I shake my head, spitting out an order for three tall shots of tequila.
I need to switch things up. Along with my credit card I hand her a hundred-dollar tip, asking her to add a full glass of Captain to my request.
I hate change.
I also note to keep the drinks coming, my goal set on getting as hemmed up as humanly possible as I continue to spy on the man I thought I had a future with.
The hefty tip must’ve satisfied her fear of me going postal, because the waitress smiles and skirts off, her Christmas tree–dotted tie swinging cheerfully in tune with the bounce in her step as her disappearing act allows me an unobstructed view of Ryder and Hell-ey.
It’s getting worse. At least from my vantage point it is. The skank’s sitting on his lap, her arm dangling over his shoulder as she whispers something in his ear.
She giggles, he chuckles, and I . . . go postal.
Hail Mary, there is a God, my waitress’s return timed perfectly as I stumble to my feet, whip the glass of Captain from her bar tray, and chug back the entire drink, less what I spilled while bringing it to my lips, of course. I nod my thanks to her and fly into the throng of equally wasted patrons, determined to end Ryder and his little whore’s life as I round the bar, purposely crashing into his side.
Not only does the impact gain his immediate attention—his baby blues the width of Saturn and its rings as his gaze hits mine—but it also sends Hailey flying from his lap.
Aww . . .
The unpaid blonde call girl rockets to the liquor-slimed wood floor, a wheeze of pain pelting from her mouth as—if at all possible—Ryder’s eyes go wider.
Hot damn! Another touchdown for me tonight.
Figuring I’m on a roll, I don’t say a word to Ryder. Nope. I stick to simple, yet black widow–ish. I keep my mouth shut, finding a sliver of peace in watching him shit his pants as an, oh, I’m so very NOT sorry for knocking your sleazy date off your lap smirk oozes across my face.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, the shock in his voice palpable over the thumping bass of the live band’s drums. “And why are you out, noticeably fucked up, and alone?” He growls the last part into my ear, his hand gripping my waist as he hops from his bar stool. The dominant set of his jaw commands an answer, his eyes narrowing on mine.
Yes, I’m pissed, sober Amber counting the many ways she plans on making Ryder sterile for the rest of his remaining days as she narrows her eyes right back at him. Still, though my heart might be in the midst of bursting at the seams from witnessing his deceitful acts, and the asshole’s dimpled cheek deserves nothing but another strike of my hand against it, I can’t help it, I’m human—a poisonous concoction of strong and weak, its main ingredients made to test our every move.
With a quick intake of air, human weakness winning the battle by a long shot, my body reacts to Ryder’s touch as searing streams of needing to feel his cock inside me one last time lick uncontrolled desire over every muscle and bone holding me up. Remaining tactfully mute, I shove his hand off my waist and reach for a pinkish-colored shot winking at me from the bar to my left.
Its rightful owner? Go figure. A dude who’d—undoubtedly—kick Ryder’s ass if need be.
Ooops . . .
“Answer me, now, peach,” Ryder insists through another growl, his hand recapturing the right side of my waist right about the same time Jolly the Green Giant loops his arm around my shoulder.
“What are you doing in public without a lookout?” Before he lets me answer, Ryder cranes his head over the bar, his eyes flaming red as he taps the linebacker’s forearm. “Hey, asshole! Get your fucking hands off her before I break that neckless skull of yours in half. ” Ryder sends him a wink, his infamous cocky smirk front and center as he juts that beautiful square jaw of his out like the true wiseass he is. “She’s taken, buddy. Go sniff somewhere else.”
It could be the Master Morgan clogging my arteries, the wire of nerves rattling my rib cage, or quite possibly my newly appointed, nameless boyfriend’s shot—at what I believe was a lame version of a fuzzy nipple—which slows the motion reels of my brain. Who knows the reason? But at this point, brain slow or not, I’m positive the tension-filled air’s about to thicken, a dense fog of ass-kicking swallowing the oxygen from my lungs as Bibbidi-bobbidi-Bimbo climbs up from her minute-long affair with the ground. The tap from her finger on Ryder’s shoulder momentarily steals his attention from the insanely pissed-off-looking ogre, who’s currently rising like The Empire from his bar stool.
“Oh, fuck,” a familiar voice croaks.
Lee!
Yep, that was Lee, his boyish physique swooping over the bar a millisecond before my nameless friend’s fist leaves a decent-sized dent in the back of Ryder’s skull.
The next several minutes include my brain really fucking off: spots of bar stools sailing through the air, bone-cracking testosterone-filled grunts, and random gasps from onlookers filling my ears and vision as I’m tossed—mosh-pit-style—against the wall. With my view of the main event clogged by a horde of amped-up college students, I don’t see the rest of the show. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to, couldn’t bear it. As I completely black out—my brain taking its final, fizzed shit—I know when I wake up that I’ll remember one thing . . .
Remember nothing, this moment sure to tattoo its wickedness across my heart.
• • •
I wake with a start, my senses strumming back to life as soft fingertips trace figure eight patterns across my forehead. I open my eyes and look straight up into Ryder’s, my head resting cozily in his lap as I try to figure out if I’m dead or not. With a hesitant grin, he moves a piece of hair away from my face, his free hand holding an ice pack against his bloodied bottom lip as I realize I’m not dead.