by Rylee Swann
I squirm in my seat. “Any idea where I can find him? Do I just show up at the stadium or the locker room?”
She snorts. “I’ll go with you if you crash the locker room. I’ll be the one with the GoPro on my head.”
I laugh. I love Mia so much. She’s always good for some giggles. And tea. The girl can brew a good cuppa.
“Wait!” she yells, “I know exactly where you can find him.”
I grab my pencil. “Where?”
“Well, rumor has it that Cole is at this old dive bar just off campus a lot. It’s where most of the football players hang out.”
Great, a jock with a steady drinking habit.
“It’s called The Wild Rose. I’ve been there several times myself. It’s old as hell, but the drinks are cheap, and the eye candy is first rate. Since it’s Friday night, you’ll probably find him there.”
I like eye candy. But I don’t like smelly, grimy dive bars. So not my thing.
Some might call me a snob, but the truth is that places like that remind me too much of home. Too many bad memories I’ve tried to put behind me. I grew up in a small, poor mining town and moved out before I graduated high school. There’s no money from my parents, so getting into college is just a lot of hard work on my part.
“Thanks, Mia. I’ll try not to get sexual diabetes from eying the candy too much.”
She laughs, a high pitch sound that is contagious almost everywhere she goes. “Just don’t lick all the lollipops. Save one for me.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll make sure I save you plenty. See ya later.”
***
Hours later, here I am… just outside one of the dive bars I hate so much, feeling really dumb for what I chose to wear. Trying to be classy, I put on my favorite sheath dress that hugs every curve of my slim body. Over it, an angora sweater I bought at a consignment shop keeps me warm. At least I didn’t do anything fancy with my hair and makeup. Instead, my long brown hair is down in a simple side part, and the only thing on my face is a bit of mascara and a swipe of cherry lip gloss.
I stand out. But I’m not sure it’s in a good way.
“Lost?”
My eyes dart to the bouncer, a big man easily twice my size. I clear my throat. “Not at all. Can’t a girl get a drink?” I ask with my brightest smile.
The guy’s dark eyes travel slowly down my body, seeming to take in every detail. He takes in my sling back stilettos, then travels back up, stopping at the fake diamonds in my ears before meeting my eyes again. “This ain’t the Plaza, darlin’.”
A group of three girls waltz out of the door, boobs and butts bursting from their skimpy clothes. I squirm in my consignment shop designer label and wonder if I should shrug off my sweater to show a little skin. My conservative clothes are another reason my friends think I’m a prude.
Maybe I am.
“Identification.” The word draws my attention back to the bouncer. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, the muscles in his biceps popping with the stance.
“Excuse me?”
He exhales a long breath. “Darlin’, I need to see some form of ID before I can let your sweet little ass walk inside that door.”
I blush, but open my clutch and pull my driver’s license from the slot and hand it over. Above it is my credit card and two twenties in cash. In its own little slot is my lip gloss and a box of breath mints. My ever-present notepad and pencil are the only other items besides the keys to my apartment and car.
The order inside my little purse calms me, especially in this dirty and smelly place.
Things in my life have a place. An order. It drove Rob crazy, how organized I am, and he accused me of using that to avoid letting people in. I sometimes wonder if he was right. I’m not sure. I just know that right now, I’m going to keep my personal life just as organized. I’m not about to get sidetracked by another dead-end relationship. Or risk some raging STD with one of these studs.
“You gonna be okay in there?” the bouncer asks me as he hands my driver’s license back.
What a curious question.
I tuck the license away and grip my clutch tighter. “Hm, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He scoffs, his eyes flicking down my body again. “You’ll know why after about five seconds inside.”
My stomach churns as I try to peek around his bulking presence. “Is it really that bad?”
“You seem like a nice girl. I’m Pete. If things get out of hand, yell my name.”
Frowning, I swallow hard but lift my chin. I’m a damn investigative journalist, and if I can’t walk into a damn bar, I damn well deserve writer’s block for eternity. “Thanks. I’ll be fine, but I appreciate the concern.”
He holds the door open. “Just remember, you’ve been warned.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles as I step inside. Immediately, all heads seem to swivel toward me. Ignoring the stares, I pull my shoulders back and pretend I belong as I march straight toward the bar.
The music is loud, but a chorus of laughter drowns it out. I glance over to see a group of barely dressed co-eds looking and laughing at me. And that’s not paranoia speaking. They are seriously pointing in my direction, sharp giggles floating from their collagen enhanced lips. I straighten my shoulders, and emotionally bubble wrap myself from the mean-spirited hate darts the meanies are tossing at me.
I’m not like them anymore.
I refuse to be like them ever again.
Pulling my attention away from the girls, I scan the bar. There are a lot of older men here too. Biker types. I feel them staring, undressing me with their eyes. They probably think I’m lost too. Little do they know, I spent a lot of time in bars like these back home with my fake ID and loser boyfriend. I know my way around a pool table and can hold my liquor. I just try to make better choices these days.
Except in my wardrobe selection. I clearly suck when it comes to deciding what to wear.
My heel sticks in a gap between the floorboards, and I nearly trip. The girls laugh harder as some greasy guy with Elvis hair grabs my arm to steady me, then gives me a lecherous leer. I yank my arm away before his grimy fingernails ruin my favorite sweater.
“Hey, darlin’. Don’t be like that.”
His breath hits me like a train. Stifling the urge to gag, I give him a tight smile and edge around his sweaty body. I’ll need to Clorox myself at the end of the night.
When I finally make it to the bar, I practically throw myself onto a stool and order a whiskey sour. The bartender is efficient, and my drink is in my hands less than a minute later. I push one of my twenties over the worn wood before the flannel shirted man next to me can offer to buy.
Taking a long sip, I look around, studying faces while pointedly ignoring the flannel guy as he leans too close.
Shit.
From this vantage point, I can’t see the other side of the bar, so I’ll have to leave the relative safety of my cracked vinyl stool to scope out the place.
Luck isn’t something I count on, and I assume I’ll have to hang out at The Wild Rose for a few nights before I bump into Cole James. But as I walk to the farthest side of the bar… there he is. Back against the wood, shot glass in hand, he looks three sheets to the wind already.
And sexy as hell.
CHAPTER TWO
Cole
It always starts with a heated look from across the room. Sometimes, they bat their lashes over flushing cheeks. Sometimes, they wink. But all those looks say the same thing. I want you. I don’t know if they want me because I’m the quarterback on a team that’s finally having a winning streak, or if it’s because of how I look. Maybe it’s my reputation for not giving a damn and they want to be the one who tames me. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I still get laid at the end of the night.
I throw back another shot, even though I shouldn’t. Hard liquor doesn’t agree with me, makes me mean. I have a temper on a good day and liquor is just gas on that fire.
I notice her noticing me. She’s a pretty girl
. Blonde hair, tiny waist, tinier skirt. She’s surrounded by her friends, and I know she’s waiting for me to come to her. I never do that though. I don’t chase girls. I don’t have to. Ordering another shot, I ignore her. If she doesn’t gather the courage, someone else will.
“Cole, don’t make me cut you off, man,” the bartender says, giving me this shitty, apologetic smile.
“Do it or don’t,” I grouse back, not in the mood for that garbage. Anger bubbles and prickles at my skin. I want to punch him in his smarmy face, but I take a breath, down a shot, and tap the glass, giving him a look he can’t argue with.
He just shakes his head and fills it back up. Maybe he can tell — or sense it somehow — that I’m about to come unglued.
Feeling that girl staring soothes my anger a little. I like when girls look at me. It makes me feel powerful in a world in which I have very little control. I turn around and rest my elbows on the bar but don’t look at her right away. I want her to wriggle a little, like a worm on a hook, before I reel her in. Brushing my shaggy, dark hair out of my eyes, I finally glance at her, staring right back.
I like the way she bites her pink bottom lip when our eyes meet, and I like her low-cut top even better. She has nice tits. Small, but perky. I imagine cupping them in my hands, squeezing them. Already, I can feel myself getting hard. The liquor sings in my blood, and I picture tearing her tank top off while pulling her panties down with my teeth.
For a moment, I wonder if she can see the fire in my eyes. The desire for her. I wonder how it makes her feel. I never go past this dance. I go home with them, or we fuck in a hotel until we’re both exhausted, then I’m gone. They know it. They want to dance anyway.
I can’t imagine ever getting tired of this or wanting to settle down. The idea of being chained to one woman, controlled, told what to do, nagged, makes me immediately furious, and I look away. I don’t want to scare her off with the dark look that is probably spreading over my face.
There’s a good song on. Classic rock. I imagine fucking the pretty girl across the bar to the driving beat. But shit… she’s just another girl. Yeah, I’m a son of a bitch for just wanting her for sex, but that’s all she wants too. A quick fuck and bragging rights to say she snagged the QB for the night. She gives me another sly smile, and I grow impatient. I know what she wants. What all girls want. They want me to chase them. Play their game. I refuse.
My balls tighten as I feel someone approach me from my left, and it’s like all the energy in the world has shifted with her approach. The hair on my arms stand up. What the fuck? I must be drunker than I thought.
As if I have no control over my body any longer, I turn to the girl by my side. Wow. Just fucking wow. I don’t know her, but she seems so… familiar. She smiles up at me, and it’s like a punch in the gut.
She isn’t my usual type, which doesn’t mean she isn’t pretty. She has these big, soft brown eyes and long, dark hair that spills over a narrow shoulder. The girl looks too young to be in a bar. She seems shy, sweet. Too good to be here. Too good for me.
Why is she here?
She’s wearing this fuzzy sweater with pearl buttons. A grandma sweater. A good girl who probably got that old thing from her granny for Christmas. Maybe she’s at the bar on a dare or is trying to go slumming. For some reason, she snags my curiosity, even though I know a guy like me doesn’t stand a chance with a nice girl like her.
Knowing that fact pisses me off.
“My nana has that sweater,” I tell her, not even trying to repress a chuckle. I don’t know why, but I want to get a rise out of her. I want to see if there is any fire in those big chocolate eyes.
She blushes. It’s a pretty look on her. “S-sorry?” she stammers, tugging the sweater closed, her brow furrowing.
I can tell she’s nervous, maybe even a little insulted, but she keeps stealing glances at me through half-lowered lashes. She isn’t insulted enough to tell me to fuck off. Instead, she’s giving me the look, even if she doesn’t realize what she’s doing. When our eyes finally meet, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, I can fuck her in my car in the parking lot. Within the hour, I can have this good girl’s legs wrapped around my waist while she begs me to make her come.
And damn… I want to make her come. I want that more than anything in the universe. I might not be good for much, but I’m good for that.
But I won’t. I’m not going to fuck this good girl. If I do, I might never be able to wash her scent off me. I don’t know why I know that, but I do. She’ll change everything, and I’m not up for that.
Instead, I’m going with Plan A. I’m going to fuck that hot blonde who’s still staring at me, safe in her little group of friends who aren’t half as pretty as her. She’s safe. She’ll walk away as easily as I will.
Pretty sweater girl? No… I don’t want to think about watching her walk away from me. It pisses me off just thinking about it. Which in turn pisses me off that I’m thinking about it.
I down another drink, feeling the alcohol burn down my system. Tequila and I have a history. Something about this particular booze really sets me off. With all this unspent anger and arousal, I feel alive. More alive than I usually feel. I need this.
“Take it off,” I tell the girl in the fuzzy sweater. Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me? I blurt it out before I realize what I’m saying. I just want to see her neck and shoulders. I bet they’re beautiful like the rest of her.
She startles, looking up at me, big brown eyes wide. “W-what?” she says, sputtering.
“I said…” I pause to lick my lips. “Take it off. You’d be a lot cuter without it on.”
Her face turns crimson, and I can tell I pissed her off. Good. No, it’s not good because I’m fucking flirting with her. My intentions were to make her mad, make her leave, but now I’m turned toward her, watching her cheeks turn pink and the fire burn in her eyes.
She isn’t just pretty. She’s beautiful in a natural kind of way. But it’s more than that. it’s the way she holds herself. The intelligence behind her eyes. The way she’s looking at me. Mad, yes. Hurt, yes. But there’s something else there too. Desire. Desire she’s fighting as hard as I am.
As if I’m a puppet and my movements are at the will of someone else, my hand reaches up and cups her cheek, my thumb moving over her full lower lip. She stops breathing. So do I. I’m pulled toward her. Hell, not just to kiss her, I want to pull her to my chest and tell her how sorry I am for being rude, for hurting her feelings.
What the fucking fuck is wrong with me?
“This asshole bothering you?” The spell is broken when some meathead comes to her side. Her boyfriend? She fucking has a boyfriend?
My hand drops away, and fuzzy sweater girl takes in a deep breath, her eyes still on mine.
“Hey, I asked if this asshole is bothering you?” meathead asks again.
My eyes leave her and lock onto him. Adrenaline pumps into me, and I smile. I came to the bar to get laid, but this is just as good. He starts to speak again, but before he can open his stupid mouth fully, my fist flies towards his jaw.
There’s nothing like that satisfying crack or the way his head snaps back. The adrenaline is really flowing now. He becomes the face of my father and every shithead who picked on me in school before I shot up like a weed and bulked up.
The guy stumbles towards me, swinging like a drunk toddler. It isn’t hard to dance out of the way of his blind punch. I sink a fist into his ribs and am rewarded with a loud, wet crunch. But I’m far from done.
This is how it always goes. I’ll get into a fight and can’t stop until someone makes me stop. I’m an out of control freight train going off the rails and destroying everything in my path. Including myself. I know it’s a bad idea to do all those shots, but it’s either anger or that blissful numb feeling that drinking gives me.
I wait for hero dude to get up and look back at the girl in the soft sweater. Her eyes are wide, though she doesn’t look scared. Just surprised. Once more,
the blonde is a distant memory. I don’t want her anymore. I don’t even think about her. I can’t get sweater girl’s face out of my head.
Just as I’m ready to talk to her, hands are under my arms and another pair on my bicep. Security is hauling me out, shouting at me. The other guy is still on the floor. I can fight them, but I don’t. I let the bouncers toss me out more roughly than they need to. I’ve already gotten shit from the coach about fighting. I know that if I keep going, I’ll go to jail and likely be benched for at least several games. Some reasonable part of me knows that I can’t do that. Not again.
Regardless, I want to scream. I want to go back in there and make that guy’s face hamburger. I want to tear his head off. I want...
“Hey,” comes a soft, female voice from behind me, the gentle word somehow penetrating the roaring of my own blood in my ears.
I turn, and it’s her. The pretty, good girl with the fuzzy sweater. This takes me by surprise. Maybe I read her wrong. Last I heard, good girls like her don’t leave their bleeding boyfriends on the floor of a bar.
CHAPTER THREE
Becca
The first thing I noticed about Cole is the tattoos on his thick, muscled arms, and the black, sharp tribal designs curling up his forearms and biceps. There are tats on his knuckles too, symbols from playing cards. He has a rough look about him and a dark fire in his eyes that’s hiding some kind of pain I bet he’s never shared with anyone. He has a square jaw dusted with stubble and bright blue eyes. Those eyes of his are ringed in dark shadow and are stormy, like lightning in a bottle.
His hair is a little long, almost brushing his broad shoulders. The plain, white t-shirt stretching across his magnificent body leaves little to the imagination as it clings to his powerful chest and washboard stomach. I wonder, surprised at myself, if he has tattoos anywhere else. Fascinated, I watch his throat work as he swallows the shot of liquor. He downs it like it’s water.
I know I’m staring, but it’s hard to take my eyes off him. He isn’t my type, though if pressed, I’m not exactly sure what my type is. I just know that Cole isn’t it. Not that it matters. The sexy quarterback is off limits. He’s only the subject of my story, and if I want to remain objective, that’s how he has to stay.
