Page 12 of Tied to You
As the door opens, I’m swamped by the smell of musk and visually over-stimulated by all the men wearing leather. That’s all I can see. There are women here, all wearing similar attire, but the way a small blonde walks past and gives me the once over, it’s clear she’s not impressed by my outfit. Hers isn’t too dissimilar in all fairness, but she hasn’t gone all out on the makeup like I have.
Making sure I stick near to the biker I arrived with, every part of me wants to reach out and grip his arm so that I don’t lose him. Fortunately for me, he stops a few times saying hello to different men and shaking their hands.
I see an opening and spot the bar. There’s a man serving drinks behind itwith another woman craning her ear to hear the order being placed over the thud of the music playing. Looking at biker boy’s back which is in front of me, I decide to slip from his clutches and get myself a drink.
“What can I get you, sweetheart?” the man behind the bar asks me, making me swing my head to him instead of crowd watching.
I offer him a smile. “Tequilla, please.”
He nods his head then promptly places a shot glass and a slice of lemon in front of me. “Lick,” he says, as he takes my hand in his, holding a saltshaker in the other.
My eyes fleetingly widen before I lick the back of my hand, and he pours on some salt.
“Enjoy.” He gives me a wink.
I briefly look around seeing if anyone’s watching, then I glug back the shot, followed by licking the salt and sucking on the lemon. I’m probably not meant to like it the way in which I do, but it’s a small comfort I’ll enjoy. “Another,” I say to the barman wearing a leather jacket which says ‘prospect’ on the front.
He smiles, not looking at me, as he untwists the top of a bottle for another guy. “Coming right up.”
I proceed to have three more tequilas and move on to a gin and tonic, feeling somewhat lighter and pleasantly buzzed. The man they’re here to welcome home walked through the door twenty minutes ago. The place erupted in an overwhelming hype of liveliness. If I had any clue who he was or why his homecoming is so significant, I would have gone over and said something.
A cough comes from behind me. “Thought I’d lost you, Baby Doll.”
“Enough. Quit calling me that. I’m not your baby, and I’m certainly not a fucking doll.” Why the fuck does he keep calling me that? I swing around on the stool I’m sitting on and come face to face with him.
He grins.
Oh.That’s why.
“You haven’t lost your touch with the ladies,” the other biker, the one who came home, says, making my biker boy frown.
My biker boy?Christ.
“I’ve still got it with the ladies,” he starts, “it’s just littlegirlsI don’t know how to handle.”
A slither of something dark skates through me. I want to jump off the stool and gouge his eyes out, yet, in these moments, I’ve learned not to give myself away. Don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing what’s truly going on inside.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe just the way he’s looking at me, his eyes daring me to challenge him, but I need to squash this. Sitting here minding my own business—even over the music and laughter surrounding me, I worked out exactly how I’m going to do it.
I slap the bar behind me, turning away from the brooding biker and his friend. “Vodka,” I say to the barman who’s become the closest thing to a friend since I arrived here.
“Single or double?” he asks.
I look over my shoulder, giving the bikers a quick glance. “Bottle,” I say perfectly level-headed.
Biker boy scoffs under his breath. “Here we fucking go.” He shifts his weight on his feet, letting out an exasperated sigh. “You sure you want to do this, Baby Doll?”
I give the man behind the bar some cash then push myself off the stool, bottle in hand. “Absolutely. Unless you don’t want to lose to agirl?” I swallow that one, then watch as his brows knit at my—on the surface—apparent nonchalance.
He steps aside, holding out a hand for me to go first.
“I need the ladies’,” I tell him. “Where can I find you once I’m done?”
He smirks. “We’ll be upstairs.”
I nod and hold out the bottle for him to take.
He grips it, and unbeknownst to me, my hand doesn’t immediately let it go when he tries to pull away. What the fuck am I doing? As if realising with a jolt, he yanks it harder from my grip at the same time as I let go. Both of us frown at one another.
