Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(5)

There’s a loud whistle. “Luke!”

“Jimmy!” the bartender greets him back.

I glance past my shoulder again, unable to stop the quiver in my stomach. My eyes fall on him—and rebelliously stay there. His hair is a little too long, reaching his collar and curling at the tips. Dark as midnight. He’s smiling as he greets the guys who come over, and the women seem to be sitting up taller or standing and thrusting out their tits or hips. Some are even sultrily walking over to him. He oozes confidence and strength while, at the same time, there’s a playful tug at the corner of his mouth that makes him look young and devilish.

He looks . . . dirty. Unkempt.

And wow. Nobody seems to care about that.

He’s like some sort of celebrity around here.

I run my eyes over his chest and can’t help but notice the way his shirt clings to broad shoulders. His biceps are clearly hard, as the shirt presses to his skin as he moves. His worn jeans embrace his slim hips, and the guy’s got long legs, his thighs hugged by the denim material. An uncomfortable little frisson shoots down my spine as he looks up, as if sensing my stare.

“Jimmy!” some girl walking over from the corner calls out.

I snort and shake my head, frowning over how foolishly these girls are behaving. At my snort, Jimmy swings his head to look at me, a dimple under his scruffy beard appearing a little bit as our eyes meet.

Bearded jaw. Roguish smile. Golden tan. White teeth. Eyes so bright and blue it’s sort of a shock when they land on me.

Why is it all turning me on? He might be hot, but he is not my type at all. I’m me, and he’s . . . so raw; he’s the most primitive man I’ve ever seen.

I shift in my stool and turn back to take a quick sip of my drink, bracing myself for another look.

I steal it. My stomach clutches because, oh god, he’s blatantly staring at me.

He raises an eyebrow, and I stiffen in my seat and turn back to my drink, listening to a soft male laugh behind me.

“Jimmy . . . you fucking asshole!” I hear someone call.

I turn, and Jimmy is now looking at another guy, who’s kicking his chair back.

Jimmy raises one eyebrow. For some reason, the deep bass of his voice causes the hairs on my arms to rise to attention. “I told you I’d find you.” Jimmy speaks threateningly to the other man.

“Here I am, fucker,” the other says.

They start to face off, winding around the tables to the vacant space between.

“You make it so damn easy,” Jimmy murmurs with a scoff. He flexes his arms at his sides, his biceps bunching in a way I fear might make his T-shirt pop.

Why the hell am I here? In the middle of a freaking bar fight? Jeanine would tell me to get the fuck out, but she also would’ve told me never to come in here in the first place. But I’m strangely rooted to my stool. Before I can take another breath, Jimmy lunges at the guy.

His opponent falls onto the table behind him, and the table legs break with a loud crack, sending him flat on his back with Jimmy Rowan on top.

“Ahh, fuck, Jimmy!” the bartender groans as he swings up over the counter and slides down to the other side, charging over. “Dude, take this outside. OUTSIDE! FUCK IT, TAKE IT OUTSIDE, JAMES!”

Wait. His name is James?

Kind of like . . . Bond. James Bond?

The bartender and another man pull James back, and James shakes his head with a scowl and glares down at the man on the ground. “Fine. I’m fine.”

They release him, and James drags a hand restlessly along the back of his neck before he raises his head and looks at me again. My heart skips a crazy little beat as he stares at me; then he seems to recover his anger and dives for the guy one more time.

The crowd watches as both guys punch each other, rolling on the ground, and as the fight continues, I sit here, paralyzed. I’m shocked but can’t look away. It’s like watching a train wreck.

“JIMMY!” half of the bar cries, while the other half is just watching, like me. Though I have to say a lot of the people here look amused. I’m not.

Again, two men pull James back, and he lets out an angry curse as he’s held back, his eyes whipping to mine again.

He stares at me with flaring nostrils, no apology or remorse in his stare. He’s not looking away, his stare sexual and blatant, as if he wants me to know it.

I lick my lips, my hands trembling as I reach into my purse and pull out some money. I leave it on the bar. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving and stretching his T-shirt as I quickly sling my purse around my shoulder, grab my jacket, and start walking toward the door.

His eyes crawl over me with every step I take, and I vaguely remember I’m wearing a business suit. My jacket is in my fist, the shirt I’m wearing too white, my nipples pushing against the material. My skirt feels shorter than I’m sure it is, a little tighter than I remember.

I can’t fucking wait to get out of here.

What is this man doing to me?

“You cool, man?” the bartender keeps asking this James Rowan guy. The YouTube star. The daredevil.

James gives him a sharp nod, frowning, his gaze focused on me.

The bartender smiles as he follows James’s gaze, as if he knows something that I don’t.

I’m not so sure I want to know.

It’s as if everyone is shocked that James’s attention keeps coming back to me.