Not My Romeo by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Chapter 10

ELENA

“Can I buy you a drink, pretty girl?”

The male voice comes from my right at the bar just as I’m sucking down a tall glass of ice water. Sweat dots my forehead, and my mascara is smudged—I can see it in the mirror across from the bar—so I know for a fact I am not pretty right now.

I don’t even glance at him, although a cursory look in the mirror tells me he’s tall with clipped hair at the sides and with spiky hair gelled and sticking up.

“Not interested.” I signal the bartender for another glass of water. “Hit me again. Less ice this time, please,” I tell him as I dab at my face with a napkin, then my chest.

Mohawk leans in a little closer, and I smell expensive aftershave, something with cool tones, like the sea. “Really?” he murmurs. “You trying to run me off? I’m kinda scary at first, but once you get to know me—”

“Try another pretty girl.” I am not in the mood for men—especially after last night.

The bartender sets down the water, and I attack it.

Mohawk chuckles. “You’re a thirsty one.”

“Are you still here?” I say, pulling my phone out of my crossbody purse and pretending to scroll.

“Yeah. And I’m surprised you aren’t asking for an autograph by now. You come here often? I haven’t seen you, and I know everyone who comes in here. These are my stomping grounds.”

Autograph?

Okay, curiosity makes me turn and give him a full-on look. He’s tall, about six two, and lean, with purple-tipped hair and tattoos up his arms, disappearing into his clothing.

I arch my brow at the dress shirt he wears with red lightning bolts all over it. “I don’t come here ever. Actually it’s my friend’s birthday.” I point out Topher and Michael and some of his friends. The guys are dressed as T-Birds with pompadour hair, black leather jackets, white T-shirts, and combs in the back pockets of their jeans. A couple of girls—Michael’s entourage—are wearing Pink Ladies jackets and poodle skirts. It’s Grease everywhere. Topher strikes again. We had dinner early at a Thai place on Second Avenue and then popped in here to dance. Topher planned the entire event. It’s one of the things I adore about him, how he loves to make other people feel special.

Mohawk watches them dance to “Who Let the Dogs Out” and then turns back to me, an amused smile on his face. He checks out my long teased hair, the red stilettos, the suffocating black leather pants, and the off-the-shoulder tight black shirt. “I guess you’re Olivia Newton-John at the end of Grease? Hot Sandy?”

“Mmm. You’re super smart.”

He isn’t deterred by my sarcasm. Although, on a better night, I might have been flattered or even asked him about that print on his shirt. It fits him perfectly, tight across the chest but not clingy, the sleeves perfect around his muscled biceps. Tailored. Expensive. Not a shirt for me, but the fabric is interesting. Romeo might like a new bedcover. I make a mental note to search for it online.

“The name’s Devon Walsh, by the way.” He looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to do something—so I do a slow golf clap.

“Nice. That’s a girl’s name.”

He cocks his head. “Seriously, you don’t know me? Even with this?” He brushes a hand through his spiky hair. “It’s my calling card. Has been since high school.”

“Some men peak in high school, Devon. I wouldn’t brag about it.”

He throws his head back and laughs, eyes gleaming. His face is handsome—a nice nose, although it looks as if it’s been broken once, a slight imperfection. Two small black hoops are in his ears. A silver eyebrow stud winks at me under the strobe lights, accentuating the straight lines of his dark brows. Toss in the neon-blue leather jacket he’s carrying over his arm, and he’s . . . interesting.

“Tell me where you got that shirt.”

His lips twitch. “You are amusing. And I haven’t peaked. Still climbing.” He rubs his shirt. “You like it, huh?”

I nod.

“Wanna touch it, babe?”

I roll my eyes. What is it about me these past two nights that I’ve caught the attention of two very different yet hot guys? Must be the leather pants tonight. They scream Looking for a good time.

But what was it about me with Jack? Because he saw me in my work clothes . . .

I turn back to the bar. “Don’t babe me. Or pretty girl either.”

“Then tell me your name.”

“No.”

He chuckles. “Just the first name. We can get to last names later.”

And by later, he means . . . yeah, right. Not doing that again.

I nudge my head at a brunette across the bar from me. “Try her. She’s more your speed; plus she’s looking at you like you’re a king-size Snickers.”

He shrugs. “Nah. You caught my eye. Once I saw you, everyone else just disappeared. I mean, I’m not a photographer, but I can picture us together.”

I laugh. “That is a terrible pickup line, but points for perseverance.”

“I can’t stop myself; they just roll off my tongue. And usually those lines work. Usually all I do is say my name, and girls fall at my feet. Sorry.” He grins, not looking apologetic at all.

“Not interested. All I want to do is hang out here for a while, then head home to Romeo.”

“Romeo? You got a guy?”

“Pet pig.”

He laughs and plays with his beer bottle. “Would it help my case if I said you have the ultimate privilege of speaking to the best wide receiver in the countr—”

“What?” I start, my glass nearly slipping from my hands.

His lips turn up in a slow grin. “Ah, you like football. I play for the Tigers here in Nashville. You’re welcome.” He takes a bow.

I shake my head, the wheels spinning. “I don’t know anything about football.” I throw a quick glance around the dark club, scanning it for Jack, my heart leaping in my chest. Don’t football players travel in packs like wolves? I don’t know why I think that, but . . .

He orders another beer from the bartender and takes a long swig. “But you’ve heard of me, right?”

“No.”

He gapes at me. “This is a travesty. A true crime.”

“Mmm.” Still no sign of Jack as I scan the club, but there are so many nooks and crannies and dark places I might be missing him.

“Are you here alone?” I ask.

He smirks. “Actually, no. It’s also my birthday—how serendipitous is that—and a few of my friends and teammates took over the VIP room.”

He said serendipitous. I soften. I do love big words.

“Really? A VIP room. Huh.” I’d love to see Jack again. Maybe toss my water in his face. Maybe have a good old-fashioned southern hissy fit.

Devon nods. “I just popped out to hit the men’s room and saw you over here slinging back drinks—”

“Water.”

“Okay, water. And just thought you might want to join our party, but I can see that you’re not interested . . .” He scans the barstools, disappointment on his face.

“Is it cooler in the VIP room? It’s hot out here.”

He looks back at me, eyebrow arching. “Yeah. Wouldn’t it be nice to get out of this crush of people and have a conversation?” His gaze sweeps over me again, lingering on my cleavage.

I tug my shirt up. “And by conversation, you mean . . .”

He laughs. “Conversation can lead to whatever you like. There are a few private rooms in the VIP section where we can go—”

I lean over and thump him on the forehead. “Stop that.”

“Ouch!” he says, rubbing the place I hit. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because you’re too smooth and flirty. How on earth will you ever meet a nice girl if all you do is throw off these ‘Let’s get naked’ vibes?” I pause. “But because I happen to love your shirt, I’ll cut you some slack. I wouldn’t mind getting away from the loud music. Is there food?”

Is there a Jack Hawke?

His eyes light up. “Hell yeah. And birthday cake. You aren’t going to thump me again, are you?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Lead the way to the VIP room. Let’s do this.” I slam my empty water glass down on the bar. I don’t know where my nerve comes from right now, but if Jack is in the VIP room, it might be a chance for me to . . .

I don’t know.

But I want to see him.

“Follow me, babe. You’ll love everyone.”

“Uh-huh.”

He guides me to an area roped off with red velvet cords to the left of the club, near the back. I didn’t even notice it when I walked in before—or the bouncer who’s guarding the entrance.

I look over my shoulder and give Topher and Michael a thumbs-up sign. I elbow Devon. “My bestie knows I’m with you, so no funny stuff.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

My nerves are stretched thin as we breeze past the bouncer, walk down a hallway and inside a dimly lit room with a smaller bar and a raised dais for a dance floor. Nicely dressed servers roam the room with platters of champagne. A longer table of food lines the back wall, filled with cold shrimp, fruit and cheese, and little quiches. I eye those.

There’s a window that faces the dance floor, and I see Topher, although I’m certain the regular people out in the club can’t see inside the bar. I hadn’t even noticed the window.

“There’s quite a crowd in here,” I murmur as I pull my pale-pink cat-eye glasses out of my purse and slide them on. They’re bigger than my white ones and have little jewels on the sides. My dress-up pair.

Devon leads me around the room, randomly calling out to people. Men slap him on the back, wishing him happy birthday. He glances down at me a few times, as if to introduce me, and I grin because he doesn’t even know my name. Several women rush up to him, pressing kisses to his cheek, edging me out of the way, and I let them and step away, drifting back to the food. I grab a plate and load it up. After snatching a glass of champagne, I stand in the shadows and survey the area. I’ve never seen so many big muscular guys in one place, and I feel small even in my heels. Beautiful women, and I mean freaking supermodel types, dot the room, hanging on muscular arms and cooing at the men. Not my kind of place, and all at once, my bravado about finding Jack sinks like the Titanic. I came in here on an impulse without thinking too hard about it, but it’s clear I don’t fit in here. Even with these stupid pants!

I’m stuffing a quiche in my mouth just as Devon reappears. “You snuck off.”

I chew and nod. “Food.”

“I can see.”

“Do not judge. I believe food should be appreciated.”

“I admire any woman who doesn’t eat salads constantly.”

I smile around a shrimp. Devon’s not too terrible—even if he is a bit of a player. “Unless it’s a pasta salad, maybe with some tortellini and a pound of bacon, am I right?”

“Totally. I could go for a bacon sandwich right now.” He slides in next to me and watches the crowd.

I wave my hands at a group of pretty girls dancing on a raised dais, the music in here piped in through speakers from the ceiling. “It’s your birthday. Why aren’t you out there getting some action?”

“Meh. I think I’ve screwed every girl here at least once.”

I cough and almost spit out part of my shrimp, and he pats me on the back. “Babe, you okay?”

I swallow down my bite. “Devon, look, I’m not a hookup. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

“I think the thump on my forehead was a clue.”

“Good. I’m just here to see if J—”

The crowd parts, and there he is. Every hot-AF inch of him—dark hair swept off his face; chiseled jawline cut like glass; sinful, sensuous lips full and pillowy. He could be a movie star. I squint. Wait. Clarity slaps me in the face. Isn’t he the . . . Adidas guy? My mouth parts. He is! I definitely recall seeing his face on a billboard in Times Square when I lived in New York. That was several years ago, but damn, I had sex with . . . that.

Whatever.

He’s standing near the back, and three women are all over him—a redhead, a brunette, and a blonde. Color me not surprised. He’s got a harem of every flavor.

My chest rises, and I set down my plate of food and narrow my eyes at him.

“J-a-c-k. There you are.”

Devon follows my eyes. “You a Jack Hawke fan? Want to meet him?”

Fan? Fan?

And meet him? I fucked him!

I straighten my shirt to make sure my chest is adequately covered and tug up my pants, ready for battle. I don’t know why, when it comes to Jack, I don’t dwell on my usual politeness or inherent shyness. Something about him brings out the warrior in me. Maybe it’s because Preston screwed me over, and I’m angry in general, or perhaps it’s because I was really into Greg—

“You could say I know him. Excuse me, Devon, someone owes me an apology.”

His eyes flare. “You know Jack? He owes you an apology?”

“Winner, winner, chicken dinner.” I set my plate down on a passing platter and point my stilettos in his direction.

I’m going to kill that quarterback.

It seems to take forever to cross the room to get to where he is, and I feel people looking at me. No doubt they’re wondering who I am and why I’m so much shorter than the supermodels. F them. I may not be the usual for this crowd, but I will get my say.

I have to actually push through several people to get to him, using my shoulders to jam my way into his little circle. This isn’t me at all, but I’m running on adrenaline. I come to a halt about three feet away while he gazes down at a redhead in a tiny cutout black dress that’s at least two sizes too small. She’s got ruby lips and the biggest set of breasts I’ve seen on a girl so skinny. Good for her. An elegant hand curls around his biceps as she smiles up at him and chats. I cock my head, noticing how he looks past her, nodding his head, but he isn’t actually talking, just taking it in, a slightly bored expression on his face. Oh, he’s responding with nonverbal cues in all the right places, yet his mind seems far away.

I know because I stand there for at least three minutes, tapping my feet, getting my nerve up. Kinda hoping he sees me first. But he doesn’t. I’m too short.

On the other side, the blonde has her arm on his other shoulder; she’s leaning in, her silky hair brushing against his fancy button-up shirt, another expensive piece of tailored art. She’s speaking, too, agreeing with whatever Miss Red is saying. Then I’m distracted; his sleeves are rolled up, and my eyes get tangled up on those forearms again, how taut and muscular they are, how tightly he held me the night before, his hands on my hips as he thrust inside me—

Stop this nonsense right now.

“Jack Hawke,” I snap, and it comes out sharper than I thought it would.

Everyone around him stops talking.

He lifts his head slowly, and it seems to take a million years, only I’m sure it’s just a few seconds until those honey-colored eyes meet mine. His lush mouth parts as he sweeps me over from head to foot, recognition dawning on his face. A slow flush crawls up his neck to his face.

Then he frowns at me, as if I’ve done something wrong—when he’s the one who’s a liar.

That’s right, buddy.

I bet you thought you’d never seeme again.

Yes, he wrote me a note with a cell number, but was it even real?

The girls check me out, and you know how that goes. They give me a once-over, rather dismissive and amused, taking in my glasses, teased hair, sweaty face, and pants. God, who can forget these horrible, tight, sticky pants? How the heck will I ever get them off me? Scissors.

“Elena.”

The way he says it, drawing out the syllables, the texture of his deep voice making me shiver.

I close my eyes briefly, feeling the force of his focus and presence like a huge hurricane that’s blowing straight in my face. He’s primal. He’s the god of fucking.

And I climbed him like a tree and enjoyed every moment.

And he did too.

I had him begging for it. Begging me to—

A tingle zips down my spine.

Screw that tingle.

I inhale a deep breath, my fists curling at my sides. “Weatherman, where are my panties?”