* * *
“No. Dammit. No,” Michael says and turns back around toward the double doors we just walked through. I grab him by the arm. We spent the rest of the afternoon on the trails and then grabbed some food. I didn’t know how I wanted to do this tonight, but waiting didn’t really seem like an option. I’ve spent the past week stalking her and she knows it.
“You’re staying.”
The moment we walked through, I knew he wasn’t going to be a fan of tonight, but if anyone could use some loosening up, it’s Michael. I know he’s not a virgin, but with the way he acts sometimes, he could be. I know for a fact he lost that on prom night, but he’s not the guy to flirt and take random women home. That’s our youngest brother’s jam. Not Michael’s. He never does unplanned or uncomfortable situations. For him, someone who thrives off of planning and structure to battle his anxiety and OCD, tonight is the antithesis of a preferred evening.
“I need you to stay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” I tell him. Looking around at the burlesque show playing out in the front where the bar is located is probably exactly what has him on edge. The tables are crammed with guys smoking cigars and playing poker. “I’ll spot your buy-in. Go take those guys for all their over-inflated contracts.”
He does a double take and spots the shortstop for the LA Dodgers, the starting pitcher for the Toronto Blue Jays, and last year’s Cy Young Award winner. He’ll find his footing fast among these guys. In truth, only a few of Law’s college friends are asshats. The rest of his guys, the baseball guys and the few rugby guys who are here, are good people. Talking baseball is one of Michael’s strong suits. As long as they talk shop, and not women, he’ll forget to be pissed at me for dragging him to this.
The Blind Pig is a cigar bar at the base of the mountains of Strutt’s Peak. Not too far from downtown, and at the beginning of the Strutt’s gondola system. The place has a rich, speakeasy vibe, with an incredible number of brands of Scotch, ports, and Cognacs. It’s the go-to after dinner, nightcap spot for tourists. But tonight, it’s closed to anyone without an invite. Law rented the entire place for his best friend’s bachelor night.
On the bar, two tables, and a swing swaying in the middle are burlesque dancers moving with the ebb and flow rhythm of “I Put a Spell on You” by Nina Simone.
I find her immediately. My body buzzes at the sight of her. It’s as if the words to the song clicked into place, and the wild attraction that runs between us powers up. Wild braids that look like a crown on her head, with curls cascading down her back, she leans over a table tattooing someone. I stare at her profile. So focused as she moves. I’ve never been more envious of a piece of furniture watching her straddle the stool that her ass is perched upon.
A big hand claps against my shoulder. “Henry fucking Riggs. How are you, man?” Rodriguez, the man of the hour, interrupts my shameless staring.
Snapping out of it, I give him a backslapping hug. “You ready to finally get married? How long you two been together?”
He smiles wide. “I was ready the first week we met. But she needed time. And then you know the story; I ended up getting drafted. Life happened. All that shit.”
“I get that.” I look back at G and find her watching me now. “I definitely get that.”
Rodriguez turns around to see where my attention is focused. He claps my shoulder again and leans in. “Come play some poker. Oh, and, Hen, everyone could have called that, by the way. Take it from me,” he says while walking away, “don’t be stupid and wait so long that she goes ahead and builds a whole life with someone else.”
I never seem to make my way to her. Three more guys come up to me before I can move to the other side of the room. I end up betting at the roulette table. Only instead of just cash, they’ve added names to the wheel. The lucky winner gets Rodriguez’s name and baseball number tattooed on his ass as the ultimate souvenir for the night.
When Sean King ends up being the unlucky winner, I’m pissed off, because I know Sean and G have some kind of history. The idea of her tattooing him again makes me see red. And before I even register what I’m doing, I’ve stopped in front of the tattoo table.
“Hi there,” she says as she smiles. “You want me to tattoo you next?” Giselle asks as Sean lies face down on her table.
“Hen, how you been, bro?” Sean says.
I ignore him.
“I need to talk to you,” I say to Giselle. It comes out with a bit more of an edge than I intended, but I’m not interested in seeing her touch Sean’s ass.
Her eyes meet mine. She furrows her brow, questioning what’s wrong.
“Sean, sweetie. I need to talk to Henry for a minute. I’ll be right back,” she says, moving toward the restrooms. Taking off her gloves, she stops short at the entrance of the hallway and spins around. Her eyebrows kick up, silently asking me to talk.
“What’s wrong?”
“Cut the shit. You know what’s wrong,” I spit back to her.
“Is it that your good ol’ buddy Sean is laid out on my table right now and you’re afraid I’m going to tickle his pickle?”
I don’t justify that question with an actual response. Even though she’s partly right. But instead of saying that, I grab her hand and pull her fast so her body jerks against mine. Her eyes go wide, and she grins slowly, like the Cheshire Cat. She likes when I take what I fucking want. And I want her, with me, and away from anyone else. I want her in every way.
I lean in, and instead of kissing her, I move down farther and brush my lips back and forth against her neck. She melts into me and grabs my shoulders.
“Jealousy looks pretty fucking hot on you, Hanky.”
“I don’t want to watch you flirt with other men, G.” I pull back and make sure she hears me. “I don’t want to play games. I miss you. I miss the way we could be when it’s just us. I want that. Here.” I search her face for a reaction.
“No.”