Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I chuckled as I disconnected the call, but since I had no clue which way to go, I took my scatterbrained friend’s advice, closed my eyes, pointed at my screen, and instructed my Uber driver to take me there.
“There” turned out to be a sketchy-looking dive called Bull Rider. Not a horse, but a cowboy-themed venue for sure. A neon sign flooded the gravel parking lot, casting a garish glow over the pickup trucks and motorcycles dotting the periphery adjacent to a row of storage units.
Okay, this was creepy.
And the lack of patrons lined up outside and the zero cover charge set off tsunami-style warning bells in my head, but I was here now and…one drink wouldn’t hurt.
I hoped.
I pulled the door open, bracing myself for a brain-rattling jungle beat with a country twist and dizzying strobe lights and—
Screech!
Where the fuck was I?
A nondescript country song twanged in a club so dark, I seriously considered using my cell to guide me to the bar. I should have turned on my heels and chased my Uber driver down, but some kind of morbid fascination pulled me inside. I followed the weak illumination under the shelves of booze in the distance, stepping around two older men with pot bellies and handlebar mustaches before plopping onto the closest stool.
Winnie…you did me dirty.
“Espresso martini, please,” I ordered distractedly, blinking as my vision adjusted to my cryptlike surroundings.
“Sorry, man. We don’t do fancy martinis. I can make you a regular one, shaken or stirred,” the bartender offered.
“Okay. Well, shaken is good and icy cold, please.”
“You got it. Want an olive?”
“No, thanks.” I swiveled to check out the clientele as I texted Winnie, sending a pic of the mechanical bull behind ropes with an “Out of Order” sign affixed to it.
Was it called Bull Rider?
He replied immediately, No, it was a horse, not a bull. Are you lost?
Yes. I found the portal to hell.
Five laughing emojis. Be safe and have fun in da club!
This was not da club. This was a poorly lit dive bar catering to men over forty. Or seventy, I mused, grimace-smiling at the older gentleman waving to me at the far end of the bar. No doubt he was lovely, but this was not what I’d had in mind.
I wanted a Lady Gaga playlist and sexy men with impossible muscles and gorgeous bulges straining their tiny G-strings while they strutted on a ledge above me. I wanted to be covered with rainbow lights and glitter, swaying like a palm on the dance floor, music humming in my veins.
This place had a forgotten and slightly hellish vibe, but…they served alcohol, and maybe this was the universe’s way of redirecting me before I strayed too far off course.
Message received. One drink and I was outta here.
I sipped my martini as I scrolled for a ride, pointedly ignoring the old man and his bushy-browed friend eye-fucking me over their beer bottles. Yikes.
Forget the drink. It was time to go. I stood to peel a few bills from my wallet, accidentally elbowing a patron on my right—a huge barrel-chested man with dark hair streaked with silver, and a thick beard. The guy was big enough to squish me with his thumb, and the stern set of his jaw made him look mean enough to enjoy it.
Shit. I might not make it out of here alive.
“Sorry about that,” I mumbled, inching away.
“No, no. That was my fault,” the newcomer said in a very proper British accent.
Say what? My double take was so violent, I gave myself whiplash.
“Uh…”
He smiled as if politely waiting for me to finish whatever uninspired thought had popped into my head. Thankfully, he gave up and addressed the bartender. “Scotch, please. And another of whatever he’s drinking.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but I was struck by a few things: One, he was British—and what were the chances of running into yet another Brit in Vegas the day before my big move? Two, his height and size and general badass-ness should have made him seem at home in this dump, but he looked more out of place than a penguin in a sauna. And three, he was a very fucking hot bear of a man in a room full of weasels.
He wore fitted jeans with a crisp oxford shirt rolled at the sleeves to reveal sexy, strong forearms. This guy was muscular, toned, at least five inches taller than me, and probably fifteen years older too. Not my usual type, but not not my type…if you catch my drift.
Gah, I couldn’t stop staring at him.
Oh, and side note: Other than a handful of pretzels, I hadn’t eaten since lunch. I wasn’t drunk by any means, but I was on the verge of tipsy. And tipsy me had a faulty filter and a dubious moral compass. Not something I wanted to unleash in the wilds of off-the-Strip Vegas.