Page 21 of Razor
“Sure, baby. How long?”
“Give me thirty and I’ll meet you outside.”
He smiles before dropping back to approach a group of bikers chatting on a nearby couch, and Britney whispers, “One night with Creed is worth a lifetime married to your childhood sweetheart. Man, I’m the lucky one tonight.”
My blood heats as her meaning hits me. Is this what my life is now? Serving drinks to horny bikers and then, well, I can’t even comprehend what happens next.
Another guy calls out, “Blade. We need you to settle an argument.”
He scrapes back his stool and heaves a deep sigh. “If it’s another ‘who’s got the biggest dick competition’, kill me now.”
His brother says nothing, doesn’t even glance in his direction, and as his brother heads off, it’s a little awkward being left alone.
Spying a nearby cloth and spray bottle, I set about cleaning the countertop, wondering if I should attempt conversation at all. It appears he prefers his own company, and I must respect that. Then he lifts his head, and his eyes connect with mine in a moment that will never leave me.
I stop breathing.
Two deep blue eyes stare into mine, direct, unreadable but burning with something I can’t place. His mouth wraps around the bottle and as he drains it, he lowers it to the counter and says huskily, “Sunday is a good choice of name.”
“Um, thank you.”
I edge a little closer on the pretence of grabbing the empties, and as I approach, my entire body thrums with need. For fuck’s sake, what is wrong with me? I’m sworn off men—forever, but there is something about this man that tears that contract to shreds.
“You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
I’m wondering where this courage has come from, and he nods. “Razor.”
“On account that you obviously lost yours.”
I can’t help the comeback—I always have one and for some reason it tugs a smile from his silent lips.
This man is like a mountain beast. Six feet and then some. Dark hair that hangs to his shoulders, a bandana wrapped around his head and a full beard that makes me wonder if he’s hiding from something. His body is two well-stacked mencombined, and the tattoos that stretch against the taut muscles are many, the usual Grim Reaper wielding a deadly scythe.
There are other things on his body: scars, words, numbers, and images of death. He is wearing several leather braids around his wrists; his hands huge, appearing as if they could crush anything in their grasp. He is dressed in leather and a fuck-off attitude, and my legs are weak, my blood molten, and my pussy clenched.
“You got another beer handy, darlin’?”
He almost smiles, and I am so flustered I wonder what he is talking about. Then I remember what I’m supposed to be doing and nod vigorously.
“Of course, um, coming right up.”
I sense his eyes burning into me from behind and I am choking with interest in the enigmatic giant who blurs my vision.
My hands shake as I slide the beer his way, and he nods, his voice gruff. “Thanks, darlin’.”
Another Reaper leans on the bar. “Hey, darlin’. You must be the new girl. I’m Joey.”
For some reason Razor’s fist balls on the counter, but otherwise he stares straight ahead as if he is somewhere else entirely.
“Um, hi Joey, I’m Sunday.”
I smile at the newcomer, and he whistles. “Man, you are a sight for sore eyes, darlin’. If you need anything, I’m your man.”
His interest is obvious, and although Britney warned me I’d be hit on repeat by these guys, it’s a lot to deal with. I’m a little shocked when Razor growls ominously, “Fuck off, Joey. She’s new, go and hit on someone else.”
The air is tense, and I forget to breathe as I wait for some kind of altercation to take place. The tension is so thick I could touch it, and yet Joey merely grins. “Message received, Razor. Welcome, Sunday. I’ll see you around.”
As he heads off, my gaze is drawn once again to the man at the bar and he peers at me through his enigmatic eyes and whispers gruffly, “I’m guessing you are here for a reason and won’t appreciate the guys hitting on you twenty-four seven.”
