The Biker and the Loner (Oil and Water #3)- S. Ann Cole Page 0,14

work, and barring the fact that none of them ever take to me, to avoid a name mix-up blunder, I keep conversations with them to a minimum, so I have no idea what he even means by “catch up.”

Isaac leads me to a table where a redhead is seated. She beams as we approach, until her eyes shift down to his hand that’s clasped around mine. Her mouth pulls tight at the corners, expressing displeasure. I've met a redhead with freckles before, but this for sure isn’t her. It appears Isaac is having problems keeping track of his girls…again.

"Ley's here, babe," Isaac tells her as he pulls out a chair for me to sit. "You two can catch up."

A frown pinches between her brows as she glances between the two of us, bewildered.

As discreet as possible, I step on his loafer-covered toes. He winces and glances down at me with a WTF expression. In an effort to convey that this Mindy person is not the redhead I’ve met before, I give him a tight grin with slightly widened eyes.

He's not getting it. And he's looking at me too long. Maybe I look crazed?

"I'm sorry," Mindy butts in, snagging his attention, "but who is she?"

That's when he gets it. "Oh, um...I thought you guys met already." He nervously scratches his jaw. "Ley, this is my girl Mindy. Mindy, this is—"

"Leyana. His cousin."

I offer my hand and she tentatively shake it. "But, you're…Spanish, right?"

"Yep," Isaac chips in, covering his ass. "Our family is hella mixed up. Spanish, Asian, African…You'll see when you come to Cali with me for Thanksgiving this year."

That bit makes her beam again. "You're inviting me to Thanksgiving with your family?"

"Sure," he replies with an easy shrug. This dude lies as effortlessly as he breathes. None of these girls ever lasts for more than two months. Thanksgiving is seven months away.

In a manner only a family member would, I tell him, "Go get us two beers, big head."

He smirks at me as if we’re allies before heading off to the bar.

"So, tell me," Mindy starts, all excitable, no doubt feeling high from getting to meet a family member so soon. "What was Isaac like growing up? Do you have any baby pictures of him?"

Yep, I’m totally going to start using that cousin lie. Considering I usually receive plastic smiles and third-degree questions whenever Isaac introduces me as his “close friend”, this friendly, chatty reaction to me being his “cousin” is refreshing.

With a genuine smile, I launch into a tale of short fables about growing up with Isaac. When he returns with our beers and overhear me telling one of those stories, he laughs and mouths a “thank you” over Mindy's head.

"I’m gonna head up and prep, girls." He plants a swift kiss on Mindy. "Scream for me when I go up on stage, okay?"

Laughing, I roll my eyes. He's such a narcissist. But someone has to start the hype, right?

I gab with Mindy more than I've ever done with anyone beyond Kendra. Mostly because the things coming out of my mouth are lies. It feels surprisingly great pretending to be someone I’m not. Freeing, even. A quick time off from being Leyana Oliveros, Girl Freak.

Some fifteen minutes later, Isaac's band finally takes the stage, and both Mindy and I scream his name like airhead groupies.

They bring the house down. Even though I've heard them at rehearsals many times before and rock music is not quite my jam, they still knock my socks off.

I’m rocking along to the music while nursing my second bottle of beer for the night, when, as if being beckoned, my attention flicks from the stage to the bar. Beer bottle to my lips, I freeze.

Scratch.

Propped against the bar, a bottle of Guinness in hand, his stare locked on me.

Is he stalking me? There’s no chance he just happened to be here. This pub caters to the hipsters and the preppy ones, more of a younger, snobbier crowd. Not at all a place where big, bad bikers come to hang out. Especially big, bad bikers turned big, bad, unkillable soldiers.

In his dark denim, shitkicker boots, muscle-clinging shirt, and Den of Heathens jacket, he quite obviously doesn’t belong, sticking out like a sore thumb. But he has that defiant don’t-give-a-shit look on his face, so I’m sure he’s aware of that.

His stare is a dare. Intimidating. Challenging.

I don’t know what he wants from me. I’ve never known.

He used to call me often during his first deployment. Sometimes