“Oh, God, does the prez hate me? Was it totally rude of me to not introduce myself before now?” I have turned into a question machine, but I just can’t stop them from pouring out. To be fair, I have no idea how this whole motorcycle club thing is supposed to work. I have dealt with my fair share of dodgy gangs in London, but never a motorcycle club.
Grinder’s chuckle does things to my clit again, and as much as I love the feeling, I’m not here to fuck my brother’s friends. That’ll get me kicked out for sure.
“Nah, he’s good, but he’ll wanna ask about the dead man.” He winks and holds out his elbow again. “Party?”
“Abso-fuckin’-lutely.” Hooking my hand through his arm, I practically skip from the room, which then turns into a full-on skip as Grinder joins me. We stop at the top of the stairs, grinning like idiots.
“Fuck, I haven’t skipped like that for years.” Another clit-tingling laugh from him and I want to drop trou. Right here, right now.
Again…stop it, Parker.No.
We’re in front of the doors that I know lead into their main bar room clubhouse thing. Whatever the fuck they call it, I don’t care. It’s where the party is being held and that’s all I need to know.
Will I even recognize my own brother? Of course I will. There’s only one birthday boy today…I hope.
“You okay, Miss Stabby?” I think that’s genuine concern I can see in Grinder’s piercing eyes as he lightly nudges my arm because I’ve stopped. My legs won’t move.
“Mmhmm. Yup.” I take a deep breath and blow it out with a puff. “Ready.”
“Do you have a date in there or something? Because if you do, I’m gonna have to kick their ass. I called dibs already.”
“What the fu—?” My fuck is cut off as he yanks me through the doors and the body heat hits me first, then comes the smell of smoke and alcohol. It’s familiar, comforting, somewhere I could definitely call home.
There’s a pool table on one side of the room, a lot of tables and seating, a large bar with stools, and an area that I would say is a dance floor. However, it looks a lot more like a stand-and-fuck floor at the moment. Bodies are writhing to the loud, pumping music, mostly dressed, but not all.
“Welcome to paradise.” Grinder pauses in the entrance with me at his side, allowing me to take it all in for a second.
“Where’s the alcohol?” The singular beer I had in the kitchen was nowhere near enough for this kind of party.
“This way!” Pointing toward the bar, Grinder weaves me through the tables like a travel guide waving a red flag—one I eagerly follow. “Shots?”
“Several, please.” Grinning, I jump onto one of the bar stools. It makes me slightly taller than before and now my eyes are at Grinder’s level instead of staring at his impressive pecs.
Standing this close to me, his scent of pumpkin spice and leather easily wraps around me and I breathe it in. Mmm.
As I’m basking in whatever the fuck this is, I realize Grinder isn’t moving and I trail my eyes up from his chest to his face. They trace over the short beard on his jaw, his plump lips, the straight Roman nose…and finally land on his bright blues. They’re the icy kind of blue that pierce right through you with just a glance, impossible to ignore.
“Getting a good look, Little Miss Stabby?”
“Yes. Yes I am.” I nod, forcing myself to break eye contact because it’s heating my body in a way I have to ignore.
On the bar, six shots await, and I’m being glared at by the woman who apparently served them. She’s beautiful in a classicway, with bouncy blonde hair and a bright smile, her lips perfectly pink over her brilliant white teeth.
“Do we have an issue here?” I glare right back, gesturing between us and tilting my head in question.
She frowns and opens her mouth to speak, but a throat clearing beside me has her eyes shifting to Grinder then back to me again.
“No.” Her tight smile tells me she’s lying through her teeth, but I’m not here to start a fight so I’m choosing to pretend I believe her.
“Good.” My clit practically vibrates with excitement when my attention slides back to Grinder and his electric smile. There’s something about the way he looks at me that I want to bottle up and keep forever, but that shit needs shutting down. Holding up the first two shots, I pass one to him and hold mine up, ready to clink our glasses. “Down the hatch, up yours!”
The tequila—because I know tequila—slides down my throat, the burn welcome, and as I’m about to grab a second, I pause because Grinder’s looking at me again. This time, though, with curiosity instead of the usual hunger.
“Is that phrase a common Brit thing?”
“Dunno. It’s something my mum would say. She drank a lot, had a lot of house parties.” I shrug, downing shots two and three in quick succession. “Do I need to meet the prez now?”
“Nah, but I will introduce you to the birthday boy.” He follows suit and downs his shots as I jump from the stool.