At least Itriednot to notice.
Spade worked the door often, and as soon as he saw me he waved me past the forming line.
“Thanks, Spade!” I shouted as I ran by.
“No prob, babe, I got you!” he shouted back.
Babe. That was a biker thing, not a term of endearment. Probably due to the bikers all being man-whores who couldn’t remember the names of the many women swarming around them, vying for the “D.” And reminding myself that they were hit-it-and-quit-it kind of guys made it a little easier not to notice their hotness.
Still winded from my jog, I breathed deeply and entered the building, tugging my backpack off. Since it was summer and still sunny outside, I had to give my eyes a second to adjust to the dim hanging lights. Like everything else in the club, the glass fixtures were coated with a layer of nicotine and time that no amount of scrubbing could hope to remove.
With its wood floors, wood paneling, and an arched wood ceiling, walking into the bar always felt like stepping back in time to the late seventies. Scents assaulted me: perfume, cologne, alcohol, sweat, leather, all fermenting with the underlying stench of old cigarette smoke. I hurried past speakers that played a mix of old-school rock bands with a few new songs sprinkled in and into the employee break room. Tugging my boots from my backpack, I replaced my tennis shoes and shoved everything else in my locker, sliding the key into the pocket of my Daisy Dukes.
Glancing into the mirror, I straightened my Copper Penny logoed tank top, tightened my pony tail, and wiped away the sweat-smudged makeup beneath my eyes. By the time I clocked in, grabbed my apron, and headed for the bar, I was nine minutes late. Time had won yet another round.
Flint, the bar manager, was pouring drinks, which was never a good sign since he should be doing manager-type shit rather than covering for my tardy ass. Still tying on my apron, I slid in beside him.
“Hey, Boss, where’s Jen?” I asked, looking around for the other bartender on the schedule.
“She’s sick, so I sent her home,” Flint replied, drawing a beer and handing it to one of at least twenty sexy bikers crowding the bar. Seriously, my workplace held so much man-candy it should be named Vaginal Diabetes. But I was determined not to notice, blinders on, staying in my lane, minding my own damn business, and all that bullshit.
“Sorry I’m late.” I washed my hands at the bar-side sink then spun around, preparing to take my first order.
“Shit happens,” Flint replied.
Wasp, the biggest, sexiest biker of the group was perched on the stool directly in front of me, half leaning over the bar. “That’s okay, babe. I’d say you’re right on time.”
An involuntary shiver went up my spine as his gaze swept down my body. His eyes were dark grey, his dishwater blond hair hung just below his shoulders, and his arms were easily the size of my legs. Like the rest of the bikers, he wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a biker vest with patches to show his rank and name. Wasp was the Vice President of the Dead Presidents MC. I knew, because I often studied his patches while trying to avoid his hungry eyes, mischievous smile, and stubble-covered jaw.
“What can I get for you, Wasp?” I asked, trying to keep my tone business-like.
“A pint of that pilsner on tap.” He grinned, flashing me perfect teeth. “And… your number.”
I was a single mom with a stellar track record for attracting the wrong kind of men. Okay man. There was only one, but he was bad enough. I had no time for games, and Wasp was clearly a player. I could see it in the confident way he held himself and the easy way he asked for my number every damn time he ordered.
Not like I was special. He probably asked for every woman’s phone number, and most of these biker sluts wouldn’t hesitate to hand theirs over. But I wasn’t about that life, so I poured his beer and set it down in front of him. “Put it on your tab?”
He tilted his head to the side, studying me. “Aren’t you forgetting something, babe?”
Even his voice was sexy. Deep. Commanding. A total contrast to his easygoing jokester personality. Refusing to let it—or the lick-worthy biceps peeking out from beneath his sleeves—affect me, I leaned over the bar, looked him square in the eyes, and let him know where we stood. “You’re not getting my number, Wasp. Ever.”
I probably sounded like a bitch, but I needed to be direct with guys, sternly voicing my disinterest. I’d learned that lesson the hard way, and no one would be getting mixed signals from me ever again.
Wasp returned my stare, his gaze full of heat and the kinds of promises that made my thighs clench. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
“Dammit, Wasp,” Flint roared. “How many times do I gotta tell you to stay the fuck off my girls? Leave Carly alone and let her work.”
Beer in one hand, the other held up in surrender, Wasp backed off, but the smirk he gave me promised he’d be back to harass me later. Another shiver went up my spine. I had no intention of dating a biker—of dating anyone for that matter—but it was nice to still feel desired every once in a while. And man, did Wasp ever make his desires known.
With him heading back into the crowd, I focused on the steady stream of customers and lost the night in a blur of leather and alcohol. By the time Flint kicked everyone out so we could clean up, I was spent. Determined to get home with enough time to at least get in a nap before I had to take Trent to school and go to my second job, I fought through the exhaustion and busted my ass cleaning up.
It was a little after two-thirty a.m. by the time I got home and found Trent curled up next to Jessica on the sofa. Jessica had some trashy romance novel covering her face, and Trent had every plastic army man he owned on the floor surrounding them. The scene made my heart break a little as I swooped in to scoop up my kid.
Jessica stirred and sat up, placing her book on the coffee table and rubbing her eyes.
“Another nightmare?” I whispered, patting Trent on the back.
“Yeah. It wasn’t as bad as the last one, but he still decided we needed protection.” She gestured at the platoon of green soldiers.
