I look at Irish, who is busy flashing Lana an amused look at her analysis.
“Irish,” I say, getting his attention. “No way in hell will I ever be taking care of your dick. I don’t care how hard it is. Guess we better go to Rift so you can find a substitute.”
Everyone except Irish laughs.
Lana nods in approval.
Rift, here we come.
EIGHT
WHAT’S your real name?” I ask Irish, watching as he sips his beer. I pick up my Coke and take a sip, waiting for him to answer. There’s no way I’m drinking tonight, not when Cara has dance class in the morning.
“What makes you think it’s not Irish?”
I make a face. “My common sense?”
He smirks, then licks his lips. “How about a kiss? I’ll tell you then.”
I purse my lips and wrinkle my nose. “I already fell for that one with Talon.”
Irish scowls, his fingers tightening on his bottle. “You kissing men from other clubs now? Where’s the loyalty, Bailey?”
“I don’t belong to anyone, and I wouldn’t have even met any other bikers if it wasn’t for Anna and Lana, so you take that up with them,” I reply in a curt tone. Speaking of . . . I look to see both of them on the dance floor with their men. Arrow isn’t dancing, just watching Anna shaking her ass in front of him, but Tracker’s grinding behind Lana, pressing his penis against her ass.
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