Which, frankly, it probably will be. But that’s okay. One last fuck-you to Spada before he pulls my guts out. If I’m dead tomorrow, I might as well enjoy tonight.
“Tequila,” I tell the bartender. “Patrón.”
He gives me the eyebrow. “You got money?”
“Put it on my goddamn tab.”
“You won’t have a tab after Spada gets through with you.”
This pisses me off. Whatever happens between me and Spada is my business, not his. And I’m sick of it. All of it. Of Spada telling me what fights to lose, of Spada having my balls in a vise I can’t get out of. “Patrón,” I say again. “And keep it coming.”
He shrugs. He’ll get his money one way or another, I know. While he’s sorting out my shot, I take a look down the bar.
Oh yeah. She’s here all right. Jessica Spada is perched on a barstool about six down from mine, head tipped forward while she talks to the guy next to her. I don’t recognize him, but it doesn’t matter. Probably some third- or fourth-class Hollywood asshole. They’re a dime a dozen around here. Washed-up actors, singers, screenwriters. Everybody in LA comes here for something. He’ll be on his way soon. I’ll see to that.
The bartender sets the Patrón shot down in front of me, and I pick it up and toss it back. It burns down the back of my throat, burns more in the cut on my lip. It was a good match tonight, hardscrabble and intense. Or at least it would have been a good match if I hadn’t known I was supposed to throw it. And I tried. God knows I tried. Not my fault the asshole had a glass jaw. Spada should have thought about that.
Too late to worry about it now. I head down the bar to Jessica.
She’s fucking gorgeous. Has been since the day I first saw her, five years ago. She was barely legal then; now she’s all grown up. She’s not Jessie anymore; she’s Jessica. Ms. Spada to most people. The guys on either side of her are too close, look like they’re trying to stake claims on her. Well, they’re going to have to forget that shit. This woman is mine.
I slide up next to her, cock-blocking the asshole who’s trying to get her attention. “These guys giving you problems?”
She looks over her shoulder at me and then turns. Gives me a once-over with those blue eyes. A slight shift, and she’s facing me squarely. Fuck if it doesn’t suck the breath out of my lungs when she looks right at me. “Cain McAllister,” she says, and if I’d had any breath left, those last bits would have squeaked out to hear my name on her sultry tongue. The guys surrounding her look at each other and mutter a bit then decide maybe there’re easier pickings somewhere else. Somewhere I’m not. Good. They don’t want to fuck with me. It’s never a good idea.
She’s a beautiful woman, but it’s more than that. More than just those chiseled cheekbones and those big blue eyes and the way she strokes her tongue over her lower lip. More than just those soft, round tits that strain against her sleeveless sheath just enough to make you think they might pop out if you look at them wrong. No, there’s an air about this woman that tells you that if you want to do more than just look, she’ll make you work for it.
I’m up for some work. Shit, compared to what I just went through in the ring, this should be a piece of cake.
Her gaze flicks downward. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was looking at my dick, but the angle’s wrong. Still, if she wants to look, she’s more than welcome. I know she’ll like what she sees. I’ve got more than enough to please a woman, and right now it’s so hard I could put a hole in the bar if I move the wrong way. Shit, it’s all I can do not to take her right here—bend her over the bar, tear that dress off her—
“I’m fine,” she says suddenly. I have to take a second to remind myself what we were talking about. Right. Social Niceties. That was it. I settle in, one hip against the bar. Jessica gives me another look. “You don’t look so hot though.”
“You should see the other guy.”
“I did see the other guy.” Her grin turns sultry. “Hope he didn’t bust anything important of yours.”
I laugh and deliberately cup my crotch. “Everything’s still there. Lucky for you.”
Her eyebrows go up. “Lucky for me? What exactly do you think’s going to be happening here, sir?”
I like the way she calls me “sir.” I also like that she knows who I am. That she saw the fight. Not so great that she saw me win it when I wasn’t supposed to, but that’s between me and her father, not between me and her. What’s between me and her is going to be hot, sweaty, filthy, and rough.