“Thankfully not. God knows I’ve met my quota on those. Take it from a girl with two older, very annoying brothers—if you don’t play nice, she’ll move far, far away and attend a private college with a cozy little bar across the street filled with drunk frat boys.”
Any trace of a smile drips right off his face. “You’re hilarious.”
“I try, sweetheart.” My lips twitch, but I won’t give in to the laugh bubbling up my throat. That dark hair, those ultramarine eyes that glow under the duress of his hooded lids. Dear God, this boy is hot with a capital everything. Jet Madden is a dangerous kind of sexy, and both my lady parts and me are well aware I’d better stay away.
A group of perfumed coeds strut by, each one in a tight little dress that screamsFUto any arrant big brother who might be floating around. I glance back in time to catch Jet’s eyes outlining the bevy of creamy thighs, and my stomach bottoms out like a stone.
“Anyway.” I scoot to the lip of my seat. “She just might gravitate to a pole for all you know, so give her some breathing room before you suffocate the poor girl.”
The lights from above hit him just right, and his eyes shine like the sea on a clear blue morning. “I’ve seen you hit the stage enough to know you don’t use the pole.” His gaze rides over my features as he bites down onto his bottom lip.
Jet Madden is inspecting me as if I were a juicy Friday night special.
“You can stop with the I’m-going-to-make-you-come-hither look on your face. I’m not in the meat market, thank you very much.”
“What?” His head inches back as if I’ve offered up an emotional slap. “Save the come hither speak for your class on Shakespeare—sweetheart.” He frowns a moment, and a set of deeply welled dimples dig into either side of his cheeks. My stomach boils with fire at the sight of them. Holy hell, I’ve always been a sucker for a bad boy with dimples. My eyes fall over those inked up arms, that expansive chest. A tiny part of me demands that I lift his T-shirt and inspect the damage, but I refuse to fall into the mattress trap those bedroom eyes of his are trying to lure me into. Jet Madden can deny it all he wants, but that boy is begging to taste unchartered territory, and, considering he’s bedded every female in a three-school radius, my friends withstanding, I would be the unchartered territory in question.
“So, are you coming to the club tonight?” I steal a fry off his plate, and he doesn’t blink. Apparently, potato theft is the only way I’m going to catch a meal this evening.
I’ve seen Jet in Stilettos more than just about any of the regulars. He’s usually seated at the bar, brooding and angry—always leaving with a prospect for the night, which makes me that much more inspired to stitch my legs together whenever he’s around. For as much as our friends have hinted that we should be together, we seem to repel one another more than we attract. Besides, I’m happy just being me, and Jet seems happy screwing every girl that’s not me.
He gives a gentle bob of the head as if agreeing to my silent soliloquy. “Now that I’m off little sister duty, I am coming to the club tonight.”
“Sister duty.” I shudder at how primal it sounds. “She’s going to hate you,” I tease. “And then, she’s going to date an entire biker gang just to watch the steam come from your ears. Twelve biker gangs!”
“Whoa.” He winces, and something about that self-deprecating facial maneuver makes my insides go swirly as if I were on some demonic inspired carnival ride. “Please, don’t curse me.”
“Why is that a curse? Don’t you date the female equivalent of a bad boy? What’s fair is fair. If you get to bed every coed with a slutty pulse, I don’t see why frat boys are off limits to sweet little Lucky.”
“She is sweet.” He leans in, those fiery eyes bearing into mine with both a sadness and a softness embedded in them. “And she’s my only little sister. I want her safe, protected, and, for the love of God, not anywhere near a biker gang.” His gaze rides over my hair, my features, and I can feel the weight of his stare as if it were leaded. “I’m sure your brothers feel the same.” He gives a slight nod, dragging those ocean baby blues over mine. “About the, you know, dancing.”
I jump in my seat a moment. “Areyoujudgingme?”
“No, I’m not judging you.” His eyes narrow in on mine once again, and I can feel the heat radiating from his stare, the powerful magnetism that must reel the girls in by the net full. “And what do you mean amIjudging you? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If the manwhore boots fit.”
“Man—what?” He squints in what appears to be genuine confusion, only making himself that much more comely, and my lower half gives an approving spasm.
A beautiful blonde makes her way over with such a confident stride that even the girls in the establishment take note. Caila Clayton, or CailaJaceaccording to her stage name, is a vision in white—shiny skin tight vinyl as it were. She’s Cassidy’s identical twin sister, save for the scar on Cassidy’s face, not that I ever really notice it. Cassidy is perfect in every way and just as magnificent of a female specimen as Caila. It just so happens Caila here takes it off at Stilettos and rakes in more Benjamins than any of the girls combined. Caila stars in the club’s premiere spectacle. People come from far and near to watch her sway those magical hips—among other swaying objects.
“Here you are!” she beckons me to stand for a quick embrace, and I do. Jet, of course, is quick on his feet as well. I’m pretty sure Caila is safe from his wandering penis because for one she’s the spitting image of his best friend’s girl.
“I was just about to explain to my inked up friend here what the wordmanwhoreimplies.”
“I’m aware,” he growls so deep the sound of his voice rumbles through my spine.
“Oh, hon.” Caila sits opposite me and offers him a quick wink. “If that’s the predicament you’re in, I’d say there’s no predicament, if you know what I mean.” She purses her lips at him in that seductive way she hypnotizes the audience with, only now it doesn’t seem too clever and sexy. In fact, I find it alarmingly annoying. And what’s with Jet’s continual bobbing of the head? That goofy grin? Dear God, he’s not really thinking of pinning Caila to his mattress, is he?
“Hey”—I jab an elbow into his chest—“isn’t there someone out there you want to do the horizontal hoola with?”
That smug little grin returns to his face, and he leans in closer than a whisper. “Honey, there’s not a whole lot of horizontal action taking place when I’m involved. I like to play on all fours.” He rises and loses himself in the thick of the crowd.
Gah! All fours! I’ve always suspected Jet Madden was a tad animalistic.
“Beware of that one,” Caila says in a stern mother-like tone I’m not used to hearing from her. “Whether or not you realize it, that boy has his sights set on you.”
“Ha!” I try to brush it off with a laugh, but I can feel the sting of heat penetrating deep down into my bones at the thought of getting on all fours. “That boy has his sights set on everyone with a slip and slide between her thighs. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
