she was walking next to.
“Screwdriver for the lady.”
The man had the kind of voice that could silence a room with a single fucking syllable. Deep, low, husky, and intimidating as fuck. Around here, everyone knew who he was. You didn’t need to see the skull and American flag patch on his cut to know he was the president of the American Street Kings. His reputation preceded him—the King who once ruled the streets of New York before the Pythons started moving in on their turf.
I turned my attention back to the beer I was nursing when I heard a familiar voice behind me. A smile tugged at the corner of my lips as I turned in my seat, staring at the man across the room. His sky-blue irises swept my way, an amused grin appearing on his face when he recognized me.
He rubbed his fingers across his beard as he sauntered closer. “You again.”
I nodded. “You remember me.”
“How can I forget?” He stopped a few feet away. “You were the date I didn’t go on a date with.”
“That makes no fucking sense.”
“And neither did our date.”
For a small eternity, I held his gaze, those pretty blues of his not even blinking. I’d be a fool not to have noticed how dangerously attractive he was with his dirty blond hair all disheveled, and unruly beard all manly and buff. Not to mention those broad shoulders and six-foot-three of pure muscle and testosterone. It would be hard to miss a man like him—especially with those pretty ‘fuck-me’ eyes.
He grabbed a beer from the waiter and stepped in next to me. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this all on her own?”
“What makes you think I’m on my own?”
He shrugged. “No man in his right fucking mind will leave a woman like you alone and unattended in a bar like this.”
“Oh, my God.” I rolled my eyes. “Does that line even work?”
“Sure does,” he replied unabashedly.
“Well,” I took a sip of my beer and swallowed, “if a girl is dumb enough to fall for that, she deserves to get played.”
A low laugh rolled over his lips, a sound that demanded my attention be turned to his mouth. His lower lip was heavier, the corner of his mouth twitching. There was a visible line through his beard on the side of his chin, the remnants of what I guessed was once a scar on his face.
I glanced down at the tag on his cut. “Vice president, huh?”
“Yup.”