Not one shit is given.
“What happened to you finding a woman?” I ask when he says nothing further on that topic.
“I’m looking,” he says, lips twitching. “I take my time, look around. See what the night has to offer.”
“And then?”
“And then if someone catches my eye, I’ll make my move,” he replies. “If I have to go home alone, I will, rather than lower my standards. I don’t own any beer goggles, unlike most men.”
I put my drink down on the table. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an asshole?”
“All the time.”
“So what happens after you’ve screwed her? Bone and bail? Even though she apparently meets your very high standards?” I ask, tapping my short red fingernails on the bar.
He shrugs and tilts his head back, downing his drink.
Jerk.
“Have you heard of the term fuckboy? There’s some new lingo for you,” I continue, standing up from the barstool when I hear “One Last Time” by Ariana Grande play.
“Not a boy, lady,” Irish replies gruffly. “I’m a man. I don’t play games. Women know what they’re getting with us: there are no lies or pretty words involved. And when I meet the woman who’s meant to be mine, I will treat her like a fuckin’ queen. Until then though, everything is a game.”
I nod my head, acknowledging that as the truth. “You’re right, I guess.”
Besides, who am I to judge?
I turn my head back to the dance floor, mouthing the lyrics to the song. Anna spoke to the DJ, who started suddenly playing songs I can’t imagine bikers liking. The way Irish cringes tells me that I’m right. I love how the men give in to the women, at least over things like this. And it’s the little things that matter.
“I love this song,” I say, starting to move my hips to the music.
“You would,” Irish grumbles from beside me.
Tracker walks up to me and grabs my hand, pulling me to the dance floor. When I resist, he simply grins. “Come on, if I have to dance to this bullshit, then so do you.”
“I like this song,” I tell him, letting him pull me along behind him. He stops next to Lana, putting me in between them, then starts to dance. Looking into Lana’s amused gaze, I dance, a little awkwardly at first, until I get into it. By the time the next song starts, Lana and I are practically grinding on each other and I can feel Tracker’s warmth behind me. Still, he doesn’t touch my body or cross any lines. When Irish comes and pulls me by my hand, I go with him, dancing with him without our bodies touching. He spins me around, and even though he’s not as good of a dancer as Tracker, he’s not bad either.
“Ardan,” he says into my ear, making me jump a little.
I glance up at him. “What?”
“My name”—he smirks—“is Ardan.”
I smile widely. “Nice to meet you, Ardan.”
We dance for another song, until a woman with a seriously nice ass catches his eye, then he leaves me with Tracker again to make a play for her.
“She’s hot,” Anna says, grabbing my waist and dancing behind me. “Should we get a drink?”
I nod, desperately wanting some water. We walk back up to the bar and order some water. When I hear Anna mutter “Oh fuck” under her breath, I turn around, bottle of water in my hand, and look in front of us.
Adam.
Why is he here? Tracker told him . . .
When I see the woman with him, my body instantly goes on shutdown. On protection mode. My emotions disappear. Anything for self-preservation. How much of a dick can he be? I instantly feel bad for being so hard on Irish, when it’s clear Rake is the real asshole here. He knew I was here; he knew. Yes, I wasn’t meant to be here, but he could have made this pleasant by staying away. I guess that isn’t really fair though: he’s allowed to be with any woman he wants; it doesn’t really make him a bad person. I think the fact that it still hurts me is more concerning, and I have a feeling that if the situation was reversed, and I was here with another man, he wouldn’t be reacting by ignoring me.
How does he still have the power to hurt me after all these years? They say time heals everything, but it doesn’t. It dulls the pain, yes, but seeing this right here, rips open all the old wounds. Keeping my expression as blank as I can, I avoid Adam’s eyes, even though I can feel them on me, and turn around to face the bar again.
He isn’t mine.
And I don’t want him to be.
Then why does this hurt so much?
“Do you want to dance some more?” I ask Anna and Lana, who are both studying me a little too closely for my liking.
Don’t show weakness.
I have two rules in my life. First, never let them see you bleed. And two, always have an escape plan.
“Yeah,” Lana replies. “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”
I shake my head.
Leaving now will give him power, will let him know that he still has a hold on me. I don’t want that. I should hate this man with everything I have, but I don’t, which kind of makes me hate myself.
I’ll never forgive him for the past, so it’s best to let things be. What I feel for Adam, what I’ll always feel for him is irrelevant. It’s warped. It’s wrapped in anger, hate, and distrust. Underneath all that, yes, there is love, but love isn’t enough, at least not this time. What could have been a fairy-tale love has now turned into nothing but pain and harsh cold reality.