AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Mental note, I need to ask D if there is any new scoop on her.
I wait for him to answer my question, but he never does. He turns to the side and calls out to the other guy, "Dean?"
"Boss?" Dean answers immediately.
"Give Wes here what he wants on the house, but that's it."
Translation: don't answer his questions. Wait, how does he know my name?
"Hey!" I call after the owner, but he ignores me and disappears into the back corridor.
Dean eventually makes his way over to my end, and I order a beer, not bothering to ask for King.
Guess I'll be a regular here from now on.
My hermit days at the townhome are over. Too bad.
I keepmy eyes open on campus. Every time I see a dark-blonde head with long hair, my stomach vaults, then the girl turns, and the fluttery feeling turns into a clenched,I got sucker punched in the stomachsensation.
This is fucking ridiculous, but I can't help that my curiosity is growing with every waking moment I'm in the dark about her.
I spend the next few nights at The Grizz. I head there directly from practice, and Kai is starting to give me a weird look. He's probably not wrong with whatever he's thinking. I'm beginning to feel like a stalker, and for the first time in years, I almost wish I could ask Lilly, with herskills,for help. Almost.
On Tuesday, I took over a high top table in the back of the bar. It had great visibility of the entire room and gave me privacy. After getting approached by several girls the first evening, I decided on a low(er) profile. I started keeping my hood up, which made me feel even more like a creeper. But without my blond man bunon display, girls seemed to not be as interested. Glowering at every chick like a psycho may have helped as well. No one glances in my direction by Wednesday.
I've already been here my usual two hours, and I'm about to head out when the energy in the room changes. My eyes find her immediately, and my pulse speeds up as if I sprinted a mile. It's past ten, but The Grizz doesn't close until two. It seems she's covering the closing shift, or someone else had to leave.
Jesus Christ, why do I put so much thought into this?
King is wearing a similar top to the one she wore last week, but instead of shorts, her toned legs are covered by black skinny jeans, the look completed with black Doc Martens. My cock twitches in my jeans, and I shift in my seat. It appears he forgot the near-death experience we had meeting her the first—and second—time.
Her spine is stiff.
Grizz—Tattoo Guy's name, as I found out—probably called her the minute he left the front room on Sunday. It's so not weird to name a place after yourself in third person—it totally is.
She doesn't look around and, instead, heads straight to work. She greets some of the customers who immediately approach her—mostly males—and gets busy. When one of them leans over the counter to hug her, my hand clenches around my beer.
What the hell?I have never been the jealous type. I don't know her. Plus, she threatened me just a few days ago.
I watch her from my spot in the corner, knowing that if I approach her, it would end in me most likely getting banned from the bar. But witnessing her smile at one preppy college douche after another, after they basically eye-fuck her, is grating on my nerves. I'll need more beer if I stick around.
After about thirty minutes, I conclude she definitely knows what she's doing. She mixes the drinks without ever looking at a recipe book. And none of them look the same, yet the customers all look like she's handed them liquid gold—or flashed them her perky tits.
I wouldn't mind that either.
At one in the morning, I call it a night. I have an early practice and have fulfilled my need to spy. Every time she laughed at something the other bartender said or smiled at a customer, my chest straightened. Her entire face lit up, and I want that reaction directed at me.
Why? No fucking clue. I have other priorities right now, and girls—correction, a girl—was at the bottom of that list. I shake my head at my own idiocy, knowing very well I would be back tomorrow.
The need to uncover the mystery around King is consuming my every waking moment. I even slacked off in practice yesterday, which I haven't done in the last two years. How does she know me? Why does she carry a creepy knife? I peer back over at her—a knife she is currently using to carve an orange into fancy-looking spiral slices. Wait, no, that is a different creepy knife.
Why does this get me even harder?
I not so subtly readjust my groin region and get the side-eye from the chick a table over. I throw her my greasiest smirk and complete the show with a wink. She jerks away so fast she almost falls off her chair, and I fight the urge to high-five myself at the picture I'm displaying: dude lurking in a dark corner all night with his hood up and a hard-on.
Getting up, I walk past the bar without taking my eyes off King. When I'm about to pass her, her gaze flits up, and I hold her stare until I would have to walk backward. Neither of us makes any indication of knowing each other, yet I know with absolute certainty that she's as affected as I am. The increased rise and fall of her chest is a clear indicator.
I'm going to figure you out, King.
