Losing Me, Finding You(13)

“Mireya Sawyer, meet Amy Cross,” I say as Mireya sighs and steps back, giving Amy an up and down once-over that doesn't say she's real pleased with my choice of women. Normally, Mireya will join if I give her the chance. Today, I can tell she's just not into it. She seemed like it earlier, but whatever she thought happened at the bridal shop must've changed her mind.

“Nice to meet you,” she drones as she steps away without another word and bumps into Gaine with a scowl plastered across her face. He gives me a look but follows Mireya to a table in the corner, drawing my attention to the rest of the room. Looks like my entire f*cking MC has come in for the night. Normally, I'd be the last one to give a shit, but tonight, I'm all for this sweet, little Southern girl with her culled accent and her shiny, white shoes. I bet they're the craziest ones she's got.

I turn back to Amy and watch as she slides the alcohol across the bar and stares at it with numb eyes. Without touching either her salt or her lime, Amy downs the gold liquid and slams the glass onto the countertop. And she doesn't even flinch. Holy f*ck. I knew she was just my type of girl.

“What's it like?” she whispers quietly. I watch her carefully and try to think about something other than how soft her breasts would feel beneath my hands. “The road, I mean. What's it like to travel all the time? To not have any place to call home. Is it hard?” Amy turns toward me suddenly, opening her pale eyes wide. She is f*cking pretty, no doubt about it, but it's not just her round eyes and swollen lips that draw my attention. Shit, I don't know what it is, but I want to own this girl, feel her beneath me as I slide inside and know that she belongs completely and solely to me. Even the mere thought of Amy with another man makes me feel like picking up one of these bar stools and tossing it out the f*cking window. And I just met the girl. I don't know whether to be pissed off or happy about that.

“Sometimes,” I answer her and I'm surprised to hear that my voice comes out in a whisper. Beck glances over at me, rubbing at the Jolly Roger tattoo on his chest. Amy looks at me hard, digging into my soul with those eyes. “Why?” She pauses and turns away to glance at Christy who's diverted her attention back to Beck. When she sees that her friend is distracted, she looks over at me again.

“Is there somewhere we could talk?” she asks and my body goes stiff as a friggin' rock. When a girl asks that question, she's got only one thing on her mind. I start to wonder if I was wrong about little Miss Amy; it shouldn't be this easy.

“Pool room's open,” the bartender says, standing way too close to us. His face is neutral, but despite his tattoos and his shoulder length black hair, I don't think he has a damn clue what the girl means. I start to protest, to tell Amy that I'd be happy to take her up to my hotel room, when she nods and pushes back her empty shot glass.

“Thanks,” she says, reaching out as if she's going to take my hand and pausing. She lets her arm drop to her side and nibbles on her lower lip. After a moment she stops and looks back over at me. “Come with me?” she asks, and I nod, suddenly uncertain about what in the dark depths of hell is going on. I'd kinda like to consider myself an expert on women. I've loved enough to tell you that whatever it is that Cross is up to, I've not experienced it before. I stand up and follow behind her tight, little ass, trying to keep my eyes away from the table where Gaine and Mireya sit. I can practically feel those dark eyes on me, watching, disapproving. Hell, Austin, what do you care what Sawyer thinks? She don't own your ass.

Amy pushes through the doors in the back like she knows exactly where she's going, leading us into a room with four pool tables and not much else. Once she's inside, she spins to face me, her beautiful hair sticking to her lips as it flows around her face.

“How do I join?” she asks and it takes me a long, hot second to figure out what it is that she wants. I'm having a hard time thinking past the surges of excitement that are coursing through my body, begging me to grab the girl and throw her over the green felt, f*ck her until these strange feelings inside of me are gone.

“I don't know what you mean, babe?” I ask as Amy steps close, too close, and her heat envelopes me, teasing me with the soft scent of flowers and sex. This girl is ready whether she knows it or not.

“Your gang – group – whatever. The people with the triple M's on the back of their jackets.” Ah. The girl wants to join my motorcycle club. I pause for a moment and rub my chin, trying to figure out what to say. She's not the first chick to ask, but she is the first to seem so serious about it, to look at me with eyes burning with fire and a voice quavering with need, like if I don't answer her, she'll shrivel up and die.

“Believe me, Amy, when I tell you that you don't want to be a part of this.”

“No,” she tells me, glancing up sharply. “I need to be.”

And then she's stepping forward and running her hands up my chest, leaning forward on her toes so that the lace trim on the neckline of her top skims the fabric of my shirt, close but not close e-f*cking-nough.

“Help me,” she whispers, voice dropping so low that the last word barely reaches my ears. Or maybe my pulse is pumping too loud in my Goddamn head to hear anything at all; I realize that the buzz and the clink of glasses from the bar has gone silent. Whoever this girl is, I don't care. All I know is that I need her, now, right here, f*cking fast and friggin' furious. But then I remind myself that she's a virgin and a small town lady who doesn't know shit about shit, and I just can't do that to her, not unless she asks.