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1 Grant Hughes
IT WAS ONE of those hot summer nights, the ones best spent lying on the beach, a cold beer in hand, staring up at the jets flying overhead, the roar of their engines shaking the sky. That was where I should’ve been. It was the smart decision, the obvious choice between being responsible and where I was headed now.
Fuck it. The next ten weeks would have me on my best behavior, and if I needed a night off to get through it, then I’d take it.
A bead of sweat trailed down my neck from beneath the suffocating heat of my helmet as I waited for the traffic light to change. The last of the sun was setting behind me, leaving the sky overhead a bruise of purples and blues, and as the light flipped to green, I gunned the engine and took off toward the dark.
Minutes later, I smoothly guided my Ducati 848 into the parking lot of the unnamed bar—God, that was sketchy as hell—and then cut the engine. There was no hesitation as I climbed off the back of my bike, removed my helmet, and clipped it to the back of the seat. Then I shrugged out of my leather jacket, feeling relief as a gust of warm wind cooled my bare skin and the sweat on my brow. As the music playing inside filtered out through the front door opening and closing, a low purr of anticipation filled my gut. It’d been too long, and I was starving.
As I walked inside, my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room. It looked like any bar you’d find anywhere in the U.S.: cracked vinyl booths along the perimeter, an old jukebox near the fully stocked bar with TVs playing a whole lot of no one’s watching. For a Sunday, it wasn’t too packed, but that didn’t much matter considering I was here for a sure thing. Another quick sweep of the room told me he hadn’t arrived yet, so I made my way to the bar, conscious of the gazes my way, sizing me up.
“I’ll have a Heineken,” I told the bartender, resting my elbow on the bar top and dropping my jacket onto the counter. Sitting down would invite visitors, and my night was set.
When the bartender popped the top and pushed the bottle my way, I took a long swig of the ice-cold beer and glanced up at the one television not playing a sports channel. The local news was on, running a feature on the air show from the weekend, and as I watched the planes showing off maneuvers, I felt a pair of eyes watching me.
I glanced at the clock behind the bar, choosing to ignore whoever it was making my skin heat, and silently cursed out my now late date. The last thing I needed was to be standing here solo, looking like I wanted someone to approach. That wasn’t me; I wasn’t the kind to troll a bar looking for a good time. I was more into having a plan and executing it. No surprises that way. No way for things to blow up in my face.
Keeping that thought in mind, I continued to pay extra-close attention to the F/A-18 Hornet aircraft executing barrel rolls across the television screen. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of giving off a don’t come near me vibe, but a few minutes later someone stepped up alongside me, invading my personal space in a way that indicated he wasn’t merely interested in the empty seat beside me.
Dammit, this was the last thing I needed.
“Hey there, this seat taken?”
The cocksure tone of the man who’d just delivered that very unoriginal line told me he wasn’t worried in the least that I’d turn him down. In fact, before I said anything, I could feel the guy sliding into the seat beside me, his body heat warming the bare skin of my arm.
I ground my back molars together and slowly turned in the direction of my new companion, and as I prepared to give my “thanks, but no thanks” speech, my words got caught somewhere in the back of my throat.
Situated as we were, I found myself looking down into a pair of eyes the color of smooth, expensive whiskey, lined with lashes so thick it looked as though he had taken a kohl liner to them. His hair was buzzcut short and brown, his skin bronzed like some kind of sun god, and when I continued to stand there like some kind of statue, a brilliant white smile crept across a pouty set of lips.
Hell, this guy was one of the most beautiful men I’d ever seen in my life—the problem was, he knew it.
“I’m gonna take that as a no.” Those stunning eyes boldly swept over my body, from my black t-shirt to my jeans, and when they finally landed back on my face, he winked. “Lucky me.”
