Rate a Date by Monica Murphy Page 0,4
a bug in a rug, their hands in our hair and their tits in our face. Why would you ever get tired of that?”
He sounds utterly confused by my protests. And I suppose I can’t blame him. Why would we ever tire of that? Most men think we’re living the dream. For the last five years, I’ve felt exactly like that.
But I’m over it. I want something…
Different.
“I want a real relationship.”
There. I said it. Out loud.
Miss Big Tits chooses that exact moment to return to our table, her lips freshly glossed, the neckline of her dress so low, I’m worried I might catch sight of a nipple. She settles right in next to Clayton, cozying up to his side, her hand resting on his thigh possessively, and I know without a doubt Clay is gonna get lucky tonight.
I’m not feeling even an ounce of jealousy.
“You won’t find that here,” Clay says after a moment, dropping his arm around the woman’s slender shoulders and tugging her even closer to his side. “Though I think you already know that.”
I do. This is not the place to search for a real relationship, no matter how bad some of these women might want that.
They’re going about it the wrong way, if you ask me.
But hell. What is the right way?
I have no clue.
“I’m out of here,” I tell Clay, scooting out of the booth and rising to my feet. I tower over the table, over Clay and his new lady friend, and she gazes up at me with wide, almost frightened eyes. I offer her up a slow smile and the tension eases out of her. Somewhat. “You two have a good night.”
“We sure as hell will,” Clay tells me with a wink, and the woman laughs.
If I had a hat, I’d tip it at his date like I’m some homegrown cowboy, but I don’t. So I keep walking, making my way out of the crowded, hot-as-fuck nightclub as fast as possible. The lights flash in my eyes, keeping time with the beat of the music, and I don’t miss the way some of the women watch me as I pass.
Like I’m a prime slab of meat and they can’t wait to take a big, juicy bite.
Fuck this shit.
The moment I push through those double doors, I take a deep, cleansing breath. Though it doesn’t smell the best out here, considering I’m smack dab in the middle of downtown San Francisco. Wrinkling my nose, I glance around, spotting the black Yukon sitting by the curb a couple of cars down, and I make my way toward it.
“Howard,” I say when the passenger-side window rolls down, revealing our driver. He works for the team, even during the off-season, and somehow he’s able to sit right in the front of the clubs, waiting for us every weekend when we go out. “Do you mind taking me home?”
“Sure thing. Hop in.”
The window goes up and I climb into the backseat, grateful for the chilled bottle of water Howard hands me once I’m settled.
“Just you this evening?” he asks, his thick, black eyebrows lifting. Howard is also used to me bringing home a sweet little cookie on the regular. Not that I actually bring them home. That’s always kind of dangerous.
Nope, I usually take them to a hotel where we have a standing account. We can just call up and boom, there’s a room available for us. That way women don’t know where we live.
Just how I prefer it.
“Just me,” I say easily, right before I drain the water bottle in a couple of gulps. Alcohol and stifling nightclubs always leave me dehydrated.
Howard shakes his head as he slowly pulls out into the street, flicking the signal on as he moves into the left turn lane. “When you ever gonna settle down, son?” His gaze meets mine in the rearview window. Howard is old enough to be my father, and infinitely patient with all of us. We’re all a bunch of stupid assholes, especially when we’re drunk and riding around in his car, but he never says a word. Never rats us out.
Unless there’s drugs involved. Then he has to say something.
I keep myself clean. Drugs are a no go. When we’re in season, I prefer to lay off the alcohol too. That’s a new thing. As I get older, it gets harder to recover from a night of drinking.
We’re getting closer to camp and the rigorous training that comes with it, and that means my days of