The Perfect Stroke (2 page)

“Ready for a refill, darlin’?”  

I grin up at the bartender, who admittedly is the only reason I stayed in this bar. It’s not my speed. I’m more into the biker bar about three streets over. One of my customers recommended this place because they have a live band on Saturday nights, so I said to hell with it. Ten minutes in when the band started singing a Black-Eyed Peas song that I could barely remember, I knew I was in trouble. Then Mr. Tall—blue eyes, in faded jeans with holes, black t-shirt, and curly sandy-brown hair—smiled at me when I sat down at the bar. He got me a drink and I’ve been here ever since. Sure, he got me a drink because he’s the bartender, but he keeps looking at my boobs.

I think it’s pretty clear what’s going on here.

“Hit me,” I tell him with an easy grin. Easy, because after a shot of Jack and then a glass of Jack and Coke on top of that, I’m pretty damn loose—so loose, that with this second drink, I’m pretty sure my ass will be finding a hotel to snooze the night away. Maybe I can convince the bartender to go with me. Again, do not judge me. The last time I had sex, I’m pretty sure, was two presidents ago. If you want to do the math, we’re talking six years.
Six years.
Women can say what they want about vibrators, but they do not, under any circumstance, take the place of the real thing. And the bartender who keeps smiling at me definitely looks like he could be packing the real thing.

“Damn, babe. You’re busy tonight,” I hear a deep voice say in front of me. When I look up, another man who looks like he just stepped off the pages of the Sexiest Man Alive magazine is talking—unfortunately, to the bartender I’ve had my eye on. They share a quick but heated kiss. I cry a little bit inside, give up my dream of me and the bartender tonight, and go back to my drink.

That saying about all the good ones being married or gay is
so
freaking true. It’s probably why I am still single and my friend Raymond has a great guy at home.

“Can I buy you another, sweet lips?”

Sweet lips?

“I don’t think so,” I tell him, barely looking up. It doesn’t matter what he looks like; being called sweet lips is enough to turn me off immediately.

“I’ll have a scotch and get the lady whatever she’s having.”

“The
lady
is just fine. Persistent, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes, it pays to be,” he says, and finally his country twang and the aw-shucks-good-old-boy-vibe makes me look up. He’s tall and broad, with brown, sandy hair shaved close, a five o’clock shadow—which is so dark I’d say it’s closer to six—brown eyes, and a face that looks like an sculptor chiseled it from stone. A god, maybe.
He’s that pretty
. Though he fires everything feminine up inside of me, his good looks is a turn-off. I’ve dated a perfect guy before. The only thing perfect was the reflection in the mirror. I don’t need to go back down that road again—
ever
.

“I was just getting ready to leave,” I tell him, and that’s not completely a lie.

“Don’t leave yet. You’re the first thing I’ve seen that gives me a reason for being in this town. What’s your name?”

“Well, it’s definitely not ‘sweet lips’,” I tell him, picking up the new drink the man of my dreams bartender—though gay and taken—puts down. The guy smiles at my comment and sits down beside me, then leans into me like we’re long lost lovers. I try to ignore the way he smells, but find it’s a little impossible. He wears a cologne that I’ve never smelled before. It must feed every pheromone I’ve got, because combined with his rugged male scent, it’s making a woman like me drunk… and horny. 
Dangerous
.
He’s definitely dangerous.
I may want a good time, but this guy screams “player”—
rich
player. The bartender is much more my speed. It’s not that I’m a snob. Just the opposite, really. I find that rich people are obnoxious as hell.

“I bet your lips are sweet though, darlin’.”

Obnoxious—even if guys like him are cute when they’re trying to get laid. I lean into him with a smile. I run my tongue over my lip, just for good measure.

“That’s something you’ll never find out,” I whisper and take another drink.

He stops for a minute, like my reply shocked him, and then he gives me a deep grin that even makes his brown eyes twinkle.
Damn.

“I always did like a challenge,” he says, and I can feel excitement thrum through my system. I hear the alarm and danger bells going off… I just don’t seem able to stop staring into his eyes.

Did I mention:
damn??

She doesn’t know who I am
.

It’s a strange feeling—although not at all unpleasant. Let’s face it: I realize golf isn’t the most exciting sport, and the major draw here in the state of Kentucky is horseracing or college basketball, so odds were in favor of me not being recognized, but it surprises me just the same. Still. It’s almost tourney time and golf has been monopolizing the news. It’s not that I’m bragging or anything, but fuck, I’ve seen my face so often on the sports shows, I just assumed everyone else has. There can be no mistaking it though that this woman clearly doesn’t know who I am. I haven’t had a woman want me just for me and not my name or my bank account. There’s just one problem: sweet lips here
doesn’t
seem to want me.
Challenge placed and accepted.
I won’t give up until I have her under me screaming my name.

“I always did like a challenge,” I tell her with a practiced grin. It’s not really bragging when I admit that this grin has literally gotten me into the pants of thousands of women, and some were even prettier than the beauty staring at me now.

She’s a banging little redhead with green eyes who has legs that go for miles, curves that should be illegal, and tits and an ass that I’m sure make men beg.
Hell, I want to beg now.
That aside, there’s something about this particular woman that appeals to me in ways no other woman has for far too long. I could say it has to do with the fact that she doesn’t know who I am. Perhaps it is, and the novelty will wear off—
after I fuck her brains out
. 

“It wasn’t a challenge,” she says, taking a sip of her drink.

“It wasn’t a yes,” I tell her.

“Odd, I wasn’t aware that was a yes or no question.”

“Everything boils down to yes or no. ‘I bet your lips are sweet’ definitely means I intend to find out. You letting me boils down to yes or no.”

“So my answer here would be… no?” The way she tilts her head to the side and pulls her eyebrow up as if daring me sends a fire through my system. Is it really because her reaction is such a change from the way women usually throw themselves at me?

“I’d prefer if your answer was to bring your mouth to mine and let me taste your lips,” I tell her, lowering my voice and angling my head so only she can hear me.

I watch her closely. I think I can see a slight shudder move through her. She’s not completely unaffected by me. Is it a game for her? Playing hard to get to try and keep my interest? That’s not out of the realm of possibility, though if true, it would disappoint me. Not that I truly give a damn. The endgame is just like it always is:
I’m getting between her legs
.

“You should at least get an A for effort.”

“I’d rather show you what else I deserve an A in.”

“There’s a point where trying too hard comes into play,” she points out, getting up.

Fuck. I’m losing her? Has this ever happened before? Hell, I don’t think so, not even before I made it big.

“At least have a dance with me,” I tell her, doing my best not to sound desperate. Shit, I feel a little desperate here and I still don’t know what it is about her.

She looks me over and I hold still, letting her take her time. I make myself a promise that if she turns me down, I’m done chasing. She might have my interest, but I don’t need to work this hard for it. When she inclines her head to indicate she’s agreeing to the dance, I hold out my hand to her, standing. She puts her hand in mine. As I lead her onto the dance floor, I feel a zing of heat move from our joined hands and flood through my system. I almost wonder if I’m the only one who felt it until I hear her quick intake of breath and feel her hand jerk against mine. When she tries to pull away, I tighten my hold.

She’s not getting away.
Not yet.

I should probably have my head examined. I can’t even fully blame it on not being with anyone in, like,
forever
. No, I think it might be pure madness that has me walking out to dance with this guy.

“Am I allowed to ask your name?” I ask to distract myself, because when he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his body, that electric current runs through me again. I look up into his eyes and see something flash in them.

He hesitates, then finally answers, “Gray.”

“
Gray?
Like the color?” I ask.

He gets a strange look on his face, before he grins again. “You don’t like it? I happen to think it will sound beautiful when you’re screaming it out tonight when I f—”

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if you want a chance in hell at getting lucky tonight,
Gray
.”

“So you’re admitting there’s a chance?”

“It’s getting slimmer.”

“I can work with that,” he says while I’m busy ignoring the way he smells. It’s good. Not all cologne; there’s something else, something deeply
male
that makes my insides quiver. Maybe I will go for it and end my long dry spell. It’s just one night, right? It doesn’t matter if he is too perfect. That doesn’t mean I’m repeating history. I’d never have to see him again.

“You’ve gone quiet,” he whispers against my ear as we’re swaying to the music.

“I was listening to the music,” I lie. “Is your name really Gray?”

“Is that so strange?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met one, so yeah. Though, my old man was named Banger, so…”

“You’re shitting me? Banger?”

“I think that was his road name, but if he had a different one, he changed it years ago.”

“I think I like him.”

“He was a great man,” I agree with a smile, feeling the familiar ache of sadness at the memory of what I lost.

“What happened?”

“Cancer,” I whisper, hating that damn word.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Everyone always says that, and I hate it just as much when this guy says it. It’s fake. They might be sorry, but they don’t truly understand. Very few do.

“So… the name?” I prompt him.

“My mother thought it would be cool to name her kids after colors.”

“Colors?”

“Mmm-hmm. So, I’m Gray, short for Grayson.”

“Well, hey, that’s a good name. Much better than… Green?”

“That’d be my brother.”

I pull away to look at him. “You’re lying.”

“Not even a little bit. I have five brothers and each one is named after a different color.”

“That’s not possible. There aren’t six colors that would make…”

“Gray, Green, Black, Blue, White, and Cyan.”

I figure my mouth drops open. I can’t stop it as I digest the fact that five other men are out there with names like that. When I notice he’s watching me, I smile at him and give a small pat on his shoulder, like I’m trying to make him feel better. “Well, hey, at least you got the better of the names.”

“You won’t hear me argue. Especially when it comes to Black and Blue. They’re twins, by the way.”

I snort in laughter and can’t stop it. “Oh my God, you have to be making this up.”

“Afraid not, so see, I’ll need you to help me.”

“Help you?”

“The way I have it figured, if you say my name enough in your beautiful southern drawl, I’ll learn to love my name. Heck, it will make being called a member of the Crayola gang all worth it.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “Crayola gang? Ouch.”

“It’s okay. I had it better than my brothers.”

“Name-wise again, you mean?”

“Well, that and the fact that my crayon is one of those thick, fat ones that—”

“Oh good lord…”

This time, he laughs… and it’s a really good laugh. It’s a laugh that takes away resistance. Not that that was a difficult job.