Page 2 of Never Dance with the Devils
I’m struck by a wave of loneliness, but I quickly swallow that down the way I have so many times before. This is my life, the one I’ve always dreamed of—travel, business, work, and not much else. And I’m happy with it.
I am happy like this, I say again, letting it become a momentary mantra.
A guy steps up to the bar at my side and I instantly stiffen, not liking people in my space. I cut my eyes over, secretly checking the guy out to see how icy my brushoff needs to be, and find him already looking at me.
He’s tall, definitely over six feet, and so broad-shouldered that his black T-shirt looks like the seams are fighting to stay closed. His dark hair hangs in loose waves down to his stubble-covered chin, and the eyes looking back at me are framed in long lashes.
“Another one, Riggs?” the bartender asks.
The guy, Riggs, apparently, dips his chin once, making it seem like the simple act of nodding would require too much energy or show too much enthusiasm.His expression is flat, his gaze wary as his eyes stay locked on me.
He’s trouble. That much is obvious. I drop my eyes down his face, across his chest, and see that his arms are covered in tattoos. It’s too dark to read them, but I can see a large devilish figure with horns on his right bicep. No, he’s worse than trouble. He’s the delicious kind of trouble, walking sin.
I cut my eyes back to my drink, effectively dismissing him.
“You don’t look like you belong here,” he rumbles.
“So I’ve heard,” I clip out, not turning his way again.
“No, I mean…” I feel his breath as he sighs heavily. “Sorry, that was rude. I meant you look too good for a place like this.”
“Hey man, not cool,” the bartender interjects, defending the bar as he sets down a tall, dark beer before walking away again.
“I think you hurt his feelings,” I inform Riggs, ignoring his compliment. The truth is Idon’tlook like I belong here. I’m still dressed in the black pencil skirt, pinstriped button-up shirt, and stilettos that I wore to today’s meeting, while most of the female clubgoers are wearing skirts that barely cover their asses and blouses that show more than they cover.
He jerks his head to the right, glancing after the bartender like he had no idea of his insult. “Shit. You think so?”
“Nothing a few extra bucks can’t fix.”
“Noted.” Something about the way he says it makes me think he will actually tip the bartender a few more dollars, and I smile softly. He holds his hand out. “I’m Riggs.”
I lick my lips like I’m about to introduce myself too, but instead, I say, “I’m not looking to make friends tonight, Riggs. Just want to drink my scotch in peace and forget about my shitty day.”
“I get that. I had a shitty day too.”
“Not looking to share stories or compare dicks either.” I take a sip of my scotch.
He laughs, the sound rough like he doesn’t do it very often. “You’re funny.”
I am no such thing. Funny is an adjective that has never once been used to describe me. Until now. “Look, I’m sorry you had a shitty day too, but I don’t have a single fuck to give about being nice here. I want to be left alone.”
He frowns, his brows scrunching together like I’ve confused him. But after a heartbeat or two, he nods, this time giving me a full three up and downs of his head. “Hope your night is better than your day,” he says, picking up his beer.
After he disappears into the crowd, I breathe a sigh of relief, my shoulders dropping an inch as the façade of stony coldness falls away. But as I take another sip of my scotch and try to focus on how I could’ve handled today’s meeting differently, the dark emptiness of being alone returns.
Maybe I should’ve talked to him? A conversation doesn’t have to mean anything, and the distraction would be better than useless obsession over an idiotic CEO. I’m not one for small talk, but I find myself regretting my quick dismissal and nursing my scotch a little slower, hoping Riggs returns for another beer. I even glance over my shoulder once or twice, seeing if I canfind him on the dance floor or at one of the tables sprinkled throughout the club.
But no luck.
Suddenly, the DJ plays some song that has people rushing for the dance floor to do a line dance. That clears the outer area enough that I see him sitting in a round booth. Even the glimpse of him sends a tiny thrill through me, which is a rare enough occurrence for me that it warrants further investigation. I can only see half the table, so I can’t see if he’s with anyone, but it’s a calculated risk I’m willing to take.
I slide out of my coveted seat, knowing someone will take it before I’m a step away, and cross the room, my scotch in hand. As soon as I step up to the table’s edge, Riggs’s eyes lift to mine. His brows climb his forehead, his surprise at seeing me widening the eyes I can now see are actually a whiskey brown in the table’s fake candlelight.
“Changed my mind. Wanted to compare shitty days.” A smile starts to lift his lips, so I add, “And maybe dicks too.” He laughs again. Huh, maybe I am becoming funny? It’s probably my niece, Grace’s, influence. She’s twelve going on thirty and doesn’t have a single filter between her brain and her mouth, though if she so much as said the word ‘dick’, her dad, a.k.a. my brother Cameron, would have a brain aneurysm on the spot.
“Holy shit, man. You’re right. Total smoke show,” another voice says. Realizing I totally forgot to check if he was alone, I look to see who’s spoken and find that Riggs is sitting with someone else—another guy.
He looks tall too, though I’m judging by the fact thathis head is even with Riggs’s while they’re seated, and he’s equally muscular, though his shirt doesn’t seem quite as stretched and his arms appear tattoo-free. His hair is dark and shaggy, barely brushing the tops of his ears and nape of his neck, and his chocolatey eyes are filled with delight and excitement. If Riggs’s vibe is sin, this guy’s is stupid but fun choices.
