Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(4)

Summoning my courage, I take a middle stool at the bar and tell the bartender, who’s busy watching something on his phone, “Tequila, the finest you have—straight up,” in a gruff voice that I hope makes me sound like I can hold my own, in case someone is eyeing up my purse.

He doesn’t look up, merely smiles down at whatever he’s watching as he pours me something from a bottle called Montezuma and serves with his free hand. What the hell is Montezuma?

Great service. “Um. I said the best you have.”

He looks up at me, finally seeing me for the first time. A frown of annoyance on his lips. “This is the best, princess. Also the only.”

I probably don’t want to upset him, seeing how he has arms the size of tree trunks, covered in tattoos.

I take my shot and guzzle it down. It’s awful, like paint thinner, squeezing tears from my eyes. Whatever. I tap the bar for another. When my curiosity gets the best of me, I ask, “What are you watching?”

“Jimmy.”

“Jimmy what?”

“Jimmy Rowan. The stunt guy on YouTube? He’s going to get killed one day.”

“Hopefully not today.” I frown and peer at the screen. “What kind of stunts does he do anyway? That’s so dangerous.”

He tilts his phone completely toward me. A guy in a helmet and nylon jumpsuit is throwing himself off an airplane. He’s speaking into the camera, saying, “So I was dared to pull the strings fifteen seconds after any sane, normal human being would. So, let’s count down from right about . . . now.”

My eyes widen, and my insides clutch in concern for the idiot behind the camera.

Fourteen . . .

The static from the wind makes his voice sound shattered, strained.

“Thirteen.” The bartender is counting.

I watch the idiot continue his free fall as land grows closer beneath him.

“What an idiot,” I mumble, but I’m still unable to take my eyes off the video.

“Five!” the bartender says.

I look away. “Just tell me he lived.”

“Oh, he lives.” He shows me the camera when the guy finally pulls the cord on his chute, and a few seconds later, crashes into the ground. The guy growls, “Ouch,” then starts laughing, a low, rumbly laugh. I can’t help but smile and shake my head.

“And he did this all because . . .”

“They dared him to. Five hundred bucks.”

“He did all of that? For five hundred bucks?”

“He gets more from the video views. A man’s got to put food on the table.” He eyes me up and down. “Specially when he doesn’t have a trust fund coming to him.”

Hell, and all I want is a man to wear my suits and look pretty for a few events. “Why can’t I find such a man?” I ask out loud, shaking my head as I push my empty glass forward. “Bartender. Another drink. Please.”

I’m on my third.

He pours it for me. “Classy guy, that Jimmy.”

“In what dictionary?”

He frowns as he sets his phone back into his pocket and polishes a glass. “Huh?”

“What dictionary would define him as classy?”

His eyes widen as if I’ve just murmured something blasphemous. “Well, maybe not your class. He doesn’t own a Rolls. But around here, he’s royalty. Jimmy hangs out here all the time.” He nods at a dark corner booth situated to the right of the bar. “His office is right over there.”

I see the cluttered tabletop and wonder what kind of man leaves a tripod, camera, and old laptop set up in a bar. He must trust the people who patronize this place. Either that or the patrons fear him.

“Jimmy Rowan will do anything for a dare—he’s a man of honor.”

“If he’d do that for five hundred, what would he do for half a million or more?” I grumble, smiling and shaking my head at the thought. At least I can still smile.

“Hell, shit, ma’am, he’d do anything. What? You offering?” He eyes me with new interest, in kind of a smarmy way, as if he thinks I’m asking to buy Jimmy’s services. Who the heck does he think I am? “Ladies go for him.”

Oh god, he does think that.

“No, thank you very much,” I mutter. “Ladies or women? I don’t think a lot of ladies would go for someone that foolish.”

He raises his gaze past my shoulders. Silence falls over the room, and then the bartender murmurs, “Speak of the devil . . .”

There’s a loud crash, followed by a ruckus.

“What’s that?” I glance around at the commotion.

The bartender smiles. “Jimmy Rowan.”

I turn my gaze to the door, and my heart skips a beat. The tall, raw-looking sex machine the bartender refers to doesn’t look anything like a Jimmy. The guy is too tall and eye catching and too . . . well, hot.

I don’t recognize him from his video. He was wearing a helmet during the stunt I just watched on YouTube. But right now, he’s wearing a head of dark mussed-up hair. Worn jeans that sit perfectly on his narrow waist. And a black T-shirt that looks old and tattered, hugging muscles that only a truly athletic man could ever develop.

Realizing I’m staring as if I’ve never seen a real live man before, I purse my lips in distaste at myself, blame it on the cheap tequilas, and turn back to my drink.