Eve
This is exactly why I hate men. They breeze in all blah, blah, blah, throwing out compliments like hot chick, all brooding glare and crazy hot body.
So what’s a girl to do? She falls all over herself in an effort to get close. Close enough to touch him, to feel the heat of his body against hers, the weight of him on top of her. She says and does all the right things, hoping that he’ll just hold her while she sleeps, whisper that he loves her, and promise never to leave. And she’s so buzzed off all he’s offering that she actually believes for once—for once in a fucking lifetime of promises—this one’ll keep his word.
What a crock of shit!
I slide through the crowd and redirect my path from the bar to the dance floor, determined to regain my good mood. The DJ spins some sick remix of Wiz Khalifa’s “Work Hard, Play Hard.” It hits hard and the bass causes the air in the room to vibrate, exactly what I need. I move to the music, faking it at first until I really start to feel it. Bodies bump and glide against mine until I’m hypersensitive to every touch and my blood drums through my veins as if to the beat. The friction of bodies against my skin bathes my arms in goose bumps and unleashes a sensual heat throughout my torso. I’d blame it on the alcohol, but I know better.
My libido has been hibernating since Vince, but it’s wide freakin’ awake now thanks to the pushy and condescending UFL boss-dude. My mind conjures up his image against my will: the way his huge body towers over mine while he’s telling me what I can and can’t do. A shiver of excitement races up my spine for no good reason at all. And so it begins . . .
Fucking hell! It’s hot in here. Having totally lost my mojo on the dance floor, I push through dancing bodies to the bar. Snagging an empty barstool, I grab a cocktail napkin and dab the sweat from my chest and neck.
“What do you need?” The bartender leans over the bar, ear aimed at me.
“Something strong and icy.” I fan myself with the soggy napkin.
He nods and gets busy making me a drink. I scan my surroundings to make sure Cameron—ugh, even his name is hot—doesn’t catch me buying my own drink. I know men like him. They thrive on power, and seeing me do exactly what he suggested I do would be like bowing down and admitting failure. Ain’t happenin’.
“That’ll be eighteen.” The bartender drops a huge pint glass filled with what looks like iced tea in front of me. Wait, eighteen dollars?
“There better be gold flakes in that ice, compadre.” This is another reason I never buy my own drinks. They’re flippin’ expensive.
He rolls his eyes. “You said strong, sweetheart. Long Island ain’t cheap.” He offers his hand, palm up.
I hand over a good quarter of my grocery money and glare at the bartender who, by the look of his grin, finds this mildly entertaining. Whatever.
Hoping the food-for-a-day priced cocktail is worth it, I take a sip of my fancy tea. My throat flames and my stomach warms. “Holy shit!” How could something that looks so innocent be so damn dangerous? It tastes like gasoline. I mix it up and try again. It’s a little better. A few more sips into my drink my lips go numb. Mission accomplished. Hopefully my head will be next.
Someone from behind presses in to get to the bar. “Negra Modelo. No lime.”
That voice. My head whips to the side, my back goes ramrod straight, and I glare. “You.”
He frowns back. “Don’t you mean thank you.”
“Are you following me?”
The corner of his mouth moves in a way that makes my stomach dip, and my hands grip the bar to keep from toppling toward him.
“No.” He drops some cash on the bar just as the bartender delivers his beer, and then Cameron brings the bottle to his lips.
Damn, his hands are huge. I wonder what it would feel like to have those hands on my body, touching, protecting, possessing. A shiver of need runs up my spine, and I go back to my atomic tea. Gulp after gulp, I swallow straight booze, holding my breath like a kid with cough syrup. This guy is a dick. A huge one. Does he have a huge—no! No, no. I shake my head, wanting to kick my own ass for being such a slut, even if only in my head.
“Which lucky stiff bought you that, doll?” He nods to my drink.
Doll? That was sorta sweet, but I hold my scowl and refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing I bought my own drink. “It was the guy down there.” I tilt my head to motion down the bar. “The one with the red shirt on.”
He turns and spots the random dude I just pointed out about four stools down, and then turns back to me. “Oh yeah?”
“Mm-hm.” I take a long pull from my tea and stifle the urge to recoil from the liquid fire.
“Hope his girlfriend doesn’t mind him buyin’ drinks for other women.” I hear the chuckle he tries to hide in his bottle as he takes a sip of his beer.
Leaning forward, I peer down the bar and—shit, he’s right—the guy in the red shirt has a beautiful brunette on his lap and his hands all over her.
I shrug and drop my lips back to my drink to hide my hot cheeks.
“You know.” He leans down to speak into my ear, and the spicy sweet scent of his aftershave filters to my nose. “It’s pretty fucked up to let guys buy you drinks, especially if you’re not interested in men.”
The heat of his breath against my ear paints goose bumps down my arm, and I fight the urge to groan. He’s like a light switch to my sexuality, turning me on by simply talking.
“I might be interested. I’m just . . . undeclared.”
He turns his big shoulders toward me and leans an elbow on the bar. “Explain that.”
“It’s none of your business, but if it means you’ll leave me alone”—Please don’t leave me alone—“then I’ll tell you.”
Void of any playful expression he nods for me to continue. Does this guy ever smile?
“I’m not attracted to men or women.” Such. A. Lie.
His eyebrows drop low over his already tight eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“You don’t give off the vibe.” He tips his chin back to take a long swig off his bottle, and I watch the powerful cords of his neck contract as he swallows.
Act unaffected.
I shrug and slug down another gulp of my tea. Funny, I hardly taste the booze at all now. “If I were into men, I’d be throwing myself at a guy like you.” What? Why would I say that? Challenging a man like this is lunacy. I’m drunk. That’s got to be it.
“Maybe you’re playing hard to get.” The set of his eyes makes it look as if he’s glaring, but the corner of his mouth is pulled up just enough to contradict. Not a smile, but a taunting. It’s predatory, dangerous with just enough soft to lure in his prey. His eyes drop to my mouth. My cheeks flame and I look away.
“Or maybe I actually am hard to get.” Oh my gawd! It’s as if I’ve been taken over by a phone sex operator. Why do I insist on poking the bear?
“Sounds like a dare, Eve.”
Is it just me, or was there a growl in the way he said my name?
I take a deep breath, hold my head high, and swivel my barstool to face him. My knee brushes against his rock hard thigh, and another wave of arousal washes over me. I need to stay away from this guy. He’s fishing with superhuman pheromones.
This is the moment, the line drawn in the sand and a choice to make. But how do I turn and leave when every cell in my body screams for me to plow through and right into bed with this charming asshole.
My chest aches, my heart’s memory clearly stronger than my libido’s. One-night stands. All the men I hoped would fill that black gaping hole in my chest and never did. Even now, as fucked up as it is, I still hold out hope that this guy, every new guy, could be the one. What is wrong with me?
I swing my gaze to his. That mouth. Those eyes. I’m screwed. I wish. Ugh!
“Well, I better get going. It’s late and I have to work tomorrow.” Or more accurately, if I don’t get out of here soon, I’ll get him on his back and climb aboard begging. I slide off my stool to land on unsteady legs.
His hand grips my elbow to hold me up. “Easy, there.” He eyes my tea. “Long Island?”
“Yeah, but I’m fine, just lost my footing.” Or lost my mind in his presence.
He leans down, eyes fixed on mine. “Fuck, Eve. You drivin’?”
“Yeah, or . . .” Wait. I came with Raven. I press my fingertips to my forehead. “I didn’t drive. I was going to take a—”
“I’ll take you home.”
“What? No.” I move to pull away, but he doesn’t release his hold. That’ll ruin my plans for strategic avoidance. That last drink has me a little wobbly on my platforms. And shit! That last drink took my last twenty bucks. “I’ll see if one of the guys can give me a ride.”
“Yeah?” He tilts his head. I stare drunk and unabashed at his handsome face.
A soothing warmth envelops me. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He finally releases me with a nod and turns back to his spot at the bar.
I roll my eyes at his back and decide to take my chance to get away while I can, but at the same time I’m a little disappointed that he let me go so easily. It happens all the time, and for some reason, I find myself a little surprised each and every time it does.
They let me go. They always do.
Unless they’re getting something from me.
The great thing about being asexual is I have nothing to offer.
~*~
Cameron
I must be under more pressure than I thought. That’s the only conclusion that would explain why I’m standing in a bar and so turned the fuck on I can’t concentrate. It makes sense. With all the heat I’m getting from the board about putting the UFL back on track and positioning myself to get back into the octagon, it’s no surprise my body is looking to work off some steam. My reaction to Eve is nothing more than a red-blooded male’s response to stress. Sex is a cure-all in most cases. I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes.
I offered to take her home? Since when do I care about how a woman gets home?
Yeah, I better get the fuck out of here before I catch another glimpse of her that I won’t be able to drag myself away from.
“Cam, you leaving already?” Mason snags my attention just before I step away from my barstool.
“Long day.”
Caleb strolls up with a girl under his arm, but in a quick scan, I don’t see Eve. I thought she was going to hunt these guys down for a ride. Maybe she changed her mind and decided to take a cab. What the hell? Why do I care?
“You think I’ll get a shot at Santori this year?” Mason has his elbow propped on the bar and a longneck between his fingers.
“You tell me?”
We launch into talk about who’ll be fighting whom in this new season, and it takes the edge off of the Eve-induced disorientation I was experiencing earlier. Caleb hands me another beer. So much for leaving after one drink.
“You think after tonight’s fight Wade will go after Blake for a rematch?”
“Personally? I think he’d be stupid if he—”
Mason turns away as if someone tugged at him from behind. I down the rest of my beer and take advantage of his diverted attention.
“I’m takin’ off.” I shake Caleb’s hand and move to give Mason a visual see ya when a flash of blond hair catches my eye.
“You’re right, Mase. I could probably hang out a little and just drink wa—” She yawns. “Water.”
Mason shifts on his feet and has removed his arm from the shoulders of the girl he was with. “Are you sure? Or um . . .” He looks around, and his eyes land on me, just as Eve’s do the same.
Mason’s narrow, while Eve’s go wide.
“Cam, you’re takin’ off, right?” He hooks Eve around the waist and guides her toward me. “You mind dropping Eve off at home?”
Ah, I see. Eve’s looking for a ride, but Mason’s in the middle of negotiating a sleepover with the little brunette.
“No, that’s not . . . You don’t . . .” Eve’s words die when my hand comes down around hers.
“Let’s go.”