Trouble (Orsen Brothers #1) (14 page)

Stephen.

His name still catches me off guard every time it’s spoken. Olivia’s sentiment is a harsh one, and she must be able to tell by the look on my face that it hits me where it hurts, because she hugs me tighter.

“Sorry,” she whispers, running a hand through my hair, “but you kind of had to hear it.”

“No,” I say, picking a piece of lint off of my skirt, “you’re right.”

“What you should do,” Olivia continues without a pause, “is hook up with someone completely different than him in every possible way. Leather jacket seems like a good candidate, no?”

I glance over at him once more. He’s still hunched over the bar with his back turned away from us. “I don’t know,” I manage, finding my voice, “I’m not Vega. I can’t just saunter up to a guy I don’t know and bare all.”

It’s not supposed to sound as mean as it does. I start to correct myself but Olivia talks over me. “You can be anyone you want to be. That’s the beauty in a place like this. Now…” She grabs my chin and forces me to meet her eyes. “Who do you want to be,
Cassie
, the nice timid girl who never takes a risk, or
Cassandra
, the brave seductress who doesn’t balk at the idea of a cute guy in a leather jacket buying her a drink?”

I cringe at the sound of my full name. It’s been a long time since anyone has called me that.

“Here. Liquid reinforcement never hurts,” Olivia comments, handing me a shot. I take it from her with an unsteady hand it swallow it back without a chaser. It burns going down, but it takes off the edge almost immediately.

“Look, I wouldn’t tell you to do it if I didn’t think it was a good idea. Besides, he’s been checking you out all night.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, as if.”

“Seriously, he has!”

“I’ve caught him staring over here twice now.”

I sigh and shake my head. “He’s probably staring at you. Did that ever occur to you?”

Olivia balks. She’s all eyes—big and brown—and lips, pouty and pink. “No way. He’s staring at you,” she says firmly, “trust me on this.”

I roll my eyes and chance another glance at him, pushing my bangs out of my eyes. Olivia reaches forward and unbuttons the top few buttons of my blouse.

“Just be yourself. He’ll love you, I promise.”

I groan, burying my face in my hands. There isn’t a single part of me that wants to do this, but if I don’t, I’ll never hear the end of it.

“Fine, fine,” I say, standing up, “but you owe me for this.”

Olivia holds her hands out in front of herself and nods. I start to make my way through the throngs of people who surround the booth, but her frantic voice stops me in my tracks. I turn around to look at her. She digs through her purse and pulls out a pink make-up bag, scurrying towards me.

“What are you doing?”

“Just hold on,” she says, gripping my arm reassuringly. I watch as she screws the top off a tube of red lipstick.

“Uh, come on Liv, that is so not me.”

She shakes her head and grips my chin, not allowing me to object. My body tenses as she applies the velvet lipstick to my mouth and forces me to cooperate. When she’s done, she steps back and admires her work, smiling at me like some kind of Cheshire cat.

“Perfect.”

I roll my eyes and push away from her as she tries to switch her shoes, six-inch black heels, with my simple white flats, reasoning that they are sexier.

Enough is enough.

I comb through the mass of sweaty, gyrating bodies, allowing my slight drunkenness to lead the way. Leather jacket is in close proximity to me now. I slide into an empty barstool a few seats down from him, feeling lightheaded. Maybe it’s my buzz, or the sudden realization of what I’m about to do, or both. Either way, I find myself incapable of simply turning to look at him.

It’s ridiculous.

With all the courage I can muster, I turn my head ever so slightly, and…

There he is.

All muscle, with tattooed flesh that glows beneath the flashing lights above us. Olivia was wrong. He isn’t hot. He’s beautiful in a way capable of evoking envy in women, not just other men. And while he’s not my type—not by a long shot—I can’t help but feel intrigued.

“Sweetheart,” a burly man waves at me from behind the bar. It takes me a second to register that he’s the bartender, and that he’s talking to me, “you there? What would you like to drink?”

I blush. Who knows how long he’s been trying to get my attention. “Just a beer,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, “whatever’s on tap will be fine. Thank you.”

Leather jacket glances at me and I panic. I’m not supposed to find guys like him appealing; guys who don’t shave or put any thought into their outfits; guys with tattoos and full faces of stubble.

But this isn’t me. I left myself back at the booth with Olivia. I return his smile and push what I hope is a flirtatious smile across my face, curling my lips upwards.

“Hey Jason,” he calls across the bar, never breaking eye contact with me. His voice is deep and sultry, and I can hear my heart thumping heavily against my chest. The bartender turns around to look at us, visibly exasperated.

“Put her drink on my tab.”

He complies and turns his attention to another patron.

I swallow hard, feeling my mouth go dry. “Thank you,” I whisper with a slight smile.

He nods and slides down a few barstools so that he’s right beside me. He smells like oil, cigarettes, whiskey, and cologne. He leans into me and extends his calloused hand. I shake it nervously, feeling his warmth spread throughout my body all at once.

“I’m Macon,” he says without effort.

Macon.

My beer is set down in front of me and I take a long drink of it, throwing the name around in my head. It’s not what I was expecting, but it fits him.

“And you are?”

I meet his gaze. His eyes are a captivating shade of icy blue unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

“I’m Cassandra,” I breathe, taking the leap, “nice to meet you.”

Chapter 3

“
That’s the thing about fighting, though.” Macon gestures with his hands and pauses to take another sip of his drink. He’s animated in everything he does. “You can never really know how good your opponent is; even if you’ve fought them dozens of times. They can train. Their entire technique can change between matches. You have to be on your feet at all times.”

I’ve never met anyone as passionate in what they do as he is. His eyes glow when he describes the rush of adrenaline attached to stepping inside a ring. He’s all smiles and laughter. Fine lines accentuate his mouth and hint at his age, but it’s clear that he’s a young soul—an entirely different creature from most men in their mid thirties.

“You’ll have to come to one sometime, I can get you t—”

His smile dissipates and he furrows his brows, stopping in midsentence.

“What?” he questions with his lips slightly parted. The look of confusion on his face is adorable. “Do I have something on my face?”

I shake my head and lean into the counter, taking another sip of my beer—the second one he’s bought me. “No, you’re fine,” I say, flashing him a smile.

He returns the gesture and it’s scalding—the effect that crooked grin has on one particular region of my body. I blush, ignoring the wetness between my thighs. 

“So what do you do, Cassandra?”

My full name sounds so natural leaving his mouth that for one brief moment, I find myself forgetting that most people don’t call me by it. He grips his drink, whiskey on ice, and brings it to his lips. I admire the way his Adams apple bobs in his throat as he swallows.

“I photograph weddings,” I mumble into my hand, averting my gaze from his. Everything about him turns me on. It’s too much to handle.

“Really?”

I nod. “Yeah, not what you were expecting?”

Macon thinks it over and shrugs. “No,” he says, waving a hand in my direction, “but it makes sense.”

I’m not entirely sure what that means but I don’t ask him to elaborate. He’s vague, but I chop it up as just another part of his charm.

“I will say one thing,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “Weddings can get pretty bloody too. I mean, not in the same way as a boxing match, I’m sure, but…”

He arches a brow. A curious grin spreads across his face. “But?”

“Well…have you ever seen two bridesmaids fight over who gets to catch the bouquet?”

He chuckles at the comment and his laughter reverberates down the bar, catching the attention of a few patrons.

“You,” he says, pointing a finger at me, “I like you.”

It’s a fleeting comment but one that makes my heart swell nonetheless. He laces his arm around my shoulder and I freeze. It’s the first time I’ve ever understood what people meant by the term,
“getting butterflies.”

“Well you aren’t too bad yourself,” I say, feeling myself blush.

A loud group of women in a bachelorette party approach the bar from across the club but Macon’s gaze never leaves mine. He presses his thumb against my cheek and I suck in a deep breath. “Just an eyelash,” he whispers with his hand still on my face.

My mouth goes dry at the prospect of kissing him, but the moment passes and he pulls away from me.

“So, uh,” he starts, trying to find some semblance of normal conversation, “who were those girls you were with?”

“Just my friends,” I say, regaining my composure. “Vega and Olivia.”

I don’t know why I tell him this next part, but the words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “Olivia, the brunette, was actually the one who encouraged me to come talk to you.”

“Oh?”

I swallow hard, trying my best to hide the obvious fog of desire in my tone. “Yeah,” I confess with a shaky laugh. “I’m not really the type who approaches guys in clubs.”

He nods. A brief lapse of silence falls over us. Macon presses a finger against my mouth and I stare at him, taken slightly off guard by the gesture. He’s quick to pull away when he notices the look of shock in my expression.

“Sorry, it’s just…” He chuckles and scratches his neck. “Women wearing red lipstick. That’s kind of my thing.”

I smile at the admittance, making a mental note to thank Olivia later. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even be here. I look around the club for her but she’s nowhere to be found, and there’s a new group of people in our booth.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

The question lingers in the air. I blink once, then twice, unsure as to whether or not I heard him correctly. It’s been awhile since a man has propositioned me.

Macon frowns. “Sorry…I didn’t mean to—”

I shake my head and reach for his hand. “No,” I say, flashing him a nervous smile. “I’m sorry, I was just distracted. Yes…I would like to get out of here.”

He smiles back at me and pulls me to my feet, slapping a crumpled twenty on the counter to cover our drinks. I watch him pull his muscular arms back through the sleeves of his leather jacket, which he removed a while ago, stating that he was hot. Someone barrels past us and knocks me off balance. I stumble and he catches me. The heat of his hands sends an immediate shiver down my spine. I swallow hard, regaining control of my limbs.

He curls his hand around my much smaller one and leads me through a sea of thrashing bodies towards the door. He nods at the bouncer, who opens it and steps aside. The cool air greets us like an old friend; it’s a refreshing sensation after being in a stuffy bar all night, surrounded by sweaty bodies. Macon’s large frame towers over mine. There are a few stragglers from the club making their way toward their vehicles, but other than them, we’re more or less alone.

Macon presses a hand against my face and my eyes flutter briefly shut as I sigh into him. It’s a level of intimacy that I’m not used to—not by a long shot. There’s electricity between us. I can feel it in his fingertips, sending jolts of energy all the way down to the tips of my toes. And when he kisses me, finally, the entire world melts away all at once. He knows exactly what he’s doing and takes his time. He laces his fingers through my hair and groans into my mouth.

I’m soaking wet—incapable of focusing on anything other than the way his lips move against mine. When he finally pulls away from me, we both struggle to catch our breath. He cups my chin in his hands and stares down at me with an intensity that leaves me yearning for more. I caress the stubble on his jaw, admiring the way his olive skin looks beneath the flow of the streetlights.

“Come on,” he says. There’s a newfound urgency in his tone. He reaches for my hand once more and we continue walking, with me a few steps behind him, struggling to keep up.

I know absolutely nothing about him, nor does he know anything about me, but that’s part of the allure of it all. All that matters now, in this moment, is the way his hand feels against mine as he leads me through the parking lot, towards a shiny black bike with all the dings and whistles.

Because Olivia was right. In this moment, I’m not Cassie. I’m Cassandra—a free spirited woman who throws caution to the wind and doesn’t think twice about climbing onto the back of a handsome guys motorcycle and riding off into the night with him.