Damon:A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel(48)

Finally, one of the older women, who was really gorgeous despite being  in her late thirties, came over to me. She was wearing a black leather  vest over a tight white tank top and hip-hugging jeans. She looked like  the sort of women who'd never let a man raise a hand to her. I envied  her.

"What can I do ya for, sweetheart?" she said, her eyes running over me,  lingering on the bruise above my eye and the bag I held clutched tight  to my chest.

"A room? Is this where I can rent a room?" I asked, raising my voice  slightly to be heard. It felt weird to speak loudly; living with Jeremy,  I'd learned to affect a sort of whisper as my default speaking volume.

"Yup, we got rooms," she said, leaning back and reaching for something  under the bar. "Single room is 60 bucks, with tax that's … 72.79. Cash or  charge, hun?" Despite her liberal use of endearments, she sounded like  she didn't trust me, or just generally disliked me off the bat.

"Cash," I said, wishing I'd taken the time to take some of the hundreds  from the duffel bag and put them in my wallet. I'd left my purse in the  car. "Um, hold on, I have to go get my wallet."

"Alright," she said, eyes narrowed as she watched me walk away. I  trotted to my car and quickly unzipped the duffel bag, grabbing my  wallet and slipping three hundreds from a wad of cash into the billfold.

Back in the bar, I had to wait a little longer before the bartender came back. I handed her a hundred.

"Um, I also need some food? If you got … well," I said, stuttering now.  When was the last time I'd ordered for myself at a restaurant? I  couldn't remember.

"We ain't got a big menu, doll. Burgers and wings, pretty much."

"Give me … whatever, I guess, the least healthy thing you have. Bacon cheeseburger? And fries?"

"Alright, that'll come to just bought ninety with the room," she said, taking my cash.

"Keep the change," I said, hoping that a big tip would change the sour  look on her face. She nodded and slipped a key across the bar to me.

"Room 7. It's on the far side back there," she said, gesturing vaguely  to the left. "You wanna go get settled in, your food should be ready  when you get back."

"Thanks," I said, clutching the duffel bag even tighter to me as I left  the bar again. I drove around to the area where she'd directed me,  inching down the row of rooms until I saw 6, and then 7.

Parking and locking the car, I breathed a sigh of relief as I opened the  door and saw that the room wasn't nearly as dingy or gross as I'd  imagined it would be. It was small, and smelled funky, but it looked  comfortable enough for the night.

I scanned the room, looking for the safe. It was tucked above the  closet; following the instructions, I set the combination, automatically  using Jeremy's birthday, which had become my default password for  e-mail and anything else that required one; it had been his idea to use  each other's birthdays. He'd said random numbers like that were good for  protection against hackers. I think he just wanted to know my password  so he could spy on me.

The duffel bag was a snug fit, but it fit nonetheless. As soon as I'd  locked the safe, I felt like a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders.  Now, if shit really hit the fan, I could just ditch it and head home or  whatever. I could always say that the safe had been locked when I got  there. I realized that I was still wearing my maid's uniform; I wondered  if that explained some of the bartender's strange looks.         

     



 

I wanted a shower, but not as much as I wanted to dig into a hot, fresh  burger, so I decided to change and head back to the bar before cleaning  up. I wasn't sure which would be less conspicuous: gym clothes or the  outfit I'd worn to work that day. I decided it didn't matter and changed  into the comfier option, which was a mix of the two. I didn't have  anyone to impress, anyway.

Finally, I felt like I had my shit together. I considered throwing the  maid's uniform away for good. That would probably feel like real  freedom. But, I didn't have an abundance of clothes, and it might come  in handy.

I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror before going back into the  night; my workout leggings hugged my curves, and I could hear Jeremy's  condescending voice in my head. The old, faded, vintage t-shirt I'd worn  to work that day was tight around my breasts, the only part of me that  Jeremy encouraged me to show off.

I looked about as normal as I could, considering the circumstances. The  only thing that stood out was the ugly welt above my forehead, but I  didn't feel like putting on more concealer. And who cared? No one was  going to talk to me, and if they did, I'd shut them down. I didn't want  any trouble, and I didn't plan on making any trouble. I just wanted to  eat and sleep and coast away come morning.

Back at the bar, I drew a little more attention in my tight-fitting  clothes than I had in my maid's uniform. Plus, I was no longer  concealing half my body with a duffel bag. I approached the bar once  more and caught the eye of the bartender who'd helped me earlier; she  nodded and walked back towards the kitchen, grabbing a steaming plate  and delivering it straight to me. It smelled absolutely heavenly.

And it tasted like the best kind of sin.

As I munched my way through the meaty, salty, greasy, savory sandwich, I  let the background noise fade away, focusing entirely on that one  moment. How long had it been since I'd indulged like this? Jeremy always  kept me on a strict diet, disapproving of "indulgences". Of course,  that only applied to me and what I ate; he went to town on whatever he  felt like, whenever he felt like it.

I was pulled back into the real world when the bartender suddenly  slammed a huge drink in front of me. I looked up at her, mouth full,  eyes questioning.

"Rum and coke. From that guy," she said, sounding a little pissed. I  looked where she pointed, then promptly wanted to spit my food out onto  the bar.

Holy fuck, but that guy was hot.

He was looked at me, a sly sort of half-grin on his face, short stubble  defining his strong chin under a nose cut from marble. Even in the dark  bar, I could see his crystal-clear blue eyes, the color of a  strong-burning flame. His dark, slightly curly hair hung around his face  like an anti-halo. He was wearing a leather jacket over a loose white  undershirt that showed just the slightest hint of the magnificent body  underneath. My heart skipped a beat. I didn't think that happened in  real life, but apparently it does.

Automatically, without even thinking about it, I grabbed the drink and  took a sip, immediately recoiling once the alcohol hit my tongue. Jeremy  didn't approve of me drinking; aside from a beer or two at a work event  or party (his work event or party, I'll add), I hadn't drank in the  three years we'd been married. The taste of the rum seemed exceptionally  strong. I coughed slightly, looking back at the dreamboat who'd bought  me the drink. He was chuckling slightly, those eyes still lingering on  me, his hand coming up to cover his smile. Charming. As. Shit.

He just feels bad for you because of that knocker on your forehead, I  told myself. There's no way someone like him could like someone like  you, you cow. Besides, what, are you gonna hop into bed with the first  guy who's nice to you? Slut.

Shut up, Jeremy, said that other voice, that new voice, the voice that I  was starting to like quite a bit. Go for it, Gabriella. Seal the deal.  Make the break complete. When's the last time Jeremy looked at you with  half the interest this guy's showing? You deserve to feel good for once.  Drink up.

I was as torn as I'd ever been in my life. But what the hell. I'd dug my  grave deep enough, in my opinion, and one drink wasn't going to get me  out  –  or dig me any deeper. I smiled back at the handsome stranger,  waved, and took another sip, this time hoping I looked coy and demure  and grateful.

I was rewarded by a nod  –  and then thrown into a panic when the man rose  from his place at the bar and came to my side. I desperately swabbed at  my greasy lips, cursing myself for having ordered the most disgusting  thing on the menu.

I gulped at the drink, needing liquid courage.         

     



 

Needing any courage I could get my hands on.

That "Jeremy" voice inside me was still screaming at me for being  stupid, for being silly, slutty, pathetic, worn-out, ugly, fat …

"What's a pretty gal like you doing in a place like this," the stranger  asked as he approached me, leaning into the seat next to mine. I'm  pretty sure I responded, but I think it was just a strangled, choking  sound.

He was even better looking up close.

I could make out the hint of tattoos crawling up his neck from the deep V  of his shirt, and across the backs of his hands. His leather jacket was  adorned with patches. One larger than the others, said "Black Smoke  MC".

His eyes fell on the bruise above my eye, his brow furrowing, his hand  coming up to brush it gently. His touch was like being electrified.  Perhaps it was the boldness of the motion; we didn't even know each  other's names, but he'd already made contact with me; a very sensitive  part of me, to boot. Perhaps it was the way I was looking at his lips as  he did it, his pouty, gorgeous lips. Perhaps it was the booze, or the  leftover adrenaline from my rather eventful day. Whatever it was, it  sealed my fate, even though I didn't know it at the time.