The doorwoman gives me little fuss about entering. Must not be a private club. Or maybe she just knows I won’t take no for an answer.
Ain’t hard to find the person I’m after. Not only is she like a fucking beacon for me, but she’s the only other person besides me with most of their clothes still on.
I don’t know if I expect her to see me and run into my arms or something. But what she does when I step up beside her at the bar has me laughing after she speaks.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Her being irate shouldn’t make me hard. It shouldn’t make me laugh and smile and feel a warmth in my chest. I should hate that she’s always so defensive when she sees me, but I don’t.
She is who she is, and I’m so much into this girl that I might already be in love.
Chapter 2—Bailey
Why? Why am I like this? Why do I always do this? Especially to him?
You know why.
Shut up.I seriously hate my inner goddess sometimes. And yes, she’s a diva and demands goddess status, whether I like it or not. Another curse I bear. Curvy girl who got knocked down too much as a kid till a goddess rose up and said fuck it to everything and everyone. I actually appreciate her for that. I might sound like a mental person, talking about my inner self like this, but she makes me feel like another person when I need it the most. A strong, takes-no-shit-from-anyone, badass woman.
And she wants this one in front of her like I need to breathe.
I get it. He’s hot. Like super, “that’s unfair” hot. The tattoos covering his hands and peeking out of his shirt to come over his arms and neck make my mouth water. I want to lick him, and I’m not the licking type. He’s just so good-looking that I roll my lips inside my mouth to make sure the drool doesn’t come out.
But there’s a “but”—and the fact that there is one, and I’m not talking about his, is a problem.
Call it self-preservation, call it childhood trauma, whatever you like. But I know he and I won’t work. I might be a goddess in my head, but I’m not one in real life if you ask anyone else. And that’s the issue. Other people. Bullying was an art form that most of the kids I grew up with practiced and perfected well on me. I might not let that shit fly now, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t also learn coping skills along the way.
I never tell myself I can’t have something. If I want something, I go for it. Nothing’s stopping me but me. Do I always succeed? No. But that’s where I learn my limits and adjust. One thing I discovered is that I don’t like stress. We all get stressed, but when I do, I let the bad words others have said about me slip past my goddess. They swarm me, bringing up old doubts and fears and insecurities. I still put myself in stressful situations; sometimes it’s unavoidable. But I will not break. I refuse to.
But if I can avoid them… yeah, that’s my coping skill.
And a motorcycle club is probably stressful. One I know isn’t just for show, as I’ve seen more than they’d probably like, with me being Jules’s friend and all. I see the worry on her face some nights at dance practice when she’s thinking about her man. I don’t need the stress of wondering if they’re okay. Or in my case, if they’re coming back to me.
I’m probably the oldest cliché in the book. Curvy girl thinks she has the guy only to learn he’s with the skinny bitch and was just trolling her along for fun. It’s happened. More than once, which is sad to say. Not that I let anyone know that. I hate that flaw in me, not being able to see a jackass from a mile away.
Like tonight.
I shake my head as my mind does a quick recap of the crap night I’ve had. If I can’t see a guy, like Kevin the investor, to be a complete jerk, there’s zero chance that I’ll be able to tell if the prospect is. He’s in a motorcycle club. He has sex appeal in spades. Hell, he’s younger than me. All points that scream he can get anything walking, and probably does. I don’t want the stress of worrying about him picking me every single minute of the day in my mind. I had that before. I thought I was the one who got picked, but I was wrong, and now I get to see it splashed in my face every week. Jules is my best friend, and she isn’t going to drop her man anytime soon. I can’t have another disaster walking around in my life that I have to pretend to be okay with. It does nothing for my inner goddess.
But he probably doesn’t need me to be a bitch to him all the time. He brings it out in me just because I’d rather strike first than get strict.
I know, I know. I shouldn’t judge. It’s hypocritical for a person with a past like mine.
I decide to do what I tell my students and just let it fucking go. Yeah, I occasionally cuss with my kids. It’s high school, not preschool. They know more curse words than me, and they seem to relate better to them. Sure, a few great authors might rise from their graves and kill me in my sleep one of these days with how often I butcher the English language, but if my students actually get the literature I’m teaching by me putting it in words they understand, I don’t see any reason why it can’t work.
I shake my head, hoping the bad thoughts and bitchy attitude from the night’s events fade away.
“Sorry,” I mumble into my drink.
What? Just because I want the bitchy attitude gone doesn’t mean it went. I said sorry. That’s like going from bitchy to just annoyed. That’s damn impressive for me. It usually takes me a long time to get over my attitude after a long day.
I watch him shrug in my periphery as he takes a seat and waves down the bartender for a drink. Got to hand it to the guy, he doesn’t even seem to flinch at how buff the bartender is. Nor that he can walk in six-inch heels with ease as he gets the prospect a beer.
When I walked into this place, I was so pissed off at my night that it took an embarrassing length of time for me to hear the moans of pleasure pulsating through the air. Not sure why the doorwoman let me in. Maybe she’s the owner and needs people in here—not that it’s packed. Several small groupings have spread out, and all of them seem to be in various stages of sex, from the flirting while sitting on laps to the full-on act going on to the left of me. I try to pretend not to see out of the corner of my eye. But since the person who let me in, practically putting me in my seat and buying my first round, and the bartender did nothing but smile encouragingly at me, I ain’t going to turn my nose up at this place. Tied Up and Tied Down might not be my normal Friday night hotspot, but it isn’t bad either.
“So.” I turn to the prospect. “Why are you here?”
“Same as you.” He glances at me but keeps his attention ahead on the mirror behind the bar.
