Page 2 of Handful

It had been about a year since the birthday party at the Venom Riders clubhouse. I’d only gone because Rachel — my best friend from college, who’d somehow ended up dating a prospect — had dragged me along. “It’ll be fun,” she’d said. “They’re actually really nice once you get to know them.”

The party had been fine. But then he had appeared.

Sandy brown hair, mischievous brown eyes, the kind of boyish grin that probably worked on about ninety-nine percent of the female population. He’d sidled up to me while I was getting a beer, said something mildly charming, made me laugh despite myself.

And then he’d spent the next twenty minutes talking to my chest. Not even trying to hide it. Every sentence aimed about eight inches below my face. I’d told him his conversation skills would improve if he made eye contact, and he’d grinned at me like I’d paid him a compliment.

And it wasn’t even the first time. Almost a year before the birthday party, he’d cornered me at Dutch and Indira’s wedding — I’d been there as a plus-one to a guy from Indira’s office who hadn’t wanted to go to a biker wedding on his own — and hit on me so relentlessly that I’d given him a fake name just to end the conversation.

And now he was here. In my bar. Settling onto a barstool like he owned it. Another brother dropped onto the stool beside him. That easy grin swept the room and landed on me the way it probably landed on every woman in his vicinity. Appreciative. Unhurried.

Zero recognition.

Two encounters. Two shutdowns. And he was looking at me like I was a fresh start.

Interchangeable. That was what I was to him — just a woman he’d hit on and moved past, twice, without a second thought. I could have been anyone. I probably had been anyone, to him, a dozen times over.

Something about that was so much worse than if he’d swaggered in knowing exactly who I was.

“Hey there.” His voice was a lazy, confident drawl. He leaned on the bar. “You look like the best thing I’ve seen all week.”

I kept my face neutral. Bartender-professional. Gave him nothing. “What can I get you?” I asked.

“What do you recommend?”

“For you? Hemlock.”

His companion snorted. He just kept grinning, apparently immune to insults. “I’m serious. What’s good here?”

“Everything’s good here. This is a cocktail bar, not a biker dive. We don’t serve warm Budweiser and broken dreams.”

“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “The claws on this one.”

“My name is Austen. Not ‘this one.’”

“Austen.” He repeated my name, slower. “Like Jane?”

I blinked. That was not the response I’d expected. “Yes. My parents are literature professors.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head, studying me with an expression that was annoyingly difficult to read. “So they named you after a woman famous for writing about toxic men and the women who put up with them?”

“Or, they named me after a woman famous for brilliant social commentary and biting wit.”

“Same thing.”

I let that one go. “What are you drinking?”

“An Old Fashioned,” he said. “Make it good. I’m trying to impress somebody.”

I glanced at the brother with him, who was inspecting a bar stool pretending not to listen. “Your friend?”

“No. You.”

I stared at him. He stared back, that grin never wavering.

“One Old Fashioned,” I said finally. “And for you?” I turned to the other brother — Target, according to the name on his cut.

“Uh. Beer? Whatever you have on tap is fine.”