Stop it.
“What do you want?” the bartender barked, jolting me out of whatever the hell pull Ryder had.
Forcing myself away, I placed my order, all too conscious that he was so close. He smelt like leather and woodsmoke, warm with just a hint of spice. His black T-shirt was stretched across his chest, revealing strong arms with a dusting of dark hair. His left arm was bare, while his right had a snake coiled all the way up to disappear beneath the sleeve. The head started on the top of his hand, and the forked tongue stretched down his middle finger, which was an interesting choice.
“Your friend is staring,” he commented after a moment, clearly amused that I was not so subtly just checking him out. “She doesn’t blink. Should I be concerned?”
I looked back to find Bug was indeed staring in our direction. “Oh, that’s just Bug.”
“Your friend’s called Bug?” he chuckled. “Like the insect? But she gives me more reptilian vibes.”
I burst out laughing. “What?”
He shrugged. “Seriously, she still hasn’t blinked. If she’s one of those lizards wearing human skin, you can tell me. I promise not to tell.”
My lips parted to reply, but then my shots were placed in front of me.
“It’s on me.” Before I could respond, Ryder had already handed over the cash. “Happy birthday.”
I fumbled for words, my brain taking its sweet time to answer. “Thank you,” I managed to splutter.
“I think your friends are calling you,” he said, nodding behind me. “They seem to have a cake.”
“Of course they do,” I muttered, spotting them waving me over. They did indeed have cake, and I was also confident they’d somehow snuck a candle and a lighter in too.
“You should go before she bores a hole into my soul.”
I laughed again, grabbing the five shots tightly before weaving my way across the chaos that passed for a dancefloor. Halfway through, I paused and glanced over my shoulder, wondering whether I should invite Ryder to join us. Except he was already gone.
Ryder
I couldn’t tear my eyes off her, the cute blonde girl with the aura of sunshine. She’d worn this obscenely short yellow dress that hugged her body and showcased her curvy legs and hips. Not to mention the ridiculously high heels that had her head reaching my jawline rather than my shoulder. I don’t think I’ve seen her in yellow before; she always wore pink or purple, rarely blue. But never yellow.
I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t seem to take my eyes off her, and for some reason that pissed me off. Her exceedingly long hair was down, long enough to almost reach her lower back in thick waves that I wanted to wrap in my fist.
She was drunk, her movements a little wobbly and her eyes slightly glazed. They’d widened when she’d recognised me, a flush turning her breasts a pretty pink colour.
She was like this living, breathing doll. Which was so not my type.
Okay, so female was my type. But I usually preferred my women to not look so… innocent. So breakable.
Leaving the bar, I positioned myself where I could watch her unnoticed. She looked back for me, and I could have sworn her face dropped with disappointment before returning to her friends. Which made me feel like this should be easier than expected, if that Bug wasn’t so hostile.
She was the same girl from the studio, and while she’d been somewhat encouraging earlier, her glare just then wasn’t overtly friendly. More a warning, as if she was some mama bear protecting her cubs.
She was even smaller than Violet, and built slim with dark skin that made the green of her jumpsuit stand out. Even now, as they were singing the happy birthday song, her eyes were scanning around, probably looking for me.
Luckily, she wasn’t the one I was after.
I patiently watched Violet dance and sip her drinks, blissfully unaware of the predatory eyes tracking her every move. A few men tried their luck, but each time she met them with a polite smile and a gentle shake of her head.
Now and then she’d stop to glance at her phone, her movements growing increasingly strained. It wasn’t even an hour later that she was saying her goodbyes, much to the protest of her friends. Friends who I knew shared the studio space she unceremoniously splattered me with paint in earlier.
Green, real name Niel Long, was a surrealism artist, whatever the fuck that means. According to the lease agreement that I may or may not have stolen, he’d been at thestudio the longest and went to university with Penelope Rose, who was a painter. Lily O’Donnell made rugs, and Bridget—aka Bug—Jackson was a freakily accurate sculptor.
Four people I cared very little about, but knew their Instagram handle, their contact details, and fucking underwear size.
Waving, Violet left the club and I followed at a distance, careful to stay in the shadows where she wouldn’t see me. The wind caught her long pale hair, whipping it around her shoulders like an angel’s halo as she stared at her phone rather than paying attention to the man who was currently approaching her back.
