“I, uh, yeah, no, I didn’t, but there was a fight,” Garrett said.Probably went home with some broad. Ah, well. Can’t fault him for it if he can do it.“Tell ya what. Since I’m the one drinking, let’s go there after this round. And if it sucks, we can go somewhere without alcohol.”
“And when you say that it doesn’t suck?” I said with a knowing smile.
“Then we’ll spend an hour at most there and go someplace else,” he said.
All right. Maybe if he’s in a place he likes, it’ll help save tonight and give us hope going forward.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re doing this just so you can get your way?”
“Who, me? Why, I never!” he said in a teasing voice. “Don’t you know I’m just a good, sweet angel who always has the woman’s best interest at heart?”
It was so tempting to jab back with, “And by best interest, you mean orgasm?” But that seemed more counterproductive than me calling him out for anything I’d said.
“Let’s see if you mean it,” I said with a smile as we rose from the table.
We got to Reapers about ten minutes later, and on the walk over, without alcohol in his hand, Garrett was actually fun to be around. He didn’t seem to be proving himself; he wasn’t looking to boast. He just asked questions about how the pregnancy was so far and cracked a few jokes about what it was like to eat for two at every meal.
Granted, it wasn’t enough for me to forget how awkwardly the first part of the date had gone at Aztecs. But it gave me reason to believe that we might have had a better chance when we got to Reapers.
Alas, whatever Garrett might have felt when he sat in Aztecs was how I felt when I walked into Reapers.
I had heard from Mason that the bar, despite having a biker theme, was actually pretty classy and well-kept up. If that was the case, then the bar had made a serious pivot to looking more like an underground hole-in-the-wall. I didn’t blame whoever owned the place, as the style fit the theme much more than something clean would have, but I felt like I was in my brother’s room.
First, the place reeked of oil. I didn’t know if that was because of the customer base, because of a deliberate effort on the owner’s part, or just a massive coincidence, but I loathed the smell of oil. Nine times out of ten, when I told my brother to leave me alone, I really just wanted to stay away from the smell of oil.
Second, although Garrett and I had not walked into a crowded bar, I was the only woman in there, with everyone else looking to be over the age of forty with a white beard and a beer gut. If someone had placed a monster truck rally in there, I wasn’t sure the typical customer profile would change that much.
In some ways, if Garrett hadn’t been wearing his Black Reapers MC cut, I wasn’t even sure he would look the part of a customer. He was too young, too skinny—hell, not being thirty pounds overweight was too skinny—and too confident, too full of energy, to be here.
But then again, as Mason had told me many times over, the Black Reapers MC of their town was less an established entity and more of a “startup.” It needed some kickass vigor to take it forward.
“Find yourself a booth that’s comfortable for three!” Garrett said.
I might have laughed at the comparison before, but feeling like I’d entered Mason’s house left me feeling a little on edge. I nevertheless nodded and leaned back in the booth, trying my best to get situated. Garrett came back over a couple minutes later with a beer. He sipped it, placed one hand on my knee, and squeezed.
It felt…forced.
“So, you’re really doing it?” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Keeping it?”
What the hell?My face must have made my reaction obvious because Garrett quickly continued.
“I mean, you’re not fucking terrified about it? You got a fucking baby in the oven, and you’re not thinking, ‘Shit, this is too much, maybe I should abort or give it up?’”
My answer was swift.
“No.”
I moved away from his hand.
“And if I was scared, I wouldn’t have put myself in this spot.”
“So you got deliberately knocked up,” he said with a smirk.
I had never felt so insulted in my life. I didn’t care if it was meant to be a joke. What woman in my spot, with my family background, with my ambitions, would ever want to be deliberately knocked up? No amount of money, belonging to a sugar daddy, or any under-the-table deal would ever make me want to deliberately have a child.
