Page 54 of Shade
Do you see me there in the club surrounded by six other riders? I’m the one with the hooker on his lap while she grinds the fuck out of me, which, by the way, I’m not hard. In fact, I’m a little turned off by the very idea she thinks her twerking her ass in my face is hot.
I’m also not entirely sure she’s a hooker. She could be, but I’m not about to ask, or find out anytime soon. And you probably can’t tell which one I am because we all have chicks on our laps. Seems standard of any night after an event where we’re treated like royalty and given anything and everything we want.
I don’t want this, to be here, with them, people who don’t understand a goddamn thing about me anymore.
So I leave, wander around the streets of Seattle until I find a different bar. One where I don’t know anyone.
And there I sit, not with the stripper or hooker, whoever she was, drowning my thoughts in a country song. No lie. I don’t even like country, but if my life were a country song, who would sing it? If I had a say in it, I’d choose George Straight.
What I wouldn’t give to be in Amarillo by morning.
Staring through a glass filled to the brim with straight tequila, my eyes lift to the bartender, a cute tiny girl in front of me with jet-black hair and dark eyeliner to match her hair.
She winks. “Need more?”
Squinting at the bottle she sets in front of me, I attempt to read the label, but it’s dark in the bar, and I’m wearing my sunglasses. Couldn’t tell you what the fuck it says.
“There’s no Vicodin in this, right?”
She laughs, the sound almost annoying because what the fuck was funny about that? “No, it’s tequila.” She grabs the bottle and pulls it away from me. “Maybe you’ve had too much?”
I take it back like a child who’s had his toy taken away by a parent, only she doesn’t let go completely and keeps one tiny hand on the bottle. “Did I say you could take that from me?”
I almost laugh when she attempts to pull the bottle toward her. She probably weighs as much as my legs.
“I have the right to refuse service to anyone I want,” she points out, but frees her hands of the bottle and lets me have it. Then she nods to the television above the bar. “Is that you? Are you the guy who won tonight?”
I squint in the direction of the television replaying the highlights of the event and me standing with my arms raised in the air, helmet in hand. This must have been before I threw my helmet at the reporter for asking about Rhya.
“Nope,” I tell her. “Don’t know who he is.”
“Bullshit. You’re Shade Sawyer. I know those tattoos.” She reaches for my damn sunglasses, and I slap her hand.
Goddamn me for having memorable tattoos. “Did I say you could touch me? I wouldn’t touch you without asking. Don’t touch me.”
I can tell I’ve caught her off guard, momentarily, then she recovers and leans into the bar. The action pushes her tits together, and I look, but my eyes quickly divert. I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian, and this is all an act. She’s dressed like one at least. “Sweetie, I don’t need a man to ask to touch me. I like a man who takes what he wants.”
Sweetie? Who the fuck is she calling sweetie? I even look behind me, convinced she’s talking to someone else now.
While I’m certainly that guy, the one to take not ask, I’m not tonight, at least not with this chick. “Then go find one who wants it. I just want this bottle.” I flick my wrist at her and take the bottle, handing her the cash I have in my pocket. No idea how much money I just handed her either. “Go away.”
Rude?
Yep.
Did you expect anything else from me tonight?
Listen, I know I’m being a dick and believe me, I’m wondering the same thing as you, who the fuck is this guy? I used to be a fairly well-mannered adrenaline junkie, and then an asshole. The two combined, well, that’s the kind of guy who does shit like this.
I’m also the kind of guy who’s about to swing first and not bother to ask questions later because the asshole next to me, his girlfriend didn’t give him the message I’m not to be fucked with.
“Who the fuck do you think you are talking to her like that?” I can’t help but shake my head because this guy has got to be flexing some serious beer muscles if he truly believes he’s got a chance in hell of touching me.
The drunk me wants to scream in his face, “I’m Shade Sawyer, motherfucker!”
But. . . I don’t. I just stand there.
You’re wondering who he is, aren’t you?
