She was a year older than my twenty-one, and she’d already made the commitment. Me? I couldn’t even get past my phobia of being in a relationship with anyone, let alone get married. But it didn’t mean I didn’t want certain things from life. Hence my current dilemma.
“Hell, no. Not these drunks.” I grimaced, the noise behind me ricocheting. Howls of laughter followed. “I’m meeting Calum Moore later tonight.”
Her eyes bugged out. “You are? Wow… He’s good-looking, for sure, but he’s-he’s—”
“A player?” I snorted. “I’m not looking for a husband, Den.”
“True.” She laughed. “Ah, Chris is here—” She waved to the dark-haired guy waiting near the entrance then patted my arm. “I’ll call you. Let me know how it goes, okay?” Before I could utter a word, she scurried off, disappearing outside with her fiancé.
I glanced around, my attention settling on the back table, lorded over by the biggest players this side of San Francisco.
I liked them most times, when they weren’t irritating the life out of me—or whoring the nights away. Before the evening was over, they’d all head off with a woman to wet their wicks with—well, except for the tall, gorgeous, tattooed blond.
Max Sinclair, a reformed player, wore an intense expression as he leaned his forearms on the blemished wooden table—the array of tonal ink on his skin compelling even in the dim lighting—listening to whatever War said.
The entrance door swished open again, letting in a noisy crowd. A petite girl, dressed in a retro, sleeveless black-and-white top and a charcoal-gray skirt, followed. As if a cord connected them, Max glanced back.
How he sensed her, I had no idea. Pleasure lit his face. Yup. Only for my sister did he smile that way—like she existed for him alone. He rose as Ila hurried over, and then he kissed her. She slid her arms around his neck, her engagement ring glittering in the subdued lighting. They were getting married mid-July—in a month’s time.
My sister deserved happiness after what her dirtbag ex-fiancé had done, nearly destroying her in the process. It had taken Max to bring her back to life.
If I ever changed my mind about the male species, I wanted the same thing. Someone to go gaga, to go all-out and love me with the same intensity that Max loved Ila. But that seemed unlikely. Especially if this lot here was what humanity had to offer currently. Hence my plan to get my O-card filled.
“Here you go.” Petra set my order on the tray.
I picked it up and headed for the players’ table.
They were done with university and had ventured out into the big, dangerous world of work a few years ago. Max had joined the family’s banking business. War played professional hockey for the SF Cheetahs. And Jack? He’d gone into the family business, too. Something about hotels. Max had mentioned it once. Probably personally testing out the flexibility of every mattress in all the hotels worldwide.
I hadn’t seen him in several months—since last fall, if I wasn’t mistaken—not even in this place, his favorite watering hole. And…boom, he suddenly arrived for Max’s big announcement several weeks ago.
A frown tugged at my brow, a teeny bit of concern filtering through me. He appeared…withdrawn. Tired. He tunneled his fingers through his trendily cut inky hair, the sides shorter than the top, tousling its normally immaculate look. Those ice-gray eyes abruptly looked up and met mine. And then he winked. The urge to punch him grew. The jerk hadn’t changed at all.
Jack Griffin had been born with the morals of an alley cat, always on the prowl for his next tail. Now in his mid-twenties, one would think he’d start to reevaluate his life. Nope, not the king of players. Why would he when life not only handed him a silver spoon but also put women on a platter?
As I passed a table of suits, a hand slid over my backside and had me gritting my teeth—damn horny assholes. I glared over my shoulder, and the clean-shaven shithead threw me a tipsy smirk. If only Jude hadn’t added the no-punching-customers clause to the workforce rules recently. I did it twice—twice! And the ridiculous notice went up in the staff’s poky kitchen.
Clamping down on my molars, I continued to the back table. Jack leaned forward on his chair, forearms resting on the wooden table, staring sideways in my direction. He wasn’t looking at me, but right past me—eh. Whatevs.
Ignoring Jack’s cold glower and whatever bug had bitten his butt, I set down the drinks. Those startling pale eyes flickered back to me. Heck, add that to his perfectly chiseled features, the slight cleft in his chin, and it left little doubt as to why all the women lined up to add more notches to his bedpost. He was irritatingly handsome and a pain in my ass.
But this part always gave me the greatest pleasure. I set the bill for the night near his elbow.
Max was engaged to my sister. War, I liked. Jack could pick up the damn check. Which he did. But it barely made a dent in his deep pockets. What I hated more was that he always left a two-hundred-dollar tip for me, no matter how small the tab.
A pale-skin brunette in a low-cut top, sidled to his side, lowered her head and whispered something in his ear. She dropped her napkin, and it floated to his lap. Now, she’d go fishing down south with an open invitation.
Barely suppressing my snort, I dispensed the drinks, ignoring the sharp look Jack cut me. Who knew he could hearmewith so much estrogen enclosing him?
“You’re finishing your shift now, right?” my sister asked as I passed her a vodka tonic.
“Yep, I’m done.”
“Then you’re coming over to the loft?”
Damn. “No…” Instinctively, I cut War a furtive look. “I have plans tonight.”
“Really?” she asked, lifting a skeptical eyebrow.
