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“The fact you’re not diggin’ those claws into my skin or trying to yank my nipples off through my shirt shows you’re too drunk, princess. Told ya you’d be hammered.”
“I’ll switch to water.”
“And then you’ll fall asleep on the way home. Drink.” He smirked. “Relax.”
I scowled and he laughed.
The view of it up close was enough to send a jolt to my clit.
And something else to my stupid, drunken heart.
Judge moved away and turned toward the table, taking stock of who else was ready for a refill before walking to the bar. Once the view of his biteable ass was gone, I tried to turn my attention to the table, but there were two problems.
First, there was a limit to how much bike talk I could take for one night, and I’d exceeded that amount. By a long, boring mile. I loved riding on one, but the parts and specs were a lot less interesting.
Second, and the more pressing issue, was I had to pee.
Badly.
Not wanting to interrupt the heated debate about which something or another was better than the other doohickey, I stood and power walked to the back hallway that held the bathroom.
After taking the best pee of my life, washing my hands, and becoming best friends with the small group of women who were reapplying their makeup, I opened the door and started for the table.
Well, I tried to.
Because before I made it out of the hallway, a man stepped in my way. He wasn’t a biker or a rocker—though not everyone at the bar was—and his suit and loosened tie were far from low-key.
My instincts went on high alert.
Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I muttered, “Excuse me.”
“Wow, so polite,” the man said, his voice filled with condescension.
Ignoring him, I moved to the side, but he did, too.
“Aw, where’s that pretty smile you had earlier?” he slurred.
Fear stabbed through the layer of vodka-infused happiness that surrounded my brain, sending a chill down my spine as my pulse raced.
I tried a fake-out maneuver that’d make an NFL player proud, hoping I’d be able to dart past. His movements may have been slower, but his size made up for it, and he easily blocked my efforts.
Only that time, I was close enough for him to grip my upper arm and rotate us so I was pressed against the wall.
He put his hands on either side of my head and leaned closer, his beer breath making my stomach churn. “Been watching you all night. You’re smart.”
“Wipe my own ass, too,” I mouthed off without thinking.
Ignoring me—or, more likely, not hearing me because his focus was on my breasts—he continued. “Too smart to be a club whore. And too hot to be passed around from animal to animal.”
Judge had mentioned the intolerance and preconceived notions the brothers faced, thanks to their tattoos and bikes. As brothers of color, Lash and Scythe ‘joked’ they were on a first name basis with every cop in their neighborhoods because people made assumptions and phone calls rather than conversation.
Knowing about it and hearing it for myself were two different things. I couldn’t imagine, even for a second, how they felt living it.
Looking from side to side, I hoped to see my drunken BFFs from the bathroom, but they were nowhere in sight, so I demanded, “You need to move back.”
“Why?”
“Because I fuckin’ said so.”
