Scowling to himself, Seth finally got a good look at Miranda, who was smiling at something Mr. Steroids had said. What the hell? How was she even remotely amused by anything that came out of that superficial jerk’s mouth?
No, wait. That wasn’t a genuine Miranda smile. This one was tight, didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He finished his beer, then ditched the bottle on the little ledge behind him. He was dying for a smoke, but he didn’t want to go outside while that meathead was still drooling over Miranda.
When Mr. Steroids leaned in closer and said something that made her frown, only the memory of how angry she’d been last time he’d interfered stopped Seth from marching over there. She claimed she could handle herself? Fine. He was willing to give her the chance.
Three minutes later, when a visibly disappointed Mr. Steroids stalked away from the counter, Seth had to give credit where credit was due. Whatever she’d said had successfully gotten rid of her admirer, and now she was at the other end of the bar, preparing a complicated-looking fruity drink that Seth wouldn’t be caught dead drinking.
He waited a few more minutes, just to make sure Mr. Steroids didn’t return, then left his perch in the shadows and made his way through the crowd. He fished his Marlboro pack from one of the pockets of his black cargo pants and shoved an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. A glance at his military-issue tactical watch showed it was past midnight. Shit, he had to be up in five hours. But he didn’t want to leave yet. He hated not being here for last call. That was when the creeps and a-holes came out to play.
For a moment, he considered asking Dylan to stick around in his stead—dude had tomorrow off, after all—but a quick inspection of the dance floor shot down that idea. Dylan and some blonde were wrapped all over each other like a pair of eels, grinding to the beat of the sultry hip-hop track now pouring out of the PA system. The lights zigzagged directly over the couple, and…yep, Seth’s roommate had one hand under the chick’s shirt, the other tangled in her long blonde hair.
No way would he be able to pry those two apart tonight.
Fine then. One quick smoke, and then he’d say good night to Miranda, and trust that she could take care of herself.
The club offered a small smoking patio at the back of the building, and when he exited through the rear doors, he was surprised to find Aidan Rhodes out there with a cigarette. A stocky bouncer stood by the door, nodding at Seth before going expressionless.
“Hey, man.” Seth nodded at Aidan in greeting. “Didn’t know you smoked.”
“Only when I’m drinking.” The tip of his cigarette glowed in the darkness as the naval officer took a deep drag. “You heading out?”
“Soon.” He lit up, inhaled, and blew a gray plume into the night air. “Just need to figure out how my very drunk, very horny roommate plans on getting home.”
Aidan opened his mouth to reply, only to get cut off by the creak of the door as it opened to let a few newcomers onto the patio.
Seth’s shoulders stiffened when he recognized Mr. Steroids. And look at that, the meathead had friends, two of them, both of whom clearly belonged to the same pansy-ass gym.
“Hate it when bitches act like they’re better than me,” Mr. Steroids was grumbling.
Seth noted that all three men were smokers, which kinda contradicted the whole health-fanatic thing they had going on.
“Dude, I hear ya. Those high-and-mighty types are grade-A cunts,” the second meathead declared.
Dropping the C-word. So these losers didn’t just dress like douche bags—they acted like it too. Shocking.
“Whatever, dude,” the third douche piped up. “Her tits weren’t even that nice.”
Seth and Aidan exchanged a look. Neither of them said a word, but Seth could tell Aidan was annoyed by the vulgar convo happening next to them. As Aidan’s shoulders tensed beneath his white polo shirt, Seth realized just how ripped the other man was. He tended to forget it, since Aidan was only five-eleven or so and therefore dwarfed by guys like O’Connor, who stood well over six feet.
“And at least come up with an excuse I could buy.” Mr. Steroids exhaled a cloud of smoke, then guffawed. “You’re busy running a dance school? Yeah, right, sweetie. You’re busy working the pole at the D-Cup Lounge, more like it.”
Now Seth’s shoulders were stiffer than a fence post. He’d figured the douches were talking about Miranda, but now that he had verification, it was difficult to control the anger simmering in his gut.
Slowly and methodically, he turned to face the three gym rats and cleared his throat to get their attention. “Quick question,” he said.
Mr. Steroids looked annoyed by the interruption. He flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the pavement instead of using the bucket of sand at his feet. “What is it?” the guy snapped.
“The girl you’re talking about—you mean the bartender, right?”
“Yeah. What’s it to you?”
Seth purposefully dropped his cigarette in the ashtray bucket and met Mr. Steroids’ impatient blue eyes. “She’s my girlfriend,” he replied coldly.
Cue: apology.