Stepbrother Bastard (3 page)

But
it
’
s
not until he turns my way that I feel the rest of the world fall away.

A
crown of loose brown curls tumbles across his forehead, falling to just above
his collar. Long enough to be gorgeously scruffy, but definitely not unkempt.
His solid jawline is shadowed with dark stubble, giving way to sharp cheekbones
and a full, firm mouth that
’
s twisted into a wry
half-smile. He
’
s got to be over six feet tall, with
a perfectly balanced and seamlessly
muscled
body; a body that strikes me as evidence of both a genetic miracle and a
ruggedly physical lifestyle. But while this man would catch my eye any time he
entered a room, it
’
s his eyes that keep me
staring at him with rapt, awestruck attention.

They
’
re
the most beguiling, brilliant shade of hazel I
’
ve
ever seen in real life. Their color seems to shift with every move he makes.
Yet it
’
s
the content of his eyes that
’
s most arresting of all.
There
’
s
a depth to his gaze that
’
s seemingly bottomless.
He has the eyes of someone who has seen worse things than most people can
imagine, lived through harder times than many could survive. But despite that
vast experience, there
’
s mirth there too. The
devil-may-care defiance of a true adventurer. Those right there are the eyes of
a warrior. A knight. A man who
’
s well acquainted with
battle.

And
right now, those eyes are swinging my way.

His
gaze locks onto mine with a sniper
’
s
precision, and I watch as that small smile widens just a hair
…
at
my expense.

“
You
must be lost,
”
he
says in a rich, clear baritone.

“
Wh-what
’
s
that?
”
I stammer, feeling about
two feet tall.

“
I
know every face that walks through that door,
”
he goes on, nodding
toward the exit.
“
And yours ain
’
t
one of
‘
em.
”

“
Oh,
”
I reply, straightening my
spine,
“
I
’
m
just, uh
…
passing
through.
”

Passing through?
I chide myself.
What
is this, a John Wayne movie?

The
man behind the bar nods, amused, and begins to turn away without comment. I
feel heat rise into my cheeks at being brushed off. What, is he just going to
completely ignore me? I have as much right to be here as anyone else, even if I
’
m
not exactly his preferred clientele. It
’
s
not exactly unreasonable to expect a bartender to take your drink order, is it?
I call after him, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

“
Could
I get a drink, please?
”
I ask him.

His
head snaps back toward me with a look of indignation. He cocks an eyebrow,
giving me a raking once-over that leaves trails of heat all along my skin. A
searing pang twists my core
—
it feels something like
longing. Or ire. Or both?

“
Do
I look like a fucking bartender to you?
”
the man shoots back at
me, drawing the attention of a few other guys along the bar.

“
Well
…
You
do seem to be tending the bar,
”
I point out, gripping the edge of my stool
to keep my hands from shaking.

He
tosses back his head, giving his dark curls a toss as he lets out a bark of
laughter. In one swift motion, he sets the lip of his bottle against the bar
and brings his fist slamming down, sending the cap flying.

“
Nah.
I
’
m
just in a habit of getting what I want for my own damn self,
”
he tells me, taking a
long swig of beer. I watch those full lips press up against the glass bottle
and feel a jolt of sensation run down my spine. He lowers the beer and shoots
me an arrogant wink,
“
Don't jump to conclusions,
babe.
”

“
Don
’
t
call me babe, asshole,
”
I shoot back before I can stop myself.

That
gets his attention. For
the first time, he actually seems to pause and consider me. That pang in my
belly rings out to the very edges of my body as his gaze lingers on me. How can
I be so viscerally attracted, so automatically responsive to someone who
’
s
clearly an arrogant dick? Maybe it
’
s
just pent-up sexual energy from these past few months of lackluster lovemaking
with Paul
…
Though
I suspect this new guy would have the same effect on me no matter when he
happened to cross my path.

Those
firm lips of his part, locked and loaded with a scathing comeback, no doubt.
But before he can utter a syllable, an older voice rings out behind him.

“
Hawthorne!
”
shouts a graying, barrel-chested
man marching toward the bar from the stock room.
“
What
part of
‘
wait
to be served
’
don
’
t
you understand?
”

“
Don
’
t
know what to tell you, Jimmy,
”
my sparring partner shrugs, knocking back
his beer,
“
I
’
m
not real good at taking orders.
”

“
No,
that
’
s
my job,
”
grumbles Jimmy, taking
his rightful place behind the bar. He catches sight of me sitting there and
goes on,
“
Speaking of, what
’
ll
you have, sweetheart?
”

I
spot the dark-haired man watching me out of the corner of his eye. His very
gaze feels like a challenge. A dare. And as usual, I find myself unable to pass
it up. Normally, my drink is a mojito. But I have a feeling that wouldn
’
t
go over to well, here.

“
Bourbon.
Neat,
”
I tell the bartender,
whose eyebrows raise at my order.

“
OK.
Coming right up,
”
he replies, turning away.

The
tall stranger leans against the rough wooden bar, nursing his beer. He smiles
at me with more amusement than kindness.

“
Bourbon,
huh? Was that for my benefit?
”
he asks condescendingly.

“
Oh,
absolutely,
”
I
drawl back, my words dripping with sarcasm.
“
I
’
m
very
invested in impressing you.
”

“
I
tend to have that effect on people,
”
he replies nonchalantly.
I try not to notice the way his built arms flex as he brings the beer to his
lips. There
’
s not an ounce of fat on that body of
his
—
just
muscle, sinew, and tons of ink. He
’
s
rocking a full sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. I find myself wondering
where else he
’
s tatted-up. Wanting to find out for
myself
…

“
Here
you go,
”
Jimmy says, setting a
lowball glass on the bar before me. Not exactly a light pour, either. But it
’
s
not like I can back down now.

I
take the glass in my hand
—
the strong, smoky smell
of the booze threatening to singe my eyebrows right off my face. The arrogant
stranger
’
s
hazel eyes are hard on my face, his lips twisted into a rakish grin. But now
that I
’
m
feeling rightly competitive, I
’
m dead set on wiping that
smug look off his face. Bracing myself, I bring the whiskey to my lips and
knock back a long swig
—
half the glass at least.
The powerful burn hits me like a sledgehammer at first, but then that
satisfying, fiery buzz warms me all over. I have to say, I get the appeal.

Smiling
triumphantly, I look up to watch the stranger
’
s
reaction
…
but
no one
’
s
there. He
’
s already fallen into conversation
with another regular at the back of the bar, having totally lost interest in
me. I
’
m
far more disappointed than makes any rational sense. What do I care about
holding the attention of some guy at a bar? Some intriguing, sexy guy I can
’
t
stop stealing glances at no matter how hard I try
…

“
Pull
yourself together, Porter,
”
I mutter under my breath, settling down to
sip my whiskey and lick my wounds. Maybe I
’
m
out of flirting practice after an entire young adulthood of monogamy. Though,
come to think of it, I don
’
t think I was ever
in
the practice of flirting to begin with. This whole random hookup challenge of
Allie
’
s
might be a bit harder to complete than I thought.

“
Well
look at you, drinking all by your lonesome,
”
a grainy, sneering voice
says from over my shoulder.

The
sudden address startles me, and I turn quickly around on my stool, guard
raised. One of the biker guys has wandered over from the pool table to chat me
up. His body looks solid as a tank, all bulging veins and flushed red skin.
Thick dark hair covers his chest and arms, and I can
’
t
help but picture a gorilla pickup artist as I take him in.

“
That
’
s
right,
”
I inform him, trying to
toe the line between ignoring and encouraging him. I pray that he
’
ll
take the hint and back off
…
but instead he steps up
to the bar beside me, popping my bubble of personal space like it
’
s
his God-given right.

“
I
can fix that for you,
”
he grins, booze thick on his breath as he
leers at me,
“
Let me buy you a drink, Hun.
”

“
Well,
you know what they say,
”
I reply coolly,
“
If
it ain
’
t
broke
…”

“
Damn,
girl! You
’
ve got some mouth on you,
”
he laughs meanly, taking
a long swig from his beer can.
“
I
’
d
love to know what else that mouth is good for,
’
sides
backtalk.
”

“
Children
talk back,
”
I
tell him, my face stony,
“
Women choose not to
engage in conversation with men who make them uncomfortable.
”

“
Is
that
what I
’
m doing? Making you
uncomfortable?
”
the
guy presses, leaning in close to my face. A cold spike of fear cuts through my
annoyance with him. And that spike only drives in deeper as I see one of his
buddies
—
a
haggard, rangy guy
—
peel
away from the group around the pool table and head our
way. If they start something with me, I
’
m
on my own to stop them. The owner, Jimmy, is down at the other end of the bar,
eyes fixed on the hockey game. And who knows if I could even count on him, or
any
of the men in here, to stand up for a random woman over another local?