Gunslinger: A Sports Romance (31 page)

"One second Elizabeth."

The bartender is a tall bleached blonde wearing a tight black t-shirt and leggings. Her face isn't overtly pretty, but I can see how men would consider her attractive. She immediately flirts with my stranger, as he appears to be placing a drink order. At least I think that's what he's doing. They're doing a lot of damn talking for just a simple drink order. I think what irritates me the most, is that it almost seems effortless between them. The conversation. The smiles. Her hair flipping. Her chest lifted high and forward with confidence. I have limited experience with guys; I wouldn't know how to flirt with a guy if my life depended on it. Not like she's doing. It's actually pretty sad.

The flirty bartender leans over the counter and whispers something in the stranger's ear, and he immediately looks back at me. I wonder what she's saying? Embarrassed that I'm gawking at the two of them, I swiftly bow my head and start fiddling with my phone. Not smooth at all. I know that I've been caught like a kid digging up her nose. That's why I'm startled but a little relieved when my phone actually buzzes to life. It's a legitimate distraction. It's a text from Sloan.

Sloan: Hey hooker

Me: Hey

Sloan: What's up?

Me: You're not going to believe this

Sloan: What!!

Me: I'm out with the family at a restaurant and HE'S here

Sloan: Who?

Me: The stranger from the club

Sloan: Oh. My. God. Is he fucking stalking you :)

Me: Did you type a smiley face bc I have a stalker?

A strange, prickly sensation flutters across the back of my neck.
 

Damn, he's back already.

Me: I gotta go

Sloan: Wait we didn't–

I quickly put my phone to sleep, because he's definitely back and standing very closely behind me with two glasses in his hands, along with a man in an ill-fitting oxford shirt and khakis standing next to him.
 

"I was just finishing a text to a friend." I start explaining like the bumbling idiot I am. As if he cares.

"I see that." He sits in the chair on the left side of me and hands me a glass of wine. "This is Mr. Edmonds. He's the manager of this fine establishment." He exaggerates the word fine as if it's anything but.

"I heard you had a slight accident in the waiting area Miss–"

"Elizabeth." I take a sip then set my glass down.

"Elizabeth. On behalf of management I'd like to extend my deepest apologies. It's our fault that the area was so crowded. We have to do a better job of managing walk-ins and getting folks seated faster."

I dip my head in agreement, but I honestly don't really believe this is the restaurant's fault. I fell down completely on my own, but I can tell by the manager's bleak face, that he wants me to accept whatever he has prepared to say, so that he can get on with the rest of his night. He seems nervous. Perhaps because the stranger is giving him a steely look that would scare the hell out of just about anyone. So I just let poor Mr. Edmonds continue on with his totally unnecessary spiel.

"As a courtesy I'd like to cover your drinks for tonight and add a credit to your party's bill."

Oh crap! The party. How long have I been gone?

"Well that's very kind of you Mr. Edmonds. But it was totally my–"

"You may want to speak to that kid's parents," the stranger abruptly interrupts. "They were nowhere in the vicinity when this whole thing happened. I'm concerned for you as well with liability issues and all."

"Of course sir." He turns to me, "I actually remember the party you came in with Miss. I'll be sure to credit the check appropriately."
 

Mr. Edmonds fidgets with his watch and waits for what I think is his dismissal. The stranger just stares at him waiting. It's an uneasy standoff. I can tell that the stranger takes great pleasure in punking other men. Not something I approve of, but I admit it's nice to know that he can handle himself. As if there was ever any doubt.

"Ok well ... you both have a pleasant evening and enjoy your meal."

The stranger nods with a smug look on his face.

I smile at Mr. Edmonds, and hope that he realizes that my grin is not a self-satisfied one but more of an apology than anything.

"You could have let me finish what I was going to say to the poor man," I say to the stranger as soon as Mr. Edmonds walks away.

"I could have but it sounded like you were going to say that it was totally your fault or some such bullshit."

I suck in a breath of surprise at his bluntness. "Well, it was my fault."

"Nope," he says matter of factly. "It wasn't."

"Well, thank you anyhow."

"No thanks necessary, but I would like something in return."

"What?" I ask shifting my feet nervously.

"Relax Duchess. I just want you to stay and finish your drink with me."

"Duchess? Umm–" I squirm a little not knowing how to respond to being given a nickname by him. I like it, but I damn sure don't want to like it.

"We're not strangers anymore." He flashes a delicious grin featuring that dimple of his again, and I could just melt on the spot. "And I give all my friends nicknames."

I watch him swirl and sip on what looks and smells like a whiskey highball. His posture exuding nothing but sheer dominance. Tonight he's wearing a pair of black pants with a black button down shirt, sleeves loosely rolled up mid-forearm, and a pair of black chucks to dress it all down. His five o'clock shadow is heavier today and like someone with a zit on their face, my eyes seem to be constantly drawn to the scar on his face. He's so frackin' beautiful, I can't stand it.

As I gawk at him, he seems to be quietly studying me as well. Like he's trying to figure me out, as if I'm some sort of brain-teaser or five thousand piece jigsaw puzzle.
There's something about the way he observes me which is extremely unnerving and provocative.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I blurt out before I even realize what I'm saying.

"How am I looking at you?"
 

"Like a piece of chicken."

Someone tape my mouth shut please.

He lets out a low chuckle highlighting that lone dimple again, which gives me the sudden urge to crawl up his body like a flagpole and lick the side of his face. I wish.

"I'm not a big talker, so I prefer to observe."

"Then why did you want me to have a drink with you? To just observe me?" I giggle nervously.

He moves closer to me. "Do you have a man Duchess?"

I look down at my feet when I answer his question. "Absolutely not."
 

"Oh, absolutely not. That's a strong statement. Not looking for anything serious are we?"

He lifts my chin with his fingers.

"Nope. I'm not looking for anything serious or casual." I hesitantly look in his eyes to gauge his reaction to my comment.

"Staying away from all men then?"

"Yep. They haven't been so good for my health." I try to joke when in actuality I'm serious as all hell.

He leans his head to the side. "So the fact that I have zero chance is what you're so eloquently trying to say."

I stare at him stunned. It was plain as day that he could have any woman he wanted, but was he actually saying he had some sort of real interest in me?

"I guess that's what I'm saying." I'm not even sure I believe the words coming out of my mouth.

"Bad relationship?"

"Something like that."

He pauses a moment and his body language shifts before he says the next thing.

"Have you ever had a no-strings sexual relationship with a man Duchess?"

I choke a little on my wine. He wants to have sex with me? That would be lovely if I wasn't such a scaredy-cat. There's no way in hell an inexperienced mess like me is going to sleep with someone like him. That's why I decide that I need to immediately shut this conversation down and get back to my party, before I say anything stupid like, No but I want one with you.

"Umm no, but listen, thanks so much for your help yet again, but I have to get back to my party. They're probably worried. Maybe I'll see you around."

And I ran out of there like a bat out of hell, before he could stop me.
 

Even though a small part of me totally wished that he would have tried.

CHAPTER TEN

ROMAN

I SHOULD HAVE STOPPED HER from running. That's what a smart man would have done. Damn she was beautiful. Those white jeans hugging every one of her mouth watering curves like a glove. Those perfect tits. That fucking mouth. Those eyes, almond shaped and evocative. I'd love to know what she was thinking about that made her eyes wary of me for just a moment, then warm, then something else. It's the something else that I'm most interested in. I'm not used to that type of layered reaction from a woman. I'm used to attraction and definitely lust, but not whatever that was.

I'm not a superstitious person, but there's no way in hell that I can't recognize a sign when I see one. I see this woman twice in a week and both times I find her on the ground needing my help. I made my mind up to start looking for her at The Lotus and not even twenty-four hours later, she appears to me like a water apparition to a thirsty man in the hot desert. At the very least, I need to know who she is, why she keeps ending up in the middle of the floor, and why the fuck she keeps running from me. I figure the easiest path to the information I need may be obtained if I head back over to the chatty blond bartender.
 

"I'm looking for Edmonds." I say to her.

"What do you need with him again?" She asks seductively. "Maybe I can help you."
 

She whips all of her hair to the side so that I have a clearer view of the side of her slender neck and her breasts. She has a nice rack, but she's not who or what I'm interested in at the moment.

"The woman I was talking to. I need to know which private party she's with."

"Why?" She asks with a tinge of jealousy in her voice. I'm used to women being territorial with me, and typically I enjoy it, but I don't have the patience for this shit right now.

"Do you know or not?"

Her mouth twists in disapproval, but she gives me an answer anyway. "She's in the Madison room."

"Madison?" I repeat.

"Yep." She says dismissively as she goes to take an order from another patron.

That's the room my party is in. Joseph's party.
 

The only other sign I need.

She's mine.

***

WHEN I ENTER THE DOORS OF The Madison room, I immediately start scanning the room looking for Elizabeth but unfortunately lock eyes with the old man first. I can see the disapproval simmering behind the frozen glare he's giving me. It's his birthday, and his precious Juliette threw him a party for which I am late. He's not going to say anything to me about it, but he doesn't have to. The look he's throwing my way says it all. My father has always been tough on me. I'm used to it. So I nod to him in acknowledgement of his birthday and in silent apology for being late as well. I'm sure he'll make me pay for it in some other way in the very near future.

When I was a kid and my mother took off for over three weeks, which was the longest stretch of time she had ever left home, I ran out of food and money and finally broke down and called Joseph. We weren't close like a typical father and son, but I was desperate. I didn't know it at the time, but my mother was suffering from bipolar disorder in addition to being an addict. She would sometimes leave to go on a binge but had never been missing that long. When Joseph came to pick me up he told me, "You're never coming back here again. So make your peace with it. You're going to be better than this. Forget about this place."
 

For a while, things were good. I tried to be the son that Joseph wanted me to be. Smart. Respectful. Appreciative. Controlled. Ambitious. The son of a rising millionaire. But I'd been taking care of my mother and myself a little too long in the 'hood to let go of all of my bad habits. My dirty mouth. My temper. My trust issues. My problem solving skills. My penchant for pussy.
 

As I grew older and started working for Joseph, my bad habits seemed to mushroom, and the distance between us grew even wider. Things came to a head when he politely announced that I had exactly seven days to find another place to live. I remember it exactly, because it was also the same day I came frighteningly close to killing a man. My knuckles were purple, bruised, swollen, and my fingernails still carried traces of the man's crusty dried blood underneath them. I hadn't hurt this particular man because he threatened my life or did something to seriously piss me off. I did it strictly because Joseph asked me to handle a work issue, which I allowed to get completely out of hand. While I definitely had given out my fair share of beat downs in the past, kicking someone's ass beyond the point of reasonable was an entirely different thing for me. Especially because I almost beat this guy to the brink of death.
 

The man's name was Carl. I'll always remember that name. Anytime I hear it my eye inadvertently twitches. He was in the ICU for five days, and they had to resuscitate him twice. Luckily for me, Joseph took care of the details, and I was never a formal suspect in the beating even though there was DNA evidence all over the place. It was filed by the police as an unsolved gang-related assault thanks to a few connections my father had at the precinct. Although I never faced any charges for it, there was something about almost beating a man to death that stuck with me.
 

It changed me.

And the change has been darkening, growing, and curling inside me ever since.

That's what my father sees when he looks at me - darkness, disappointment, lack of control.

Joseph comes from the very same humble beginnings that I do, and in order for him to carve out the immense success that he has, I understand that he's had to make tough decisions. Sacrifices. Choices that have cost him a lot. When you make those sorts of choices in life, there are always consequences, and he never likes to look back. I think I remind him of what's back there. What he comes from. What he's had to do. What he now looks upon with disdain and would like to forget. He's rather fucking hypocritical though, and sometimes I'd really like to tell him how much of a hypocrite he is.