Running Game(127)

Something about the place looked appealing despite its shoddy state. Maybe it was just that it was so different from anywhere I’d been since hitting it big. These days my life was full of big city bars and clubs, and the occasional lavish hotel room after-party.

But that was only really part of it.

It just looked like how I felt inside.

Filthy.

Broken-down.

Borderline functional.

Committed to the cause, I pulled up beside a battered collection of old trucks and crumpled, ancient sedans.

Hopping out of the jeep, I became aware of how clean and pristine the rental looked, especially beside these dirty, sputtering rust-buckets…

And, glancing down at myself, I realized that I was definitely going to stick out like a sore fucking thumb in these parts. I hadn’t even bothered to change from my stage clothes.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside, walking into redneck central dressed like a fucking rockstar.

Which, let’s be honest.

I totally fucking was.

With a glance, I surmised the atmosphere. Not too many people here, maybe a dozen at most, but the ones that were painted a pretty vivid picture for me.

A group of gnarled old bikers.

Couple of sloppy rednecks.

Some older women holed up in the corner.

Yeah…definitely not my speed.

I hesitated at the door, but then my eyes fell on the bartender. She was in the middle of taking a drink order at one of the bar tops and was about as out of place as an angel in hell.

She wasn’t just pretty. She looked fucking beautiful... Her luscious hair barely graced her shoulders. Long, bare legs stretched for miles from her miniskirt down to her cute and almost criminally disheveled pair of red Converse sneakers. Her low-cut blouse hinted at moderately sized breasts – not too big, but not small.

Perfect.

My feet moved of their own volition, stepping closer towards the counter. The patrons were already looking at me with their stupid, judgmental eyes, but I didn’t give a shit.

They could get fucked.

Half of them looked like they could use it.

As I comfortably took my seat, the bartender glanced over her shoulder at me – flashing me a look at her sharp and beautiful eyes.

My cock twitched in my shredded jeans.

That’s when I knew.

I was fucking her tonight.





4





Angel





Tending bar as an eighteen-year-old girl – particularly one with a pretty face – had taught me a valuable skill: the art of keeping an eye on the entire room at once.

The newest arrival proved to be a bit of a distraction. He was dressed in a tight shirt that clung to a deliciously muscular frame. A brief slick of red ran through his hair, and he finished off the look with a pair of fashionably torn black jeans. He’d been staring ever since he walked in. I could feel his burning gaze bore into me from behind as he hungrily treated himself to some eye candy.

Without a word between us, I knew I could flirt a big tip out of him. Maybe it would be enough to get some decent food for the next few days. It was time to play hard to get.

“What can I get you?” I offhandedly asked him after plugging in the previous order.

“What do you want to get me?” he replied.

I turned around to try and catch the jackass undressing me with his eyes, but his gaze was surprisingly fixated on the chalkboard drink specials instead.

“I’ll take a draft,” he said before I could respond to his little comment.

“Which draft?”

He chuckled arrogantly to me, flashing a condescending but admittedly sexy smile.

“Your favorite draft.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t drink.”

A genuine look of surprise flickered across the man’s face. “You work behind the bar...”

“All the more reason not to drink. Let’s try this one again: which draft do you want?”

He nodded thoughtfully, ignoring the tone of my voice. After a moment, he opened his mouth to answer, his tongue absent-mindedly sliding across his canine.

“I’ll take Abita. Tall.”

I took a second to shake that sexy tongue flick out of my head.

“Amber or Lager?”

“Lager.”

“You’re not from around here,” I observed.

“Never been here,” he answered, his lip curling up into a sly smile again. “Name’s Trent. Trent Masters.”

Trent Masters. Didn’t hurt to know exactly who was pissing me off at any given moment. His name sounded a little familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

I couldn’t place a lot of things these days.

But he didn’t need to know that.

“Coming right up,” I said, intentionally brushing my fingertips against his before turning toward the tap. It sent a small bristle through me, which I promptly tried to ignore.