If it was possible to switch my brain off, now would be the time to do it. Instead, I’m calculating the odds of success for this mission, and danger and embarrassment keep coming up as the two most likely outcomes.

What am I doing here? I’ve never even gone to a club without my friends, but somehow I decided I’d be okay marching into Wheels, the biker bar in town, all by myself.

A biker bar. Everything inside me is screaming “turn back now!” Well, not everything. Certain parts of me — under this skimpy dress — are urging me to go inside.

I know I probably won’t find him here — the man I saw at José Domingo’s — but I might. It’s thoughts of him that help me put one high-heeled boot in front of the other and approach the door.

The massive mystery man has been invading my dreams for the past two weeks. I only caught a quick glimpse of him that day; I didn’t even talk to him. Yet every night, while I sleep, we’ve been doing deliciously unspeakable things to each other.

When he wraps his tattooed arms around me, I all but disappear against his brawny body. Some nights he’s gentle, but mostly he’s rough… really rough.

I shake off the fantasy when I reach the door just after a man in dark jeans, a black t-shirt, and a leather vest adorned with patches. Instead of going inside, or letting me in, he puts his back to the door, blocking my way. “Hi there,” he says, managing to make the greeting sound like a sexual invitation as he eyes me from toe to chest, and back.

This is a bad idea, my logical brain warns again, as it tries to tug my arm and pull me away. Instead, somehow, I stand still for his scrutiny — or, more accurately, his ogling — and wait for him to pull his eyes back up past my chest and finally look at my face.

“Hey, little lady,” he says. He has tattoos and a rough exterior like my fantasy man, but somehow this guy doesn’t do anything for me. More reason, maybe, that I shouldn’t be here. “Are you lost?” he asks.

Reflexively, I look behind me as if I’m verifying my location. Last chance to run! You don’t belong here! my analytic and protective self screams. Something about the guy’s question pokes at my stubborn side, though.

“No, I’m not lost,” I say, with a bit of sass in my tone. “Is there a cover charge?”

He raises an eyebrow and smirks as his eyes once again roam downward. “Not for you, hot stuff. I do need to see your ID, though.”

At a biker bar? I wasn’t expecting a doorman, but who knows. I fish my driver’s license out of my bag and wait while he checks my date of birth.

“Have fun,” the bouncer says as he returns my ID. Again, he makes his words sound smutty, and my mind goes back to all the fun I’ve been having with my fantasy man in my dreams.

I know fantasies aren’t meant to be reality. I date professional types — I want a man I can build a future with. The suburban house with the picket fence, the 2.3 kids, and all that. But tonight is just a one-time thing, a simple mission to find a date for Megan’s party. Someone who won’t pass judgement about my best friend and her unconventional relationship with two men, the NFL’s Beast Brothers.

As a bonus, I fully expect that spending time with a brawny biker dude will cure me of my unseemly fantasies. Fantasy is not reality, and facing reality should help clear up my confusing desires.

Tucking my license back into my purse, I nod at the bouncer, whose gaze is still falling somewhere south of my neck, and push through the door.

The bar is dark and crowded, which is both scary and comforting at the same time. Maybe I can slip in, find a suitable date, and slip back out without drawing too much attention.

As my eyes adjust, I'm met with several sets of curious stares. No one looks hostile, but they don’t exactly look friendly either. There’s denim and leather as far as the eye can see.

I’m wearing a racy little tank dress that Zoe gave me last year. I’ve never worn it before, because It’s cut way lower in front and way shorter on the bottom than my usual style. I may be overdressed.

Planning for this mission, I’d imagined myself taking a seat at the bar, but the stools are all occupied. Most of the rest of the crowd is clustered around four pool tables at the far end of the space. At least half the people in the bar seem to be coupled up, in varying degrees of involvement with one another.

Still fighting the urge to leave, I head for one of the few empty tables, a small one in a corner of the room. This won’t be the most strategic spot to meet someone, but I’m not ready to mingle yet. Maybe after a drink or two.

Moments after I sit down, a cocktail waitress stops by, and I’m relieved when she doesn’t look at me like I’m a nun at a strip bar.

“What can I bring you?” she asks as she balances a tray full of empty beer bottles.

My go-to drink is wine, but this doesn’t seem like the place for it. “Whiskey and water,” I say, smiling politely at her before she hurries off without another word. I pull out my phone for something to do while I surreptitiously scan the bar.

I see people around my age and older, all the way up to guys in their fifties and sixties. A lot of the crowd skews a decade or two older than me, but I think there are at least a few date possibilities. It’s hard to tell from this vantage point.

I’m studying the intricate ink design on the tricep of a man a few tables away when the waitress reappears, her tray now laden with full bottles and my short whiskey glass.

When she sets my drink in front of me, I pull a few bills from my wallet, but she waves them off. “You have an admirer,” she says, jerking her head in the direction of the bar.

I follow her gesture to a broad biker leaning against the counter, boldly staring at me. One half of his mouth is curved into a grin.

I look to the waitress for some endorsement of the man, but she’s already hustling off again. When I look back toward him, the man in question is striding toward me, eyes locked on mine.

He’s attractive. Not like my fantasy man, but he fills out his black jeans and t-shirt nicely. He might work as a one-night date. Unlike most of the men here, he’s not wearing a leather vest with patches on it, which is apparently some sort of standard biker gear.

When he reaches me, he casually takes a swig from the beer he carries before speaking. The sharp scent of his cologne tickles my nose.

“Hey, chicky,” he says in a lazy drawl that seems put on for show.

“Hi,” I say. “Thank you for the drink.” I raise the glass to him before I take a sip. The liquid burns as it slides down my throat.

“You're welcome. Mind if I join you?”

“I guess that'd be okay,” I say. The man flips a chair around so that its back is against the table and then he straddles it, as if he's too big to sit on furniture in the normal way. His knee nudges mine and I wait for the tingly feeling I got when I first saw my mystery man outside my favorite Mexican restaurant, but instead a giggle bubbles up, which I manage to suppress.

“I'm Tara,” I say, when he doesn't offer his name.

“Buddy,” he says, giving me a nod and a leer.

His eyes are like steel and his dirty blonde hair is almost shoulder-length. He's a good-looking man but I'm not feeling it. Maybe it's just nerves, or maybe this was a bad idea.

“Do you hang out here often?” I ask. He doesn't seem like he's much of a conversationalist and I feel the burden of needing to be the one to take the lead.

“Yeah,” he says.

“It's my first time,” I say.

“So you're a virgin,” Buddy says, with a gritty chuckle.

Instead of finding him amusing, something in his tone sends up a warning flag, but again I assume it may just be my nerves. “I guess you could say I'm a biker bar virgin.” I give him a tentative smile.

He takes another swig of beer and then leans across the table, so close that I can smell the alcohol on his breath, even over the cloud of his cologne. “I can pop your cherry,” he says, his eyes narrowed in a way that's much more sinister than sexy.

I scoot my chair back an inch and pick up my drink, ready to use it as a weapon if he so much as touches me. A quick glance around shows me that no one’s paying any attention. We’re in the shadows back here; even though we’re surrounded by people, I might as well be alone.

“Thanks, but no.” I try to keep my voice polite and matter-of-fact, hoping Buddy will get the idea and leave me alone without any further hassle.

He doesn’t. “Now, chicky, don’t be that way.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re on our turf, you play by our rules.”

Fear skitters up my spine. Okay, this was a really bad idea. What the hell was I thinking? It’s all my fantasy man’s fault, invading my dreams so thoroughly that I wanted to meet him.

I try to shove my chair back from the table, but after only a couple of inches it meets a solid barrier. Turning my head, I see there’s another man standing behind me. “Whatta we got here, Buddy?” he says, in a voice that sounds like he’s had a few too many.

“Biker bar virgin, Mikey.” Buddy bares his teeth in a vicious grin. “Wants to take a walk on the wild side.”

“No.” It comes out too sharply. Don’t show fear. “No, I don’t.” I say it calmly the second time, but it’s too late.

Buddy isn’t just taunting me; he’s made up his mind. I can see it in the set of his jaw, the smug curl of his lip. He figures he’s in charge, and he’s going to teach me a lesson. One that’s not going to end well for either of us.

The only consolation — and it’s minuscule — is knowing that my threat-assessment skills were right on target. I’ve got danger in spades, and I’ll probably get a good dose of embarrassment out of this too. Hell, I’ll welcome embarrassment if I can just get out of here safely.

My hand tightens around the glass as I wait for Buddy to make a move. I’m not sure why he’s holding back. Maybe he’s waiting for more of his biker pals to show up — and the implications of that send ice down my spine.

I should make a run for it. If I can get out the door and into my car before they reach me, I’ll be okay. There’s mace in my bag, if I can get my hands on it, and maybe the bouncer will help, though I can’t count on that.

My body tenses in readiness — and so does Buddy’s. Damn. I’m telegraphing everything with my body language.

Panic tips me over the edge before he can seize the advantage. In one frantic move, I dash my drink into Buddy’s face and shove the table forward, leaping up and sprinting past it, headed for the door. There’s a ruckus behind me, but I don’t dare look back.

Just as I fling the bar’s front door open, an arm wraps around my torso. It jerks me up and back, against a large body that stinks of beer. This must be Buddy’s friend.

My feet dangling above the floor, I stare straight ahead. Not at the door that’s closed itself in my face — because it hasn’t. There’s someone standing there, holding it open with one massive arm, his impossibly blue eyes locked on mine.

It’s my fantasy man.