The MC’s just finished a long-haul run, which means it’s party time. The clubhouse is rocking, the music turned up to the kind of volume that makes the floor vibrate and meaningful conversation impossible. The floor’s full of hot, dancing chicks because my single brothers apparently invited all the usual pass-arounds and then hit up the dance club lines for more. They’re greedy bastards. I dance a whole lot and then make my way back to the bar for another beer with a tequila chaser.

Somehow, though, it feels like I’ve taken a time machine back to an earlier chapter in my life. It’s like I’ve been here, done this, and now I’m just sort of observing rather than participating. And no matter how much I try, I can’t get into it. The dancing, the drinking, the hot chicks… now it’s all pretty scenery that I’m only half-watching from the back of my ride because I’m going somewhere better.

Somewhere I’ll find Rain.

Somehow, she’s ended up being the X-marks-the-spot on my treasure map, the destination I’m riding all out for.

Old Me wasn’t a fan of repeat trips but New Me? He’s all in.

“Imma text Rain,” I tell Gator. He’s holding up the bar, keeping as far away from the dancing as he can. The man’s a true lone wolf and he doesn’t do well with large numbers of people.

He shoots me a look. “You sure about that?”

“She’s awesome,” I announce. I definitely probably almost certainly have had a few too many tequila shots tonight but messaging her would seem like a good idea even fully sober. It’s been hours since I talked with her and that really, definitely sucks.

“Might want to hit pause on that idea,” Gator growls.

“Best idea I’ve had all night,” I argue, pulling up my last text exchange with Rain. Huh. I may have texted her earlier, some stupid snap of the sun setting behind the clubhouse that earned me a heart-shaped like. Usually, I’m more of a dick pic guy.

“Better than this one?” Gator turns his phone around so I can see it. I had no idea he was such a shutterbug. He’s snapped a half-dozen pics of me doing shots—off the stomachs of three pass-arounds. In the photos, I upend the shotglass and then lick the salt off their bellies. We look like we’re having an awesome time when really I was just going through the motions.

Gator shakes his head. “You think she’s gonna be okay with that?”

“It was just a game.” Get drunk, party on, make some noise. I’m the pack’s wild child. And yeah, perhaps doing shots off some stripper’s naked stomach wasn’t actually my best idea. I wish I’d thought it through rather than just doing what everyone expected of me, not least because the alcohol makes everything seem fuzzy and distant. My thumb hovers over the Send button. Eh. Why not?

 

Cum c me

 

I give it a second but when there’re no dancing texting bubbles or signs of life from Rain, I shove my phone back into my pocket and hit the dance floor again. The next couple of hours are a blur of shots and songs, and when I get bored with that, all the tequila sloshing around in me suggests we should fight instead.

Fights happen when the MC parties. Sometimes, throwing a few punches clears the air or gives a couple of brothers a way to blow off steam. Other times, fighting is just for fun. I go up against one of our newest prospects. He played high school football and he’s roughly the size of a house. Taking him down isn’t easy, but when he finally taps out, the roar of approval from my brothers actually drowns out the music.

I help prospect boy to his feet and then bow to my admirers. Fighting’s easy. It’s fun and it comes naturally to me. I’m even better at it than I am at sex, which probably explains why some chick in a short pink dress launches herself at me. I grunt and catch her before she can crash land on the floor—and then she’s mashing her mouth against mine, legs snaking around my waist as her tongue drills for entrance.

My hands cup bare ass. The fuck?

I peel her off me and set her down on her feet.

“Hi! Congrats!” She bounces up and down, clearly assessing her next landing spot.

I squint at her. “Do I know you?”

“Fang!” She looks like a wounded kitten. Okay. A wounded kitten if they wore four-inch heels and a pink dress. My brow furrows as I stare at her. The tits do seem kind of familiar, although I’m distracted by the way her dress has ended up around her waist. She’s wearing a black thong, which explains my accidental ass grab.

Wait.

I do know her, biblically at least. She’s the girl from the alley. I don’t remember her name. Might have started with an M. Or an R. It didn’t seem important at the time, so I didn’t put any effort into remembering it.

She wiggles her skirt down as far as it’ll go, which isn’t far. She’s about an inch away from another wardrobe malfunction. “You don’t want to kiss me?”

Don’t wanna hurt her but I’m not down for this. “Be nice if you asked first,” I snap.

Someone snorts as if that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all night. She blinks at me, tearing up. “You don’t want me to kiss you?”

Um, no. No, I do not. Feels like I’m fucking Alice after she fell through the rabbit hole and her whole world went topsy-turvy, psychedelic crazy. I don’t particularly want to hurt her feelings, but I really don’t need her going for the repeat. Play nice.

I wink. “I’m seeing someone.”

“Exclusively?” She runs her hand down my arm. Since it seems like she’s headed for my crotch, I snag her hand in mine.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” She pouts for a second.

I have no clue what to do next. Letting go of her hand seems like a good first step, though. Step two is putting some space between us. Or trying to. When I back up, she sticks tighter than Saran Wrap.

“Can I at least take a picture?” She’s already fishing her phone out of her bra and holding it up in front of our faces. Her tits are huge, busting out of the itty-bitty front of her dress.

I smile and flash a victory vee for the phone. “Are we done now?”

“I can’t change your mind?” She slides the phone back into her cleavage.

“No.” My dick’s not even remotely interested.

And as if I’ve conjured her up, I look across the crowded clubhouse and spot the source of my non-interest. Rain hovers on the edge of the crowd. It’s not hesitancy that’s keeping her there. Knowing her, she’s simply mapping out the most efficient path to take to my side. At least, I hope that’s the case.

Now, I know I’m a pretty face. Maybe I’m the king of orgasms, the best sex you’ll ever have. But that’s it. That’s what I have to offer. And while awesome sex is—let’s be honest—awesome, it’s not everything. Hot, creative sex is the commercial in the middle of the Super Bowl. It’s memorable and you replay it on YouTube a few times, and maybe you ask your girls if they’ve seen it and what they thought. But it’s not the main event. Life’s not passing out winners’ rings for a thirty-second gig and Rain deserves the ring. She deserves that everything.

Still, I can’t help checking her out. She’s wearing a pair of skinny jeans that hug her hips and her curves. As much as I love her scrubs, I could get used to this look, too.

Wait.

Rain.

Here.

I have to think about that for a minute. Stupid tequila.

Since I totally need to be a good host, I swagger over to say hello. In fact, I don’t stop until I’m boot-to-boot with her and I’m accidentally looking down the front of her T-shirt at a banging white cotton bra. Fucking love her cleavage. And while I love the lacy, see-through shit from Victoria’s Secret, the kind of bra that’s a frame for your tits, I’ll tell you a secret. The white cotton bra is my favorite. It screams I trust you to see me and I’m planning on staying in and getting comfortable.

She tilts her head back so she can watch my face.

Rain has no problem giving me shit. If I didn’t know that already, the look on her face would make it clear. There’s no chance in hell I’m getting up close and personal with her bra—or any other part of her—tonight. Unfortunately, the tequila hasn’t made me any quicker or smarter.

Because I give her a cocky grin and go in for the kiss.

She sidesteps. “This is the first time you’ve invited me to come over to the clubhouse or your house.”

“You don’t want to say hello?”

She sighs, and not in a dreamy, I-so-want-to-fuck-you way. She’s definitely not happy with me right now. “Why’d you invite me here?”

Fuck. Tequila or no tequila, I can tell that’s a trick question. “Because I want you here.”

“Doubtful.” She shakes her head and spins me around. My stupid, picky dick is so focused on having her hands on me—even a neutral spot like my arms—that it perks up. Since I’m now pointing in the direction of M-Girl, I think my dick’s being overly optimistic.

“I kind of wondered why you didn’t want me to see that part of you or to get to know your friends and the MC,” she continues. “I think I was just your side piece.”

In my defense, I like her place. I like her. And I don’t always like me when I’m at the clubhouse. I’m proud of my pack and what they do, but me? I’m the joker, the pretty boy, the guy who can be either the life of the party or the ass who ruins everything when he opens his mouth. Kissing is safer than talking.

Rain’s staring at me.

Which means it’s my turn to contribute to this fucking horrible conversation.

I’ve already told you I’m no poet. Instead of coming up with an epic love poem on the spot, I go for the lame cop-out. “That’s not true.”

Rain goes for the kill. “You’re drunk. You have lipstick on your neck. I thought I could do this, but I can’t.”

Wait. What?

She doesn’t even point out M-Girl, but we both know what she’s seen. I give up trying to figure out how bad it is.

“We’re not together, me and her.”

Rain just looks at me.

“She kissed me.”

Stop talking. Even I know I’m just making shit worse.

She clutches her bag with both hands. It’s only slightly smaller than the one I carried in for her the first time we had sex. The other girls at the party either stash their shit in their bra or have a little purse on a chain or something, but Rain’s carting around this big, leather tote stuffed full of who-knows-what.

“I didn’t want to blame you for Dave’s screw ups. That wouldn’t have been fair.”

Since he did the crime, I’m in full agreement that he also pays the price. I’m still not sure how that’s connected to tonight, however.

“Rain—”

She shakes her head. Kinda feels like it’s Magic Eight Ball time. Outlook not so good. “He drank too much. He cheated. He always had an explanation and it was never his fault. Stuff just happened, I over-reacted, she fell on his dick.”

She gives me a sad smile. That prospect I fought must have cracked a rib with a lucky shot because something in my chest hurts.

“I just won’t do this again.” She goes up on tiptoe and brushes a kiss over my cheek. “Goodbye, Fang.”

That Magic Eight Ball in my head? I give it a big, long shake. Do I get my girl?

Very doubtful.

Her eagerness to leave should be all the explanation I need, but… I keep replaying her words, looking for another way to interpret them. She can’t go. We can’t be done. If I just shake the Magic Eight Ball and rephrase my question, it’ll be do-over time and I’ll have a second chance.

Don’t count on it.

I don’t know what to do. Going after her seems like a good idea except that she’s definitely right about one thing. I’m drunk. I could call an Uber or a Lyft, maybe get one of the brothers to drive me, but that doesn’t feel like white knight material. Hi, honey. Here I am. Might have whiskey dick, but you love me for my pretty face, right?

Rain never said I love you. Not the words. But if she hadn’t cared, then she wouldn’t have looked sad. I think. Christ, I suck at this relationship thing.

Sucked.

Past tense.

Pretty sure my girl just broke up with me.