by Evans, Katy
Oh, hell no.
Exhaling, I push open the door and throw myself inside, skidding to a stop and scanning my surroundings.
About fifty heads swing in my direction, like I’m the entertainment for the evening. It’s like the record playing on the old jukebox in the corner suddenly screeches off its track too.
I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. There’s a long, almost-empty bar and a couple of customers having nachos and chips and salsa at the tables.
But as I walk across the tilting cement floor, every single one of those eyes is on me.
What am I doing here, again?
Oh, right. Probably trying to get myself mugged.
No, this is a regular commercial establishment, like any other. I’m sure they’ll be happy to have my business.
Summoning my courage, I take a middle stool at the bar and tell the bartender, who’s busy watching something on his phone, “Tequila, the finest you have—straight up,” in a gruff voice that I hope makes me sound like I can hold my own, in case someone is eyeing up my purse.
He doesn’t look up, merely smiles down at whatever he’s watching as he pours me something from a bottle called Montezuma and serves with his free hand. What the hell is Montezuma?
Great service. “Um. I said the best you have.”
He looks up at me, finally seeing me for the first time. A frown of annoyance on his lips. “This is the best, princess. Also the only.”
I probably don’t want to upset him, seeing how he has arms the size of tree trunks, covered in tattoos.
I take my shot and guzzle it down. It’s awful, like paint thinner, squeezing tears from my eyes. Whatever. I tap the bar for another. When my curiosity gets the best of me, I ask, “What are you watching?”
“Jimmy.”
“Jimmy what?”
“Jimmy Rowan. The stunt guy on YouTube? He’s going to get killed one day.”
“Hopefully not today.” I frown and peer at the screen. “What kind of stunts does he do anyway? That’s so dangerous.”
He tilts his phone completely toward me. A guy in a helmet and nylon jumpsuit is throwing himself off an airplane. He’s speaking into the camera, saying, “So I was dared to pull the strings fifteen seconds after any sane, normal human being would. So, let’s count down from right about . . . now.”
My eyes widen, and my insides clutch in concern for the idiot behind the camera.
Fourteen . . .
The static from the wind makes his voice sound shattered, strained.
“Thirteen.” The bartender is counting.
I watch the idiot continue his free fall as land grows closer beneath him.
“What an idiot,” I mumble, but I’m still unable to take my eyes off the video.
“Five!” the bartender says.
I look away. “Just tell me he lived.”
“Oh, he lives.” He shows me the camera when the guy finally pulls the cord on his chute, and a few seconds later, crashes into the ground. The guy growls, “Ouch,” then starts laughing, a low, rumbly laugh. I can’t help but smile and shake my head.
“And he did this all because . . .”
“They dared him to. Five hundred bucks.”
“He did all of that? For five hundred bucks?”
“He gets more from the video views. A man’s got to put food on the table.” He eyes me up and down. “Specially when he doesn’t have a trust fund coming to him.”
Hell, and all I want is a man to wear my suits and look pretty for a few events. “Why can’t I find such a man?” I ask out loud, shaking my head as I push my empty glass forward. “Bartender. Another drink. Please.”
I’m on my third.
He pours it for me. “Classy guy, that Jimmy.”
“In what dictionary?”
He frowns as he sets his phone back into his pocket and polishes a glass. “Huh?”
“What dictionary would define him as classy?”
His eyes widen as if I’ve just murmured something blasphemous. “Well, maybe not your class. He doesn’t own a Rolls. But around here, he’s royalty. Jimmy hangs out here all the time.” He nods at a dark corner booth situated to the right of the bar. “His office is right over there.”
I see the cluttered tabletop and wonder what kind of man leaves a tripod, camera, and old laptop set up in a bar. He must trust the people who patronize this place. Either that or the patrons fear him.
“Jimmy Rowan will do anything for a dare—he’s a man of honor.”
“If he’d do that for five hundred, what would he do for half a million or more?” I grumble, smiling and shaking my head at the thought. At least I can still smile.
“Hell, shit, ma’am, he’d do anything. What? You offering?” He eyes me with new interest, in kind of a smarmy way, as if he thinks I’m asking to buy Jimmy’s services. Who the heck does he think I am? “Ladies go for him.”
Oh god, he does think that.
“No, thank you very much,” I mutter. “Ladies or women? I don’t think a lot of ladies would go for someone that foolish.”
He raises his gaze past my shoulders. Silence falls over the room, and then the bartender murmurs, “Speak of the devil . . .”
There’s a loud crash, followed by a ruckus.
“What’s that?” I glance around at the commotion.
The bartender smiles. “Jimmy Rowan.”
I turn my gaze to the door, and my heart skips a beat. The tall, raw-looking sex machine the bartender refers to doesn’t look anything like a Jimmy. The guy is too tall and eye catching and too . . . well, hot.
I don’t recognize him from his video. He was wearing a helmet during the stunt I just watched on YouTube. But right now, he’s wearing a head of dark mussed-up hair. Worn jeans that sit perfectly on his narrow waist. And a black T-shirt that looks old and tattered, hugging muscles that only a truly athletic man could ever develop.
Realizing I’m staring as if I’ve never seen a real live man before, I purse my lips in distaste at myself, blame it on the cheap tequilas, and turn back to my drink.
There’s a loud whistle. “Luke!”
“Jimmy!” the bartender greets him back.
I glance past my shoulder again, unable to stop the quiver in my stomach. My eyes fall on him—and rebelliously stay there. His hair is a little too long, reaching his collar and curling at the tips. Dark as midnight. He’s smiling as he greets the guys who come over, and the women seem to be sitting up taller or standing and thrusting out their tits or hips. Some are even sultrily walking over to him. He oozes confidence and strength while, at the same time, there’s a playful tug at the corner of his mouth that makes him look young and devilish.
He looks . . . dirty. Unkempt.
And wow. Nobody seems to care about that.
He’s like some sort of celebrity around here.
I run my eyes over his chest and can’t help but notice the way his shirt clings to broad shoulders. His biceps are clearly hard, as the shirt presses to his skin as he moves. His worn jeans embrace his slim hips, and the guy’s got long legs, his thighs hugged by the denim material. An uncomfortable little frisson shoots down my spine as he looks up, as if sensing my stare.
“Jimmy!” some girl walking over from the corner calls out.
I snort and shake my head, frowning over how foolishly these girls are behaving. At my snort, Jimmy swings his head to look at me, a dimple under his scruffy beard appearing a little bit as our eyes meet.
Bearded jaw. Roguish smile. Golden tan. White teeth. Eyes so bright and blue it’s sort of a shock when they land on me.
Why is it all turning me on? He might be hot, but he is not my type at all. I’m me, and he’s . . . so raw; he’s the most primitive man I’ve ever seen.
I shift in my stool and turn back to take a quick sip of my drink, bracing myself for another look.
I steal it. My stomach clutches because, oh god, he’s blatantly staring at me.
He raises an eyebrow, and I stiffen
in my seat and turn back to my drink, listening to a soft male laugh behind me.
“Jimmy . . . you fucking asshole!” I hear someone call.
I turn, and Jimmy is now looking at another guy, who’s kicking his chair back.
Jimmy raises one eyebrow. For some reason, the deep bass of his voice causes the hairs on my arms to rise to attention. “I told you I’d find you.” Jimmy speaks threateningly to the other man.
“Here I am, fucker,” the other says.
They start to face off, winding around the tables to the vacant space between.
“You make it so damn easy,” Jimmy murmurs with a scoff. He flexes his arms at his sides, his biceps bunching in a way I fear might make his T-shirt pop.
Why the hell am I here? In the middle of a freaking bar fight? Jeanine would tell me to get the fuck out, but she also would’ve told me never to come in here in the first place. But I’m strangely rooted to my stool. Before I can take another breath, Jimmy lunges at the guy.
His opponent falls onto the table behind him, and the table legs break with a loud crack, sending him flat on his back with Jimmy Rowan on top.
“Ahh, fuck, Jimmy!” the bartender groans as he swings up over the counter and slides down to the other side, charging over. “Dude, take this outside. OUTSIDE! FUCK IT, TAKE IT OUTSIDE, JAMES!”
Wait. His name is James?
Kind of like . . . Bond. James Bond?
The bartender and another man pull James back, and James shakes his head with a scowl and glares down at the man on the ground. “Fine. I’m fine.”
They release him, and James drags a hand restlessly along the back of his neck before he raises his head and looks at me again. My heart skips a crazy little beat as he stares at me; then he seems to recover his anger and dives for the guy one more time.
The crowd watches as both guys punch each other, rolling on the ground, and as the fight continues, I sit here, paralyzed. I’m shocked but can’t look away. It’s like watching a train wreck.
“JIMMY!” half of the bar cries, while the other half is just watching, like me. Though I have to say a lot of the people here look amused. I’m not.
Again, two men pull James back, and he lets out an angry curse as he’s held back, his eyes whipping to mine again.
He stares at me with flaring nostrils, no apology or remorse in his stare. He’s not looking away, his stare sexual and blatant, as if he wants me to know it.
I lick my lips, my hands trembling as I reach into my purse and pull out some money. I leave it on the bar. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving and stretching his T-shirt as I quickly sling my purse around my shoulder, grab my jacket, and start walking toward the door.
His eyes crawl over me with every step I take, and I vaguely remember I’m wearing a business suit. My jacket is in my fist, the shirt I’m wearing too white, my nipples pushing against the material. My skirt feels shorter than I’m sure it is, a little tighter than I remember.
I can’t fucking wait to get out of here.
What is this man doing to me?
“You cool, man?” the bartender keeps asking this James Rowan guy. The YouTube star. The daredevil.
James gives him a sharp nod, frowning, his gaze focused on me.
The bartender smiles as he follows James’s gaze, as if he knows something that I don’t.
I’m not so sure I want to know.
It’s as if everyone is shocked that James’s attention keeps coming back to me.
I’m just as shocked that I can’t take my eyes off him.
My knees feel wobbly. Every step closer to the door makes my thighs feel weaker and weaker.
Suddenly the other man murmurs, “You lusting after that kitten? Girl can’t seem to get away from you fast enough. Fifty bucks—dare you to try to fuck—”
Suddenly James lunges for him again, pushing the two men who try to restrain him away. I squeak and hurry to open the door, ready to leave, but something holds me back. Something—a nagging little whisper—stops me from opening the door. I glance back and watch him move.
This is a guy who will do anything for money.
Anything.
The thought makes me reconsider leaving. God, Elizabeth, you’re not really thinking what you’re thinking . . . ? It’s impossible. It would never work. This is tequila-thinking, not sane, rational thinking.
But yes, yes I am. Inhaling a breath for courage, I end up walking back into the bar, closer and closer to the chaos.
“Gentlemen!” I stop them with a loud call, stepping in between them, still not a hundred percent sure I won’t get a fist in the face in return for this act of sheer stupidity. “I’m sure we can all settle this like gentlemen, and talk.”
The men pause and eye me as if I’m crazy, and it’s only then that I realize how dumb it sounds. Men like this don’t talk. They just grunt like cavemen and then settle things with their fists. The end.
“Hey,” he breathes to me, his eyes catching on my pearl necklace before trailing lower. “Hillary Clinton. Nice suit. Get out of my way.”
I look down at my suit. It’s not like it’s a pantsuit. I look nothing like Hillary Clinton. I know I’m fabulously overdressed for this place, but . . .
James whips a lethal gaze back to the other burly guy. “I’m done talking to you. Your no-good brat goes near Charlie again . . . ,” James spits out, flexing his fingers into fists.
“Fuck you, Rowan.”
James steps around me, pushes me back behind him so fast that he knocks the wind out of me, then swings out and knocks the guy back with a punch on the jaw. More fighting ensues. I’m woozy on my feet, my heart pumping with adrenaline.
It takes three men to restrain James and two to restrain the other one, and finally, the other guy is pulled back enough to give me space to talk to James.
Something about the eerie silence in the bar makes me more nervous as I manage to capture his gaze again.
He’s released, and he instantly jerks his attention to me. He runs his gaze down my body again. His lips curve upward as he drags his eyes back up to mine. But suddenly he’s frowning.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” His growl is low and deep, causing a little shiver of fear and excitement to shoot down my legs. He takes a menacing step forward, his frown deepening. “Do you want to get yourself killed, lady?”
“Killed, no, noticed, yes.” Nervous because he’s too near, I stick out my hand. “James, I’m—”
“Jimmy, to his friends,” the bartender interrupts.
I pause. Think about it a little. Do I want to be his friend? No. Do I want to be his business associate? Maybe. “James will be just fine,” I say.
The daredevil just stares with narrowing eyes.
“I’ll take care of you once I’m done,” James suddenly croons down at me with a wicked little smile. He nods as if to placate me, and I gape as he turns back toward the other man.
I’m not used to being ignored. Especially by some hot-as-hell idiot who’d risk his life for five hundred measly dollars.
I stomp my feet and cross my arms.
“No! I’m leaving if you don’t come and talk to me now.” Straightening my shoulders, I add, “I have a lucrative offer for you.”
I’m not sure if the last part is for me or James, but since I have the floor, I want to give a reason for needing this man’s attention.
Oh my god. I’m really going to do this. Am I crazy?
I am completely batshit.
Part of me wants him to say no and laugh in my face. Then I can go home and lick my wounds. Then I’ll wake up tomorrow and laugh about how I was so desperate I actually tried to bribe some pretty-faced nobody who probably doesn’t even know what a cuff link is to be the face of Banks LTD. And then I’ll get to business and try to find a realistic solution to my problem.
But that doesn’t happen.
James spins around, frowning as he looks at me. He laughs. He licks the blood off the corner of his mouth, and
the move makes my eyes fall there. Unbidden fantasies of getting it on with him trickle through my mind. My lips on his, beneath his, my whole body feeling the strength of his . . .
Gulping, I shove the thoughts aside, shocked that I’m even having them. This isn’t the Elizabeth I know. I can’t even believe how this guy stares down at me, past really dark slanted eyebrows, through a fringe of superdark lashes, with bright-blue topaz eyes that just laser in on me like there is no one else in the bar.
Does he feel this pull like I do?
I’m scared to find out.
He looks a little reckless as he starts to smile. Like he’s planning to do some crazy shit to me, right here, in front of everybody. My nipples harden even more, as if reminding me I wouldn’t object one bit.
I clear my throat and smooth my trembling hands down the front of my shirt. I’m just making sure that it’s in place.
“I’m Elizabeth.” I keep my last name to myself.
James scans my features in a way that makes me blush. “I’ve got pending business, as you can see, Elizabeth . . .”
“I . . . have another business proposition for you,” I repeat before I lose his attention. “One I think you will find much more interesting.”
“Yeah? This I gotta hear.”
Vaguely, I wonder if I’m too drunk to be thinking clearly. I motion him to the bar, acutely aware of his big body following me. I notice the bartender watching us in amusement. He pours another drink for me. I toss back the tequila shot, gasp as the burn reaches my stomach, and turn to face the YouTube daredevil.
James “Jimmy” Rowan is looking at me cockily. His gaze was on my ass when I spun around—and I can’t believe how low I’ve fallen. How my body keeps jumping from the nearness of this guy. I purse my lips in a fight for control, not believing I’m fishing for the face of our new top-of-the-line product in some seedy bar, with some douchey bearded daredevil they call Jimmy.
But I’m desperate, and I don’t like feeling desperate.
I inspect the span of his shoulders. His dark unruly hair. He lifts his head as if sensing my scrutiny, and I catch his gaze. There’s intelligence there—maybe he’s not a Harvard grad, but with a little, okay, a lot of grooming . . . it could work. I suddenly get another uncomfortable squeeze in my tummy.
