PLAYED - A BRITISH BAD BOY ROMANCE (22 page)

Chapter
2

Angel

Summoning every drop
of charisma that I could find, I smiled and plunked down the glasses at the
four-top bar table for the graying, slovenly bikers. I rattled off the orders
as I sloshed the drinks in front of them in turn, each of them smiling
grotesquely.

“Four drafts: Bud,
Bud, Miller Lite, and Abita. And four shots of Fireball, because
why not
,” I added mirthlessly.

“Thanks, darlin’,”
the closest biker chuckled, lifting his shot and suddenly grabbing a nice
handful of my ass.

I flinched and drew
back from him, preserving my pride – and my job – by not responding poorly to
the harassment.

“Can I get you guys
anything else?”

It was less a question,
and more a growl.

“One other thing.”

He dropped his menu
on the ground, and looked at me expectantly.

“Step onto that.”

I was used to this by
now, and I suppressed a heavy sigh and a filthy look. Instead, I stepped
meaningfully onto the discarded menu.

“We’ll take one of
you
,” he grinned.

“You can’t have one
of me.”

“But darlin’, you’re
on the menu!”

They broke into
riotous laughter, as if this was the cleverest fucking joke ever.

It
was
pretty funny the first time someone
did it to me. Months ago… People are less original than they think. I heard
this one twice a week.

“Looks like we’re
fresh out,” I responded, scooping the menu off the floor and strolling away.

Out of the corner of my
eye, I saw their laughter die down, and they were looking at me with annoyance
for not playing along.

To hell with ‘em.

To hell with everything about this stupid goddamn job.

I hated working this
ancient, decrepit dive bar. The money was just good enough to keep myself
afloat, and bartending was fun enough, but not somewhere like this.

If it wasn’t bikers,
it was rednecks.

If it wasn’t
rednecks, it was thugs.

If it wasn’t thugs…

A shiver went up my
spine. I didn’t like to think about that.

Old Greg owned this
place, and he was a friendly enough guy. Hell, he’d been a godsend. A lifelong
resident of this backwater little town, he was old enough to be my grandfather.
His best patron was our sheriff – someone who turned a blind eye when I was
brought onboard to tend bar at sixteen.

At least
that
was no longer a problem. I’d turned
eighteen pouring drinks.

When it was slow and
I was cleaning glasses or wiping surfaces, I dreamed of exactly what you’d
think a bright, young girl who dream about in a place like this:

Getting the
hell
out of Riverton.

That was the name of
this place. The town, not the bar. Well, the bar too, technically.

Riverton Bar
, in
Riverton… On Riverton Avenue.

Remember when I said
people aren’t original?

That applies to the friendly
ones, too.

Dropping the drink
tray off at the stack, I passed back around the counter and checked on my other
patrons – several working-class stragglers, downing cheap beer specials, an
older fellow nursing a whiskey neat, and a few older crones sipping heavy
martinis.

Satisfied, I began
taking stock of my liquors. I was gonna have to pop open a bottle of Crown
soon, and we were still out of half our rum…

While I checked
things off on my clipboard, I noticed someone approaching the bar. I didn’t
think much of it, and I continued my work for a moment. I was busy, and the
shadow could see that.

Whoever it was, he
could wait a minute.

Ticking a couple of
more checks, I finally turned around to see the same biker from before – the
jester of the group.

Well, more like the
leader, from the way the other bikers regarded him. He was leering at me for
some reason, and I felt a pit deep in my stomach.

“You forgot
something,” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” I answered,
letting my tone demonstrate how unapologetic I really was. “My memory’s a bit
fuzzy. What was it?”

He sat an empty shot
glass on the counter.

I glanced at it, then
back up to him.

“I wasn’t kidding. I
really don’t remember. What was it again?”

His eye twitched, but
he backed off a little.

“Crown.”

“Oh, right,” I
nodded, reaching for the liquor bottle. “Fireball shots for everyone, and
another Crown for you.” If he’d have been any less of a total creep, I would
have snuck him a second one, just to make up for it.

It wasn’t becoming
for a bartender to have to scribble down the drink orders, but I’d been
managing pretty well all night. On crazy nights, I took the excuse to do it,
which made things run way less stressful for me.

Of course, it was on
a simple shot for the most intimidating and questionable guy all night that I’d
lose my train of focus.

“Here you go,” I
placed it back down on the counter for him.

“Thanks,” he
grumbled, walking away.

But he was still
watching me out of the corner of his eye. I didn’t like it.

I sighed inwardly,
turning to my other patrons. They’d been trying to ignore the raucous bikers,
but even
they
could sense the
unsettling tension in the room that had developed around the group.

And there was the way they looked at me…

Maybe I’d get lucky
and they’d lose interest before closing time. Risking a quick look, I caught
the big biker staring, a crooked smile growing across his unshaven face.

I’d never been a very
lucky
girl…

Chapter
3

Trent

After ditching the
shitty after-party, it was a small matter to figure out where to go. I still
felt like drinking, but if I’d stepped into any old bar here in the city I’d be
recognized and ambushed for autographs and selfies.

Fuck
that
shit.

I needed something a
little more discreet.

That’s why I slipped
out and hopped into one of the rentals that were made available for band use.
It was nothing special, just a shiny little red jeep – not really my style, but
I didn’t really care. After all, who the fuck was I trying to impress out here?

Hitting the road, I
found my way to the Interstate and just started driving.

Once I got away from
the light pollution, the night sky was beautiful. Crystal clear stars without a
cloud in view. It was hard to find the time to appreciate the stars when you
were on seemingly permanent tour.

Only two more weeks of this shit.

Another little voice
reminded me:
for now
.

That’s life. Hard
work plus luck begets success. A spot of good luck definitely sparks the fire,
but the hard work? That’s what keeps the blaze going strong. I knew damn well
I’d be back on tour soon enough.

After about thirty
minutes cruising down the highway in the rental jeep, I decided to take a
chance on the next exit. Out here, the tall, monolithic restaurant and gas
station sides were all weeded out, and I was lucky to spot a Chevron station
from the interstate.

This particular exit
looked like it led to the middle of nowhere. The sign said “Riverton”, but the
endless, dark woods all around practically screamed “dilapidated little town.”

Never heard of the
place.

Sounded small.
Quaint.

Just to my tastes.

But after cruising
down the main road into town, I realized that I might have chosen a place a
little
too
small. There wasn’t a lot
to this little backwoods town. Hell, I hesitate to even call it a
town.

True to its namesake,
it was situated on a riverbank. The spot was primarily residential, with a ton
of ramshackle houses and borderline huts. Not a whole lot of businesses. You
had your hardware stores, combination gas station slash small grocer, and a few
tiny, ancient restaurants. This was one of those little commuter towns where
everybody drives forty-five minutes to work in the city.

If this place wasn’t
the sticks,
nothing
was.

I’d just about given
up on finding this place when I spotted a derelict old bar by the side.

Riverton Bar...

“Alright,” I muttered
to myself, flicking on my blinker and slowing down. “So long as they don’t
actually
piss
in the stills, this
should be fine…”

Something about the
place looked appealing despite its shoddy state. Maybe it was just that it was
so different from anywhere I’d been since hitting it big. These days my life
was full of big city bars and clubs, and the occasional lavish hotel room
after-party.

But that was only
really part of it.

It just looked like
how I felt inside.

Filthy.

Broken-down.

Borderline
functional.

Committed to the
cause, I pulled up beside a battered collection of old trucks and crumpled,
ancient sedans.

Hopping out of the
jeep, I became aware of how clean and pristine the rental looked, especially
beside these dirty, sputtering rust-buckets…

And, glancing down at
myself, I realized that I was
definitely
going to stick out like a sore fucking thumb in these parts. I hadn’t even
bothered to change from my stage clothes.

I pushed open the
door and stepped inside, walking into redneck central dressed like a fucking
rockstar.

Which, let’s be
honest.

I totally fucking
was.

With a glance, I
surmised the atmosphere. Not too many people here, maybe a dozen at most, but
the ones that
were
painted a pretty
vivid picture for me.

A group of gnarled
old bikers.

Couple of sloppy
rednecks.

Some older women
holed up in the corner.

Yeah…definitely not my speed.

I hesitated at the
door, but then my eyes fell on the bartender. She was in the middle of taking a
drink order at one of the bar tops and was about as out of place as an angel in
hell.

She wasn’t just
pretty. She looked
fucking
beautiful... Her luscious hair barely graced her shoulders. Long, bare legs
stretched for miles from her miniskirt down to her cute and almost criminally
disheveled pair of red Converse sneakers. Her low-cut blouse hinted at
moderately sized breasts – not too big, but not small.

Perfect.

My feet moved of
their own volition, stepping closer towards the counter. The patrons were
already looking at me with their stupid, judgmental eyes, but I didn’t give a
shit.

They could get
fucked.

Half of them looked
like they could use it.

As I comfortably took
my seat, the bartender glanced over her shoulder at me – flashing me a look at
her sharp and beautiful eyes.

My cock twitched in
my shredded jeans.

That’s when I knew.

I was fucking her
tonight.