And I was excited to have exciting things to think about.
Those things being Joker. How his beard felt against my skin when he was kissing me. How he tasted. How tight his arms closed around me. How I wanted to know what his hair felt like (I should have taken that shot when I had my arms around him, but his shoulders felt so lovely, I didn’t). How I wanted to know what was behind that guard he had over his eyes. How I wanted to know if he liked my pie.
And being mostly excited, for the first time in so long I couldn’t remember the last time (outside having Travis), I was happy. I had a spring in my step. I had something to look forward to.
And it felt good.
*
I felt terrible.
This was a disaster.
An utter, complete disaster.
And I wasn’t talking about the disaster that was me assuming, since it was a party, the done thing was to bring something when absolutely no one brought anything. So I’d looked like an idiot when I strolled in with two bags of LeLane’s fresh tortilla chips and a huge tub of their signature guacamole (that was handmade to order at the deli counter).
Although that was embarrassing, the chips and guac were all gone and I hadn’t even been there an hour.
“Girl, you want a fresh one?”
I turned my head from my wounded contemplation of Joker with the big-haired, tube-topped, ultra-mini-miniskirted brunette at the pool table (I just knew biker babes wore tube tops!).
Joker was not smiling and flirting. But he was still flirting. I knew it. I knew the way she sashayed around him and gave him knowing looks and rubbed up against him every chance she got and licked her lips after they’d take a shot of whatever they were shooting.
I’d been at the party for forty-five minutes. I got there after my shift, rushing home and changing clothes because Tab had texted to say she and Shy were already there, so I’d gotten there pretty late (or late for me).
And when I got there, the party was in full swing. There were a lot of people there, lots of women, other bikers from different clubs (if the patches were anything to go by), and it was what Tabby said it would be. The music was loud. The people were loud. There was making out. Groping. Flirting. Drinking. Shots thrown back. And smoking, including the marijuana variety.
In this mess, although Tab found me right away and got me a drink, Joker hadn’t even looked at me.
Not once.
I looked to the guy behind the bar. I’d just met him and he’d told me his name was Snapper. He was in the Rush/Shy/Joker age group of the Club. Currently, he was acting as one of several bartenders (though they didn’t seem to have an official one, guys went back, girls went back, you wanted it, you got it or you asked whoever was back there to get it for you).
I had my hand around a warm beer and my seat on a stool, my eyes locked to Joker, and Tabby had left to go to the bathroom.
So I was alone.
Again.
Even at a big biker party.
“Sorry?” I asked him, the fact he’d spoken to me belatedly processing through my thoughts.
“Fresh,” he said, tipping his head to my plastic cup that was not even half-drunk. “Toss that warm shit and I’ll get you a cold one.”
“Um…” I couldn’t answer because I couldn’t think.
I could only hurt.
Why did I hurt?
Why did I even come?
Joker, it was now clear, didn’t want me.
Maybe he kissed back whoever kissed him. He was a guy. Guys probably did that. And it was obvious from the used condom wrappers that he had experience. Maybe he was just a good kisser because he’d had a lot of practice.
But I had in no way given him the impression I wanted it to stop.
He’d stopped it. I was taken from my thoughts again when Snapper pulled my cup out of my hand, threw it (and its liquid contents) in a trash bin, and grabbed a fresh plastic cup. Then he went to one of the three kegs behind the bar and pulled me a new one.
He came back and set it in front of me.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, and as I did, I took that opportunity to take him in fully.
He had light blond hair, long and pulled back in a slipshod bun at the back of his head. He had light blue eyes and blond lashes, the both of them together unusual and attractive. He had blond stubble on his cheeks, but I knew he shaved (though, apparently infrequently) since the whiskers at his chin were a lot longer than the rest so I figured when he was feeling in the mood to be neat, he just wore a goatee. He also had nice cheekbones, very white teeth that probably seemed whiter due to his tanned skin, and a straight nose.
“You the one with the kid?” he asked and yet again that dirty washed through me.
I dropped my eyes to my beer, lifting it, and before taking a sip, replied, “Yeah. I’m the official Chaos charity case.”
I put my cup to the bar, still looking at it, but didn’t continue to do this as I had planned, along with feeling sorry for myself and finding a time when I could tell Tabby I had to go (that time being soon), because I felt a fist gentle under my chin, lifting it.
My eyes went to Snapper’s.
“We all fall on hard times,” he said quietly, removing his fist from my chin. “It’s just lucky for you that you fell in the right direction.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” I told him.
“Only way, babe,” he returned immediately. “We are who cares about us.”
I felt my brows draw together. “Sorry?”
“You weren’t worth the trouble, we wouldn’t make it.”
That was so nice the dirty washed out of me and I couldn’t help but smile. “That’s sweet.”
He smiled back. “Maybe. Still true.”
“That’s also sweet.”
He kept smiling and offered, “Want a shot?”
I shook my head. “No. I shouldn’t. I’m driving.”
“You get blotto, I’ll put you on the back of my bike, take you home.”
“I, well… that’s nice, but my son comes home the day after tomorrow and I have a lot to do as well as a shift at work. I probably shouldn’t be hungover.”
“Your call,” he muttered.
“Though I’ve never been on the back of a bike,” I shared and he focused on me.
“No shit?”