He chuckled. “It’s the truth and you know it.”
Without breaking her stride, Gina flipped him off.
Luca hit the nail on the proverbial head, though, didn’t he? Because she hadn’t so much as kissed anyone since Vinny Passarelli, and that was three years ago. At first, Gina told herself she needed to focus on her classes and getting clinical hours at the hospital. Besides, as it turned out, he wasn’t worth it, and sex was overrated, anyway. She’d never had an orgasm with him.
Gina was happy working in labor and delivery. She was going to take classes toward her master’s degree in the fall. Her life was full. The last thing she needed was some guy fucking it all up—even if he was hot as hell. Not that she believed Matt McCready was interested inher, anyway. Because now, she knew better than to believe anything that came out of a guy’s mouth.
Especially not someone like him.
He pulled the zipper up on his slim-fitting black pants and snagged a tailored black blazer from its hanger. Should he even bother with a shirt?Nah. Matt didn’t feel like wearing one, and he didn’t feel like going to the club, either. Especially after last night. He was tapped out, but he promised.
There was no way for him to get out of it. Somehow, Kit talked Sloan into leaving his house, which was a good thing. The dude holed himself up in there night and day. And then, Brendan called him. When he found out they planned to go to the club tonight, he said he could have a drink or two with them after he met with Hans—like old times.
He missed those days. Before the wives. Before they lost Kyan. Like royal princes at court, the nine of them sat in that booth by the bar as if it were their throne, and in a way, it was. Their subjects would come and pay homage to them there. Once, as he sipped on his whiskey, a girl crawled under the table, took his dick out of his pants, and sucked him off right there.
He was younger then—in his twenties, still. None of them were married yet. Hell, none of them even had a girlfriend. Except for Sloan. Not that it worked out. It was a shame because the dude truly loved her. Matt was just thankful that she didn’t drag him down into the gutter with her.
But he wasn’t twenty-eight anymore. He’d be thirty-five in a matter of weeks. Half the guys were married now, or might as well be, and here he was going out on the hunt for pussy.
Fucking pathetic.
But Matt wasn’t looking for any tonight. Changing his mind, he got a soft Bella + Canvas muscle tank out of his drawer and put it on. Bo, who had a thing about textures on his skin, turned him on to the brand.
Precisely at ten, the private car rolled up in front of his house. He and his bandmates slid into the back. It was ridiculous, having to hire a car to take them a few short blocks to the Red Door, but thanks to the relentless tabloid paps, they couldn’t show up on foot, and taking one of their vehicles was simply out of the question.
Sloan tipped his head against the seat and closed his eyes. “Remind me why I let you talk me into this again.”
“Because you need to get out.”
“Do I?”
“You do.” Glancing at the driver, Kit softened his voice and winked. “Female companionship, brother.”
“Pussy?” Sloan said, loud and clear. Then he snickered. “Yeah, well, there’s always that.”
“Don’t sound so enthused, man.”
“How long have we been doing this shit, Matt?” He cocked his head, shaking it.
“What?”
“Parties. Clubbing. Fucking. All of it.” Sloan rubbed at his temples. “Never mind. I’m just… I’m just tired.”
But Matt got it. Hadn’t he been wrestling with the same shit?
The town car stopped in front of the red double doors on Ash Street, and as he stood on the sidewalk waiting for Kit and Sloan to get out, his gaze traveled to the pizza joint on First Avenue. Gina came to mind.
“You wanna ask her out or something?”
Yeah, I think I do.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “You coming or what?”
Matt half-turned, and looking into dull blue eyes, he nodded.
They bypassed the red velvet ropes, the doormen ushering them through. Inside the cavernous two-story lobby, with its immense crystal chandelier dangling above him, Axel tipped his chin in greeting. Easily as tall as Brendan, he was a silent, imposing figure in his custom black suit. Not a single tattoo was visible, but underneath those expensive clothes, the man’s skin was covered in ink. Ex-military, the club’s head of security used to be special forces, secret service, or some such shit—Matt wasn’t sure. He couldn’t even say if Axel was his real name.
I bet not.
