Page 27 of Altered By Lead (Undercover Sinners 2)
"Every guy in this bar is looking at you," Colt murmurs, tossing back another shot and slamming the glass down on the rough wood surface of the bar. It's uh, certainly rustic in here. There are plaques on the wall with fish on them—not sure if they're like wood or plastic or taxidermic—as well as strung up white Christmas lights and tons of Big Foot posters.
"Bullshit," I say, but my cheeks flush with pleasure at the compliment. There must be a bit of princess left in me yet. My gaze lifts up and scans the crowd before I down another shot of my own and slide off the stool, heading out the back door to a deck that overlooks the river.
The lights strung up on the banisters make the dark water shimmer, the mountain across the way swooping up toward the round face of the moon. We're surrounded on all sides by national parks, the endless darkness of the forest taunting me.
So many things could happen in those woods.
A little Russian girl like me could very easily disappear ...
I close my eyes and shake my hands out.
That's not going to happen.
Colt and Weston follow me outside, both of them goofballs, one slightly more serious than the other. I eye West, but then flick my attention back to Colt. No, they're not about to kill me and dump me in the woods.
Hell, if any of these men wanted me dead, I think they would've done it already. Arsen, despite his talk, is full of shit.
"Okay, let's dance," I agree finally, skirting past the guys and heading down the stairs. I'm not generally into country music, but the night is cool, and the rushing of the river is a soothing sound to my city-obsessed brain. I used to need the roar of traffic to go to sleep at night; all the silence here is killing me. I feel the sound of the river is a nice compromise.
Weston hesitates briefly, but Colt hops down and circles me as some ridiculous stadium country comes over the speakers. He doesn’t even seem bothered when I snatch his wallet from his pocket and pinch a bit of cash.
I don't exactly know how to dance to this stuff, but I pass some money over to a waitress carrying around two dollar shots and slam a few back. After that, it isn't hard to put my arms up, close my eyes, and shake my ass.
The first man to approach me isn't Colt or Weston, just some handsome young local with a University of Oregon t-shirt stretched over his taut muscles. He offers up a hand, and I take it, laughing in surprise when he swings me around and then yanks me close.
I can feel both Colt and West watching us as we move around the wooden dance floor. Since it's floating on the river, attached to the shore with heavy ropes, it bobs a bit as we trot around with the other couples.
"Can I cut in?" West's deep voice makes the back of my neck prickle as he appears behind me. My dance partner doesn't look particularly thrilled, but he's also about half of West's size. What choice does he really have?
Grudgingly, the boy steps back and I spin around to stumble a bit into Weston's hulking arms. His musky male scent takes over me, turning that hot flush that the alcohol gave me into a deadly fire. It sweeps over me, burning the rest of my inhibitions to ashes.
My hands trace over his chest and the hard planes of his abs, making his pierced lips curve up at the corners.
"The nice thing about being sober is I can truly appreciate having your hands all over me. The shitty part is, I can't throw you over this banister and have my way with you."
"Really, why not?" I ask, spotting Colt dancing with a pretty blond over Weston's shoulder. The sight turns my stomach with jealousy, even as I tell myself how stupid I'm being.
I was jealous when Arsen taunted me with other women ... and here I go again.
Why? When these guys have been nothing but assholes to me. When I'm screwing all of them anyway. What does it matter?
Yet, for whatever reason, it does.
"Because," West continues, drawing my attention back to his face, those gorgeous almond-shaped eyes of his, that blue hair. He definitely stands out here: he's the only person with colored hair in the whole bar. "Even though I don't look it, I sometimes try to act like a gentleman."
"You didn't seem like a gentleman when you started fucking me while I was stitching you up," I murmur, and his jaw tightens. But not in anger. Weston's tongue slides across his lower lip, and he shrugs those broad as fuck shoulders of his.
"Fair point. I suppose if you begged, I could take you back to the car, and show you how nice the suspension is on that thing." West growls this last bit out, just before a shrieking giggle sounds from behind him, and I see Colt leaning in to whisper in that blond girl's ear.
