I lift a brow at the cute brunette. “Not anymore.”
“This place is lame.” Mike pulls a disgusted face. “We should go somewhere else. Maybe that black-and-red bar down the street.”
He means Devil’s Den, and these four wouldn’t survive five minutes in Shotgun’s place.
I drain the last of my Sam Adams and slam the empty bottle on the bar. “It’s Wednesday, so...”
Mike shrugs. “Still. We came to see Unholy, but we haven’t seen one of those assholes all night.”
My brows shoot up at the slur. “Assholes?”
Mr. Good Advice pokes his nose into mine and Mike’s conversation. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
I thrust my hand at him. “Luke.”
The name sticks to the back of my throat. I haven’t spoken it since the day I got bled into the Unholy and baptized with the name Jester at eighteen.
Mr. Good Advice gives my hand one of those show-of-force type shakes. I bite back a laugh at his unnecessary roughness. “Connor.” He glances around, a frown marring his all-American good looks. “Are you local?”
I run my gaze over the two women and take a second to admire the view. I mean, hell, they took the time to fix themselves up pretty for me. Well, not for me specifically, but since I’m the only Unholy here, I consider their appearance a personal gift. They both have long hair. We’ve already established one is brunette; the other, bless her, is blonde—I love variety. I have plans to meet up with Havoc at Devil’s Den after Talon closes, but nah. Not happening. Sure, I can share, but why try to put a smile on the grumpy prick’s face when nothing will lighten his mood?
Best if I keep these beauties for myself.
“Sure am.” I don’t miss Connor’s suspicious stare. Or the way he drapes a possessive arm around the blonde’s shoulders. “Mayhem born and raised.”
The blonde wriggles out from beneath his arm and plays coy with a shy smile.Annoying. When she tucks her hair behind her ears, I suppress a groan, because the bashful act gets old real quick.
The brunette is bolder. She extends her hand and looks me right in the eye. Direct. I like this one. “I’m Annabelle.”
I put more effort into the handshake than most guys do in foreplay, teasing her palm and wrist with my fingertips. “And I’m yours for the night, sweetheart.”
Her tongue peeks out, leaving a hella wet trail along her plump, pink lower lip. “Interesting.”
“What can I say?” I give her my most evil grin. “I’m an interesting guy.”
No, I’m not.
I’ve got the emotional depth of a puddle. Same as when I was a teenager, I’m still a criminal. A deviant. Only difference is, I downgraded from lovable asshole to average jerkoff with a wicked sense of humor.
Not interesting by any stretch of the imagination.
Annabelle comes in close enough for me to see she skipped a bra (awesome) butiswearing ten pounds of makeup (not awesome). No clue why girls hide behind layers of that crap. It’s not as if we can’t see it caked on their skin. Not to mention, how they leave most of it on the sheets. Nothing says post-sex ugly than a face full of smeared makeup and dangling eyelashes.
I also get a whiff of Annabelle’s perfume, and it smells a lot like daddy issues and old money. Not my favorite aromas on a woman, but it’ll do for one night.
“Is Mayhem as naughty as they say?”
Naughty?
This one. I can’t.
I give her a mischievous wink, because I don’t have many talents, but using the looks the devil gave me is one of them. If there is a god, there’s no chance He had anything to do with creating me. “Lucky you, because you’re going to find out, Annabelle.”
“Awesome.” Mike makes himself even more of a nuisance than he already is by moving her out of the way to get closer to me. “Then you can tell us where to go to find some fun.”
“Define fun, Mike.”
I literally insinuated I’m going to fuck Annabelle, and both dudes ignored the remark. Amazing—and not in a good way.
