1
Cam
Bristol
There were many reasons why I rode my Harley fifty miles out of town for a drink, and the back view of this dude in posh clothes was one of them. At least, it was tonight. Toffs in tailored trousers and pressed shirts had never done it for me before, but I wasn’t a bloke who ignored that rush of blood south.
Never had been. But whatever. My deviant habits weren’t important as I watched Shirt Dude take his fancy bottled beer to a table and sit down. Nothing was. Not even the clusterfuck of a day that had sent me roaring off on my hog in the first place.
Liar. You were born for this, and you’ll never be fucking free of it.
Stress squeezed my chest. I tipped beer down my throat, then leaned back in my seat, curving an inked hand around my glass. The menacing dagger tats on my fingers were smudged with oil stains, but I didn’t care. I didn’t become king of the road by being nice.
I could be nice to this dude, though. Real fucking nice.
“You’re a man-whore, Cam.”
Thanks, sis. Like I gave a shit.
I didn’t, but my preoccupation with Shirt Dude was welcome all the same. Watching as he unfolded a copy of theFinancial Timesonto the table, frowning at whatever he saw on the pink pages, I got my first good look at his face. And, man, what a face. It was as pretty as his backside—high cheekbones, a neat hipster beard, and the kind of eyes that made a man go weak at the knees.
Weak.
Fuck.
My knees didn’t waver for almost anyone, but my heart skipped a beat as I stared at him, and it wasn’t often the mere sight of someone hit me anywhere other than my dick. In fact, I could only recall one time when it had ever happened before, and I’d clamped a lid on that shit so hard that it sometimes felt like it had happened to someone else—that I was watching my own pain throb and burn from another fucking planet.
On cue, my chest ached again. Meh. Maybe I’d necked too much coffee at church. Regardless, I didn’t want to think about that right now—abouthimand everything I couldn’t have—or the messy feelings that came with it. I wanted to think about Shirt Dude and his pretty face and what I’d do to him if we were in the right kind of establishment for me to approach him.
Trouble was, we weren’t, and I really had only fled my hometown for a solitary drink and a deep breath. If I’d come out to hook up, I’d have ventured further into the city. This place—I glanced around the dark pub—was the best port in a storm I knew for a quiet, contemplative pint. Ananonymouspint, and that was all I’d come for.
Still, I kept ogling Shirt Dude. I mean, I was only human. And subtle as a brick, apparently, because I got caught.
Shirt Dude raised his gaze from his newspaper. I expected him to look away. Most people did when they saw the leather and tats and figured out they were the real deal, not a fashion choice.
This bloke wasn’t most people. He held my stare and smirked a little.
I smirked right back and the answering glint in his eyes went straight to my cock.Down boy. As if. Damn thing never listened to me.
Because it’s not a sentient being, you fucking tool.
Who cared? Not me. The thrum in my blood was too good. And I was a reckless arsehole these days. I’d sacrificed too much to resist the simple things in life. If I wanted to fuck someone, I did.
Or at least tried.
I held my pint glass up and inclined my head at the seat beside me.
Shirt Dude rolled his eyes.
I shrugged.You win some, you lose some.
Or maybe, just maybe, you won the small shit that didn’t mean anything, while the things that made youburninside got left in the dust.
Shirt Dude moved like a ghost and slid into the spare seat at the bar. “Are you going to share why you’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes?”
A cocky reply had already formed in my head, but it stuck in my throat as his smooth, low voice hit me. Refined and cultured. Like a newsreader, the kind that were on the radio when terrible things happened in the world.
There was nothing terrible about him, though. Lord, no. Up close, he was even prettier than I’d first thought. Ethereally so. His eyes were slate grey, his perfectly cut hair a cool ash brown, and those cheekbones? Yeah, they could cut fucking glass.
