You're to Blame(4)
“Here’s to a night of fun!” Rachel hollers.
I cringe, incapable of giving her the enthusiasm she needs.
*****
Murphy’s parking lot is full when our taxi pulls in a little after nine-thirty. I’ve heard of this place. Jacob says it can get kind of crazy most nights. His frat brothers have dragged him a handful of times, but since it’s twenty-one and over, I haven’t had the pleasure.
A giant man stands in front of the entrance with his arms folded over his broad chest. His presence makes my breaths shallow. I glance to Rachel and then back to the door with wide eyes.
Rachel waves a dismissive hand. “You’re covered. I slept with a guy last semester. He has a cousin in the fake ID business. I had one made up of you, hoping one day you’d participate in a night of debauchery.” She flicks her finger against the new ID. It’s identical to the one safely tucked in my wallet. Except now, apparently, I’m twenty-one.
“Let’s get this over with,” I groan through clenched teeth. It won’t be as painful as I’m letting on. Secretly, I get a kick out of bugging Rachel, and nothing annoys her more than someone not willing to let loose.
As we approach the bouncers, a gust of wind blows up my dress, if this strip of fabric even qualifies as a dress. The one holding the clipboard glances up. A grin plasters on his face as he eyes me pulling on the fabric. He nudges the guy next to him. Their attention locks on my legs. Great, now I’m a steak for them to eat.
Tattoos decorate the knuckles of his hand pinching my ID. Ballsy move to ink skin that will seldom be covered. He clearly doesn’t care how others will perceive him. For that alone, I’m jealous of him.
“Have a good time tonight, beautiful,” he growls, sliding his tongue along the ring protruding from his lip.
My eyes bulge. At my reaction, a rowdy laugh escapes him. Rachel giggles, pulling me towards the front door.
“You’re so na?ve, and it’s the most endearing thing about you. Those guys out there looked like they wanted to take you home and draw you a bath.” Rachel ushers me to the bar with her hand resting on my waist.
When she realizes I’m ignoring her comment, she leans over the bar in hopes of getting one of the bartender’s attention. I, being the best friend, I am, stand behind her so her butt cheeks aren’t on display for everyone’s enjoyment. Not that she cares.
“Holy shit,” Rachel whispers.
‘Holy shit’ can mean a million things in her world, all of which I ignore most days.
“Holy fuck, I might be in love.” She reaches behind her, swatting at the air, looking to connect with me.
“Who’s caught your attention now?” I ask, unaffected by her excitement. The drink special menu catches my eye, and I pick it up and scan down the list. Slippery nipple. Sex on the Beach. Redheaded slut.
Rachel pokes my shoulder, pulling me away from our sexually charged drink choices. Once she has my attention, her stare drifts to the tall specimen with his back to us. He has to be at least six-four, with broad shoulders and a certain confident, charismatic swagger. The tall drink of water grins at girls waiting patiently for their drinks and nods to guys as he slides beers across the bar. He’s well liked, and he knows it.
The bartender circles to face us. An audible gasp slips from my mouth as his face is bathed in light.
“Why does he look so familiar?” Rachel surveys him with wide, appreciative eyes. Her reaction is something a guy like him is used to.
“Duke Anderson,” I whisper. Or at least I think I whisper. He closes the gap between where he poses, and I stand gawking like a lunatic.
Tattoos, brilliant green eyes, and all on display in front of me.
He smirks as he leans across the bar. “In the flesh.”
“You two know each other?” Rachel’s eyes bounce between him and me, hopeful for an introduction, as he and I have a silent standoff.
“No,” I answer.
“Yes,” he says.
Well, shit.
Chapter Two
Duke
Murphy’s is in rare form tonight. Drinks fly from the bar to the masses. Loud music vibrates the floor. The bar doesn’t have a reputation for a quaint atmosphere, but fuck, it seems every idiot itching to fight has walked through the doors. First, two scrawny guys try to take off each other’s heads, and then a two-on-one girl fight near the bathroom.
Guys brawling is one thing. We have too much testosterone. We can’t help what sets us off sometimes. When douche bags run their mouths or overstep, you have to handle business. Girls rough housing is something I’ll never understand. The female population is meant to be delicate, not running around throwing punches and yanking each other’s hair out.
They’re supposed to be like her. The pretty girl at the end of the bar who quite literally covers her friend’s ass hanging out the bottom of her dress. She’s petite, but the heels help cover more ground before her friend gives the back end of the bar a show.
With only her profile visible, I lean over the bar to get a glance at the beauty. The lights above the bar make her skin glow. She has the softest of brown hair with highlights. All of those things are nice, but the dress makes it difficult to glance away. The color strikes me in the chest, drawing my attention away from anyone else around her.
Several minutes pass. Drink orders are shouted in my direction, but they go ignored. Nothing can tear my eyes away from this girl. She’s mesmerizing and familiar. I can’t put my finger on where I know her from.