Devlin (Dirty Aces MC #2) - Lane Hart Page 0,2
I’m lonely and horny. But not a single one of them has called for a second date. Which means I haven’t had sex in months because of me refusing to touch Oscar. And then, of course, there’s my three-date rule. I won’t sleep with any guy who I haven’t gone on at least three dates with. It seemed like a smart thing to do when I first started dating to weed out the losers or those looking to smash and dash on the first date. So far, though, for some reason or another, none of them have been interested in seeing me more than once.
That’s why I’ve given myself a free pass with the next hot guy I meet if he is single and not homeless. Those are my only three requirements for now — hot, not in a relationship, and has a place of his own for us to get busy. I don’t even need to know his name, because I probably won’t see him again. Which is fine. I’ll accept that I’m not two-date material. But if I don’t get some much-needed stress relief soon, I may explode. And masturbating in my brother’s small, two-bedroom apartment where we share a wall and a bathroom is a big hell no.
The odds of me meeting a guy who wants me tonight are slim to none thanks to the heat and humidity that’s got my purple hair looking like I stuck my finger in a socket. And of all the items I loaded up in my fanny pack, and my many hair accessories at home, a hair tie was, unfortunately, not one of the things I packed.
Which leads me to think that the black fanny pack hanging from my hips could be a guy-repellant all on its own. Sure, it looks ridiculous, but I’m not stupid enough to try and keep up with a purse all over the fairgrounds while trying to get drunk. Besides, I needed some place to keep my phone, money, tickets, sunscreen, bugspray and hand sanitizer.
The concession stand line is a mile long for beverages because of the heat, but I wait patiently since there’s still a few minutes before the main event.
Just when I reach the front of the line, more than ten minutes later, and am about to order my soda, a dude in a sleeveless white ribbed tank and black leather pants, looking like a wanna be rock star despite the scorching temps, jumps in line in front of me. He flashes the VIP lanyard hanging around his neck to ask for a beer, making me want to deck him for not only cutting in front of me but because he’ll be so close to Rob Lawrence, he’ll probably be able to see the sweat dripping down his abs.
“Excuse you,” I say, tapping the guy’s shoulder in frustration. “There’s a line, buddy!”
The jerk turns around, flashing me a panty-melting grin as he pushes his jet-black chin-length hair behind his ear as he stares down at my cleavage. “Not for me, baby. I’m a VIP,” he says to my breasts.
“Even Very Important Pricks should have to wait in line like the rest of us,” I tell him, making his smile crack into a chuckle.
“Tell you what, how about I pay for your order to make it up to you?” he asks.
“What about everyone else in line behind me?” I huff.
He lifts his incredibly gorgeous blue eyes above my head and says, “Sorry, babe, but there’s no one behind you. And if you don’t hurry, you’re gonna miss Wasteland Authority.”
“Fine! Let me get a big ass Diet Coke,” I say.
Turning around, the guy orders my soda word for word as I requested it and pays the twenty-dollar tab for just my drink and his bottle of beer, which is ridiculous, but the event sponsors know schmucks like us will pay it before we die of dehydration.
And by the time the line passer hands me the ice-cold beverage and I drain half of it in one slurp, I’m already feeling less antagonistic towards him.
“Thank you,” I say with a sigh.
“You’re welcome,” he replies before taking a sip of his beer. “So, are you a fan of Wasteland Authority, or did your boyfriend drag you here tonight?”
“Oh no, I’m a huge fan of Wasteland, and I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Prove it.”
“What?” I ask between sips of soda. “How do I prove I don’t have a boyfriend?” I ask as I start to think that he’s trying to flirt