I could have taken a chance on any number of boys in college, many of whom were edgy, artistic, a little complicated or moody. Instead, I chose Jared—someone rational and boring, who I thought I could always understand and predict.
And where had that gotten me?
Well, apparently it's gotten me here, so fuck it. I may as well see this through.
Suddenly, I noticed a man sitting at the bar. My heart fluttered in my chest like a deck of cards being shuffled. Other than his vest, he seemed like he was a completely different species from the other bikers here. Instead of sporting bulging and veiny muscles, he was thin and rangy, with medium-length black hair that was clean and shiny. The olive skin on his exposed arms was largely devoid of tattoos or scars, and his face was clean-shaven. A boyish, dimpled grin played at the corners of his lips as he watched me, his clear blue eyes locked on mine. The longing I saw there was so deep it was almost haunting, and the air between us seemed to hum and quiver with magnetism. The heinous noise of heavy metal playing on the jukebox receded, replaced with the seashell sound of my own blood rushing in my ears.
Never in my life had I been so utterly certain that I could reach out and possess someone. In that moment, I knew with every cell in my body that this man was mine for the taking, and the thrilling knowledge of that power was almost dizzying. I knew with equal surety that I would give myself to him, utterly and without hesitation, if only he would ask.
Next to him, an older man in glasses whispered something to him. He answered, but he was still staring at me, smiling gently, as though wordlessly daring me to make the first move. Instinctively, I knew that boldness was the price I had to pay to demonstrate that I belonged here. I wasn't some helpless mouse who'd carelessly wandered into a snake pit. I was in control.
I walked over to the bar, forcing a rolling swagger into my hips, my eyes never leaving his. The bespectacled man nodded to himself as though he could read our thoughts, and smoothly slid off his bar stool, retreating to a seat in the corner.
I leaned close to the man at the bar, and my eyes darted to the small patch clinging to the front of his vest. It said “Nic,” and below that, “Sgt. at Arms.” I felt a strange thrill creep up my spine, realizing how little I actually knew about biker gangs and the world he came from. Sergeant at Arms? What does that mean? Some arcane rank or title? Is he one of their leaders?
And if so, how tough does that make him, in a room full of guys who look like this?
The silence between us seemed to stretch out indefinitely, and I felt like if I didn't say something soon, I'd be lost in his eyes forever. I knew that my cleavage—carefully arranged before I'd left my apartment so it was guaranteed to be eye-catching—was tempting his gaze, and I felt deliciously vindicated in my choice of outfit tonight. I took a deep breath, and said the most seductive, hard-boiled thing I could think of.
“You can go ahead and stare if you want to. But first, how about buying me a drink?”
Ugh, really? Wow. Smooth, Lauren. Great line. Not cheesy at all. By the way, Lana Turner called, and she wants her everything back.
But the grin on Nic's lips widened, and he nodded slightly, as though acknowledging how brave I was to make the first move. “Sure thing. What's your poison, darlin'?”
I almost ordered my standard drink—a dirty martini with extra olives—and then remembered the colorful stories I'd heard about how the bartenders here behaved whenever would-be patrons ordered the “wrong drinks.” Based on the way Nic was looking at me, I was 99% certain that he wouldn't let them throw me out for such a minor transgression, but one of my mother's favorite old sayings floated to the surface of my mind—“Remember, 99% is not 100%.”
“I'll have whatever you're having.”
He chuckled, and in that moment, I was certain that the rumors I'd heard were true. “Fair enough.” He raised a hand, gesturing to the man behind the bar. “Growler, shot of whiskey for the lady.”
The monster called “Growler,” his battered and misshapen face looking like something from a horror movie, smacked a greasy-looking shot glass down on the bar in front of me and produced an unmarked bottle of caramel-colored liquor, sloshing it in. He filled Nic's glass, too, and we sat with the shots in our hands, continuing to gaze into each other's eyes.
“So,” Nic said, and some horrible part of my brain was certain he'd follow it up with “Buttons!” and ruin the whole thing. Instead, he asked, “What's your name, and what are we drinking to?”
“Lauren,” I answered, clinking my glass against his.
“Well hello, Lauren,” he said, his glass hovering just below his lips. God, I wanted to be kissed by those lips. “But you didn't answer my second question.”
I favored him with what I hoped was my most alluring, come-hither smile. “Yes, I did,” I replied coolly.
With that, I drained my glass in one quick swallow, keeping my eyes on his. I tried to ignore the terrible burn of the liquor as it plunged down my throat and scorched my stomach. I didn't know what kind of bottom-shelf rotgut that was, but it tasted like a bandage soaked in nail polish and gasoline. I resisted the urge to cough, and instead flipped my shot glass over and slammed it onto the bar victoriously.
Nic raised his eyebrows, obviously impressed. “Hey, fucking impressive. Most girls would need a chaser to keep from throwing that stuff right back up again.”
A chaser. Right. That would have been a good idea.
“Well, I'm not most girls,” I answered, crossing my legs. His eyes flickered briefly, taking them in before returning reluctantly to my face.
“I said you could stare, if you wanted to,” I reminded him teasingly.
“Oh, I plan to do a lot more than stare, sweet thing,” he replied smoothly.
I felt something in the pit of my stomach tremble. Whatever your plan is, I thought, I'll do it. You don't even need to ask me. All you have to do is take me.
“But first,” he continued, signaling Growler for another shot, “settle a bet, if you would.”
I frowned, taken aback by this request. “A bet between who and who?”
“Between me and myself,” he answered with a cocky smile, his white and even teeth gleaming. “Are you an actress or something?”
“Well, actually...” I stopped, the words curling back into my throat. Did I really want to make an issue of this, and potentially ruin this moment?
Nic raised his eyebrows again encouragingly. “What?”
Yes, my mind answered decisively. I'd walked through the door of this place, I'd ignored the wild and dangerous beast-men all around me, I'd walked right up to this biker I'd never met before in my life, and I'd flat-out challenged him to undress me with his eyes and wordlessly dared him to do far more than that with his hands. My entire approach had been based on a self-assurance and fearlessness I hadn't even felt, and it had obviously enticed him.
So why act like some submissive shrinking violet now?
I tossed my hair back casually, and met his eyes again with my own. “Actually,” I said more clearly, “I'm an 'actor,' not an 'actress.'”
Nic's eyes narrowed for a moment and then widened suddenly in shock, darting down to my crotch. I instantly realized my mistake and blushed, a nervous laugh escaping my lips.
“No, no, not like that! I mean, I'm not...I'm a woman, okay? I'm a totally real, natural-born woman. That's...that's not what I meant at all!”
He laughed with obvious relief. “Fuck. For a moment there you scared me. Okay, then, so what do you mean?”
“Well, it's just that women who act don't really like to be called 'actresses,' you know? I mean, we're actors, just like men who do it. The whole 'actress' thing is kind of old and silly, and it's, um, kind of demeaning in a modern context.”
In a modern context, Lauren? What, are you in a biker bar, or a fucking academic symposium? Why are you lecturing him about this, splitting hairs and acting like he cares about feminist rhetoric?
But Nic nodded thoughtfully, seeming to give my words some thought. “Huh. Yeah. I guess I hadn't thought of it like that, but it makes sense. I mean, I can see how that'd be insulting. Sorry about that.”
I felt oddly certain that he was sorry, and that it was something he'd truly remember to never say again, even in jest. He was so unlike Jared in every way. He seemed considerate and attentive despite his toughness.
My desire for him surged beyond what I'd ever felt possible. My hunger for his touch seemed infinite, bottomless, an abyss into which I would happily fall forever.
I leaned in again, closer than before, my breasts resting gently against his muscled forearm. “So, a few minutes ago—before our brief foray into gender politics—you mentioned that you had a plan for me. One that went beyond staring. Care to share a few more details?”
Nic pulled his arm out from under my breasts, and for a horrible moment, I thought he was withdrawing from me. That he was about to tell me that it was all some kind of joke, a laugh at the expense of the dumb girl who wandered into the wrong bar looking for attention. All the bikers would share a hearty guffaw, and I'd be forced to run out, red-faced.