Page 6 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
Assured that I look as good as possible, I straighten the mirror, take a few calming breaths, and then shut off the car. I step out, close my car door, and tug my skirt down a bit…then huff and tug it back up, letting the hem sneak up just above my knees. This isn’t about seduction—the opposite, if anything—but it won’t hurt to use what advantages I have, right?
It’s seven on a Friday evening, and I have it on good authority that Ryder McCann is in this building—Billy Bar. A dive bar with a reputation for being crammed to capacity most evenings, serving stiff drinks at decent prices, and bouncers that only step in and break up fights if they threaten to damage the décor. Billy Bar is a former Pizza Hut building with new blacked-out windows and a cool new paint job. I’ve never been inside before, but a few of my coworkers have and they swear it’s nicer inside than you’d expect. The parking lot gives me anxiety, though—or rather increases my feelings of being out of place. My car is a five-year-old BMW 4 series convertible that I bought pre-owned as a reward to myself for getting promoted to regional manager—it’s white with a tan interior, and there’s a booster seat in the back, and the inside is clean. The rest of the vehicles in the lot are, almost exclusively, either Harley-Davidson choppers or big masculine chest-thumping, macho-mobile pickups, most of which have lift kits and oversized tires, racks for ladders, enormous silver toolboxes in the beds, grille guards that could withstand a charging rhino, LED light bars, and interiors cluttered with soda bottles and fast-food wrappers and cigarette cartons.
Yeah, my little Beemer is out of place.
But Ryder is here, and it’s a public place. Not exactly neutral, as this is his favorite bar, according to Imogen and Audra. In fact, this is where all four of the Dad Bod Contracting guys come to drink. Today, though, it’s just Ryder, and maybe James—neither Franco nor Jesse was certain of James’s whereabouts.
I march into the bar, mentally repeating my orders to myself:
Keep an open mind; listen to what he has to say; don’t get sucked in by those mesmerizing hazel eyes…
And most importantly—don’t end up in bed with him.
I repeat this in my head over and over again as I enter Billy Bar and stand just inside the entrance, scanning the interior. It’s hypermasculine—an entire motorcycle hangs on one wall, with light fixtures made from car parts and industrial steel tubing, exposed beams and ductwork, giant beer signs and mirrors and neon tube lettering. Hard rock is blasting just loud enough to be an assault on the ears, but not so deafening that you have to shout to be heard. Most of the clientele is male, bunched in clusters with pints of beer and tumblers of whiskey clutched in fists with scarred and tattooed knuckles. There are plenty of women, but most of them seem to be paired up with other men, clinging to bare, burly arms and nodding at their every word with vapid giggles.
Ugh—I’m being judgmental.
I’m sure they’re nice intelligent women.
He’s hard to find—Ryder is huddled into a corner booth, alone, sipping from a beer and, strangely, doing nothing else. Just sitting there with his beer, alone.
I let out another deep breath and then cross the bar, twisting and shimmying between clusters of men—most of whom give me a once-over…and a twice-over…and a thrice-over, and more than a few lingering stares as I walk past. I feel so many eyes on me that I’m half tempted just to bolt right back out that door.
“Hey, babe. You must be new here,” a rough voice says.
I look up at the enormous, tattooed, bearded man blocking my way. “Hi. Yes, I am, and I’m actually meeting someone, so…”
He just stares down at me—or, rather, at my breasts. “He can wait. Have a drink with me.” It’s not really phrased as a request.
I glance past at Ryder, who is in the act of taking a long pull of his beer and then pausing to skim the bar with his eyes.
He sees me. His eyes widen, and then abruptly narrow.
I’m hemmed in on all sides by clusters of men, some of whom have noticed me, some of whom haven’t. Short of shoving or kicking—and making a scene I’d rather avoid—there’s no way past the man in front of me, who does not seem at all inclined to move.
“Like I said, I’m meeting someone, and I’m afraid I’ve already kept him waiting, so if you’ll excuse me…”
His laugh is a dark, ugly snarl of amusement. “This ain’t the place you go meetin’ boyfriends, sweetheart. Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll pay double.”
It takes a moment to fully comprehend what the man is implying, and then when I finally do, anger rifles through me. “Excuse me?” I hear my voice go high and shrill, as it does when I’m pissed. “What exactly are you implying?”
