Mayday (6 page)

A
s they neared the entrance to the bar, Chris's steps slowed almost to a halt.

“What's up?” Wes asked his friend. “You change your mind about coming out tonight?”

God, he hoped not. He needed to blow off steam, and Chris's presence might keep him from going too far. He hoped.

To be honest, though, he had no idea how Chris would act in a bar. Wes had only met the guy a month or two ago, when he'd visited Chris's new bike-repair shop for routine equipment maintenance. They'd struck up a casual friendship based on their love of cycling almost immediately. Preparing for triathlons required a lot of riding, as well as swimming and running, and Wes had been glad to find an occasional training partner.

When he called Chris, he usually wanted company for a long ride on their bikes. Not tonight, though. He needed something different than the soothing rhythm of pumping legs and turning pedals. He craved something loud and wild. Something all-encompassing enough to drown out the disappointment he couldn't seem to shake.

He needed a drink. A game of pool. Maybe even the company of a woman who didn't shrink away from the slightest touch of his hand. At the moment, he didn't have a preference, as long as it erased the hollowed-out feeling in his chest. Anything could happen tonight. He didn't care.

Because—as far as he could tell—Helen didn't care either.

Chris kicked at a pebble in the parking lot, and it skipped off into the darkness. “Why are we going to a place called Nice Rack? Is this a topless bar? Because if so, count me out, man. I love boobs as much as the next guy, but I'm not in the mood.”

Not a surprise. Between his recent move from Rockville to Niceville, his attempt to open a new business, and the fallout from the whole my-girlfriend's-screwing-my-best-friend clusterfuck, Chris didn't have a ton of energy or desire to chase women.

“Nah,” Wes said. “It's a bar with dancing and pool tables. Used to be called Dance, Drink, and Shoot, but the new owner named it Nice Rack as a joke.”

“Ah.” Chris nodded. “Because of the pool tables. And the location in Nice County.”

Despite his rotten mood, Wes couldn't hold back a smile. “Yes, those two reasons. Along with the fact that the owner, Tasha, is a lesbian who loves boobs. As much as the next lesbian, you might say.”

“Clever.”

“Yup.” He reached for the door to the bar, pulling it open and heading inside before he had second thoughts.

He couldn't seem to settle down. The roar of thoughts inside his head made it hard to hear. Hard to think. His body felt suffused with the energy born of intense frustration. And when he'd felt like this in the past . . . well, it hadn't always ended in a way that made him proud.

In fact . . .

He let out a slow breath. The last time he'd felt this way, he'd taken an old classmate home. Fucked her. And in doing so, simultaneously fucked up any chance of a real relationship with her in the future.

Helen. Goddammit, his mind always seemed to circle right back to her, even when he tried to set it on a different path. He couldn't suppress the questions that kept tugging at his attention. Where was she tonight? Had she decided to stay at home and read rather than having dinner with him? Was she meeting her girlfriends at Sallie's Diner? Could she be climbing into another man's bed right this second?

For the past two months, he'd spent every morning in the shower with his hand on his dick, fantasizing about a second chance with Helen. Thinking about uncovering every inch of her pale skin this time, rather than only removing the necessities. Considering how he could make her shudder under his touch. Remembering the tight, slick heat that had surrounded him so briefly.

At this very moment, someone else might be living out Wes's fantasies, and he had no one to blame but himself.

The thought only added to the reckless energy pulsing through his veins.

“I'll get us a round,” he called out to Chris over the driving beat of an AC/DC classic. Chris acknowledged the words with a flick of his fingers before searching the room for a free table.

Behind the bar, a pretty woman with short black curls stood at the tap. Her tight T-shirt had the bar logo on the front, and her name tag read “Tasha, Owner and Appreciator of a Nice Rack.” As soon as she saw him, she smiled and came over to where he was standing.

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Mayor,” she said, leaning into the bar with both hands laid flat. “I've been wondering when you might come by. You haven't visited for . . . what? Two months now?”

He shrugged. Since the first May Day Celebration Committee meeting, to be exact, but Tasha didn't need to know that.

“What can I get for you?” she said.

“Two bottles of beer. The usual.”

With a friendly nod, she readied his drinks while he looked around. Jesus, the place was packed for a Thursday night. Good for Tasha. He couldn't even see all the tables through the crowds of people standing around the bar and grinding up against each other on the tiny wooden dance floor. Fortunately, though, Chris was a tall bastard. He could spy his friend waving from a small, miraculously empty table.

He waved back just as Tasha came back with the beers. “Thanks,” he said. “Keep them coming, please.”

A beer in each hand, he began making his way through the crowd. He only had time to take a few steps, though, before he felt cool fingers on his back.

“Wes?” he heard someone say. “Is that you?”

When he turned, he saw the long, lean form of Dominique Weldon standing inches away from him. Her sleek, brown hair hung almost to her waist, and she was dressed for the night in tight jeans, sky-high heels, and a silky camisole. No bra. He could already tell with the familiarity of long experience. Experience with women in general, but also with her specifically. She'd always been proud that her small, high breasts didn't require extra support.

At one time, the sight of her nipples outlined through the camisole would have drawn his undivided attention. Now they mostly made him wonder if she should put on a sweater, because she was clearly feeling a chill in the air.

“Hey, Domi,” he said.

When she moved in for a long, tight hug, he couldn't do much about it given the beers occupying both hands. Not that he necessarily wanted to pull away. She wasn't what he wanted, of course. Then again, he wasn't what she really wanted either. For a couple of years after his election as mayor, they'd become used to serving as occasional substitutes for the real thing.

Maybe they would do the same tonight. Why not? Domi was willing. Attractive. She didn't expect anything from him but a quick lay.

Rising on her tiptoes, she spoke into his ear. “I've missed you.”

He waited for a shiver of response that never came, even though her lips brushed his ear in exactly the way that used to get him hard.

“Me too,” he said.

It was only a partial lie. He'd spent two months now caught in the grip of a woman who didn't want him. The memory of time spent with another woman who didn't fight his every attempt to get closer . . . it beckoned him. Tempted him.

Helen clearly didn't want him. Was it so wrong to stop fighting for her attention and interest? Would anyone blame him for accepting what he could easily have, rather than struggling for what he really desired?

“Let's dance,” Domi said, pressing a kiss along his jaw.

Again, nothing. Not a twitch below the equator. He began to suspect that Helen had somehow flipped a switch in his cock when she'd visited that region so many months ago.

He pulled away a few inches. “Give me a minute to drop off these beers, and I'll come back.”

Her hand flattened up high on his chest, and then slowly slid downward. When it reached the waistband of his jeans, she grabbed hold, yanked, and slammed his hips against hers again. “Hurry,” she said.

He fought against a roll of his eyes as he headed toward the table where he'd last seen Chris. Typical Domi. So theatrical. He liked her, though. They didn't talk much as a rule, but she could keep up her end of a good conversation when necessary. Smart woman. An engineer. Kind of scary sometimes, but pretty. Assuming he could actually get it up, he'd probably enjoy sex with her. But was that worth—

Shit. The word that came to mind was “cheating.” As in, was a night of distraction with Domi worth cheating on Helen?

The question was ridiculous, of course. How could he cheat on a woman he didn't have? One who shied away from even his slightest touch? One who refused to do more than swap bizarre library stories with him over coffee?

He was still considering the issue when he arrived at Chris's table.

“Don't tell me,” his friend said. “You brought me here, only to desert me for the first hot woman who came your way.”

“Just for a dance,” Wes said, and then frowned. “I think.”

“Whatever you're trying to forget, she could probably make disappear.” His friend tipped his bottle in a friendly salute. “If that's what you want.”

Chris typically refrained from offering advice. In fact, he typically refrained from talking at all, choosing to remain grumpy and taciturn. Wes had heard more words out of Chris's mouth tonight than in the last few weeks combined. Sometimes, during multihour cycling trips, the two men communicated entirely through meaningful grunts.

He'd never imagined saying such a thing to Chris before, but . . . “I blew it with a woman, and now she only wants to be friends. I need to move on.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Wes said. “I mean, I guess so.”

Chris put down the beer and ran a hand through his floppy blond hair. “Look. I'm not the right guy to give advice about women. I mean, my live-in girlfriend dumped me for my best friend.”

Wes's sympathetic wince hurt his face. Damn pulled muscle.

“But one thing I do know: You'd better be sure you have no chance with this woman you want. Because if she finds out you've slept with someone else, any chance you have will disappear like
that
.” Chris slapped the table.

As badly as Wes needed a distraction tonight, he knew his friend was right. If Helen had any interest in him at all, finding out that he'd fucked around while pursuing her would kill it. She'd never let him within a hundred yards of her, much less into her life and her bed.

So if he didn't plan to give up on her—right here, right now—he couldn't go any further than a dance with Domi. Even if Helen rejected him at the end of everything, at least he'd know he'd given it his best shot. That he hadn't betrayed his feelings for Helen in his desperate search for distraction and comfort. That whether she believed him or not, he'd stayed true to her.

For the first time all evening, Wes felt the weight on his chest lift. “Thanks. I appreciate the advice.”

“Whatever,” Chris said.

Wes couldn't suppress a grin at his friend's response. Clearly, Chris had returned to the taciturnity that Wes knew and appreciated.

“Okay, one dance and nothing more,” he told his friend. “I'll be back soon.”

With a renewed sense of purpose, he strode back to the dance floor. Tomorrow, he'd try to break through Helen's defenses again. The day after that, too. Every day until after the May Day event ended. If by that point she still hadn't given an inch . . . well, he'd have to reevaluate his plans then.

When he reached Domi, she immediately pulled him close. Every time he eased his hips away, she jerked them back, digging into his sides with her long nails.

“What took so long?” She batted her lashes. “Did you forget about poor little Dominique?”

Fighting another eye roll, he gently took one of her hands in his and squeezed. “I think I need to leave after this dance.”

“To my house? Or yours?” she asked, her mouth tracing a wet path along his neck.

He tried to edge away, but couldn't do it without actually shoving her. Resigning himself to another couple of minutes of close physical contact before he could make an escape, he gave her his answer.

“I'm sorry, Domi. I appreciate the offer, but I can't do this with you right—Ow!
Jesus Christ, woman!
” he yelped, clutching the spot on his neck where she'd bitten him. Hard.

She peeled off his hand and licked the spot. “I'll make it better.”

Unfortunately, the song had ended just as he'd raised his voice. The sight of Niceville's mayor being bitten and licked was attracting a great deal of attention from nearby dancers and tables. City Councilwoman Beverly Jonnet stared at him with wide eyes from a barstool a few feet away. By the bar . . . wasn't that Mrs. Whipler holding some sort of pink drink? And farther away, at a table he hadn't been able to see through the crowds until now, he could almost swear he recognized—

Fuck. Oh, motherfucking fuck fuck fuck. Helen. Helen sat at that distant table, her face pale as she watched him. Her mouth had compressed into a grim line.

He shook off Domi, removing her from his body with firm hands. When she stumbled, he grabbed her arm to keep her upright. As soon as she regained her balance, though, he raced toward Helen.

“I can explain,” he said as he drew near. “Please let me—”

And then he noticed. Helen wasn't sitting alone at a table. She wasn't sitting with her friends, either. She was sitting with a man. A young one. A handsome one, he supposed.

Helen had turned him down tonight so she could go out with someone else. Two months of attempts to break through her walls had gotten him nowhere. Worse than nowhere, it seemed. They'd made him into a man she could easily dismiss in favor of another.