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Cilla hadn’t noticed him yet because she was staring, wide-eyed, at Stephie, who was eating a chicken wing covered in a bright orange sauce. Her face was covered in the sauce, but that didn’t seem to deter her as she went to town on the wing. From the basket of picked-clean bones in front of her, she’d already had a dozen.
“Ladies,” Patriot drawled, his voice deeper than he intended, but what the fuck did he expect? Cilla looked like a buffet of sexual delights in that dress, and the way her hair was loose, and the way her cheeks were pink from the heat and booze…his cock was wide awake and in desperate need of her mouth.
Startled, Cilla turned toward the end of the table where the two bikers were standing. How she didn’t notice them immediately, Patriot had no fucking idea. Sure, it was loud in the bar, but it wasn’t like their shadows hadn’t cast over the table.
Stephie who, from the collection of shot glasses in front of her, was drunk, so her mental focus was about as tight as a ten-cent whore. But Cilla….
Patriot’s gaze pinned to her, and he noticed the uncertainty there…and the wariness.
Shit. He recognized that this was their first encounter in public after they’d made things official…and secret. No doubt she was unsure of how to act, or of what to expect.
So, he’d lead. And he’d keep his fucking hands to himself.
Yeah, you tell yourself that, asshole…. He could feel the burn of Jaime’s gaze against his back, and he tensed, knowing he was about to put on the show of his life.
Grinning at Cilla—in what he hoped looked like a friendly grin and not a “I want to eat your pussy until you scream” grin, Patriot sat on the end of the booth seat and leaned his elbows on the table. One way to keep his hands off Cilla was to make sure they were nowhere near her.
At least until he got her home, because then his hands would touch her like he’d been hungry to touch her since leaving her fucking bed three days ago.
“You girls enjoying yourselves?” Horde asked as he slipped into the booth to sit beside his woman.
Stephie giggled then dropped the now decimated chicken wing. She turned to Horde and gave him a saucy—literally—grin. He chuckled, grabbed a napkin from the table, then began to wipe her face.
Cilla snorted beside him, and he turned to see her lift her glass to her mouth. It looked like soda, but there could be rum or Jack in there, too.
“You tipsy?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice. It was a question one friend could ask another, right? He was just being friendly.
She shook her head, offering him a small smile.
“No. Originally, I wanted to let loose with Stephie, but once we got here, I figured one of us should stay sober,” she replied, putting the glass back on the glazed wooden table. “But I’ve had two of these…I’m getting some water next, though.”
He nodded. “Yeah, smart. You never know what kinds of assholes come here, so being drunk isn’t a good idea” And those assholes could see you, want you, and try to take you from me, but then they’d be dismembered and left to rot in a car trunk at the junk yard along the highway.
“Right,” Cilla agreed. “Also, I didn’t know what to expect. I’ve never been here before, and I didn’t feel comfortable getting too drunk in a new place, ya know. Stephie’s been here…she, uh…she said this was a club bar.”
Patriot hummed and opened his mouth to make more “friendly” conversation when a miasma of pungent perfume hit his nose, seconds before a warm body slid against his bicep.
He turned, ready to snap at whoever the fuck thought they could get that close to him, but he stalled when he noticed it was Jaime. Right behind her was a waitress, Sheryl, who was one of the staff most determined to get into his bed.
Fuck. He had to be careful how he handled this. Before he’d gotten with Cilla, he’d had his fair share of women, even picked up a few from this bar, so both Sheryl and Jaime would be suspect if he didn’t act as he usually would—flirtatious and looking for a good time.
He couldn’t see her, but he could feel Cilla beside him, could scent her clean, sugar cookie scent over the booze and Jaime’s perfume, and he wanted to turn and gather Cilla into his arms, and plant his nose in her neck, and inhale the scent of his woman.
But he couldn’t. Because, to everyone in the bar but Horde, Cilla wasn’t his.
He really didn’t need this, not when what he really wanted to do was get his woman out of there, and spend the night reminding her that the awkwardness was only temporary. He could see, during their short, “friendly” conversation, that she was frustrated. She wanted to be Cilla, his woman, and not just Cilla, Stephie’s friend.
“Hey there, Patriot,” Jaime cooed much too close to his ear.
He leaned away, offering a smile he hoped would keep her satisfied.
“Jaime,” he replied, then met Sheryl’s gaze. She bit her lip and blushed, then lifted her tray to indicate she was there to take his order. “Sheryl, a water, two Jacks, another Coke, and two dozen ‘Better Sign the Waiver’ wings.” He didn’t bother greeting her, because he didn’t want to encourage more than the eye groping he was already getting. That wouldn’t be new for Sheryl, since he’d never had any interest in her, and therefore had never actually flirted with her before.
Jaime turned to glare at the other woman, sniffing when Sheryl narrowed her eyes, then turned to head to the POS by the bar to put in his order. While his attention was diverted, Jaime planted her ass in his lap—what the fuck?!
Thrown, Patriot could only sit there, tense, as he tried to figure out what the fuck just happened. Once his brain triggered, he picked Jaime up by her waist, slid out from under her, then planted her bony ass onto the seat beside him…but as far from him as he could put her.
That meant he was closer to Cilla, who was as stiff as a board.
