Gunslinger: A Sports Romance (26 page)

I can't talk.
 

I can't smile.
 

I can barely breathe.

He's wearing a suit jacket, and not just any jacket, but what looks to be a custom tailored, midnight blue, very expensive looking one with a white Henley shirt underneath, dark jeans that fit him like a glove, and a pair of black Doc Martens. I notice part of an intricate, black tattoo that I imagine swirls and trails from God knows where, all the way up to the side of his neck. What's visible to the eye is the very curved tip of the tattoo, teasing me, as it peeps out from the top of the round collar.
 

He looks hard and strong, but not steroid beefy, and stands well over six feet tall (my guess is 6'2"), with a broad back and shoulders, a narrow waist and sleek, diamond cut biceps flexing through his suit jacket. He wears his jet black hair in a very short buzz cut and looks like a badass who reluctantly decided to dress up for a night out at the club.
 

Still mute; I quietly drink more of him in.
 

I am even more drawn to this man's imperfections, because they make him unmistakably beautiful, as well as a lot more interesting than any other man I've ever seen in my life. Most noticeably, the rather wide and deep crescent shaped scar under his left eye, which I decide to create a story about in my head (which I do often) on how I think he managed to acquire it. Definitely from a fight. A fight that he won of course, because he looks like he hasn't lost a fight since he was about twelve years old. If even then. Adding to his appeal is his strong angular jaw and a nose that looks like it may have been broken once or twice, sort of like a boxer's or a hockey player's, as well as the one deep dimple in his left cheek.
 

One amazing frackin' dimple.

His magnetic, black sable colored eyes are so deep and intense as they trace the lines of my face, I feel as if I could fall into them and end up somewhere in the land of Oz. He looks weathered, and frightening, and delicious all at the same time. The air seems to have been completely sucked out of the atmosphere, and I feel like I'm going to throw up, but in a good way–if that's even remotely possible.

"You all right?" The stranger asks while softly running two of his knuckles along the side of my face.
 

I nod my head up and down, speechless from his touch.
 

"You okay?" He turns to ask Sloan.
 

Sloan looks a little green around the gills but unlike me is able to find her voice.
 

"Yes–I just need a minute thank you. You ok Bitsy?" She asks me with one eyebrow raised. I can tell that she's trying to communicate with her eyes for me to, "get my shit together" in front of this man. This god. This man-god.
 

But that's Sloan. Confident and cool under pressure. Even under duress she still manages to look absolutely flawless. With her modern, auburn-dyed pixie cut which pops against her creamy caramel colored skin, God-given size D breasts, and a killer smile; for a moment I'm worried that the stranger is going to realize that he has his hand on the back of the wrong girl. Any given night of the week if we're hanging out, I'm Sloan's "wingman", never the main chick.
 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a slouch by any stretch, but I'm also a realist. I'm attractive, but like most women there are things that I wouldn't mind changing about myself. Like maybe the size of my very wide bell-shaped hips and probably my big hair. Sloan on the other hand doesn't need to change a thing. Heads turn when she enters a room. Men fall all over themselves to buy her a drink. She's Top Model beautiful and typically gets major attention when we hang out. So I'm kind of confused as to why the stranger doesn't seem to be as interested in her as most men are. But I guess the bigger question is, why do I even care about this? This is part of what's wrong with me. I worry about all the wrong things sometimes. I should just be happy that I've made it out of Club Lotus alive and with 20/20 vision. Not concern myself with who the man-god is interested in. Hell, my boyfriend just dumped me two seconds ago. I need to stay clear of all men. Especially ones like him.

"I'm good." I assure the two of them.

But I'm not good.

The stranger keeps staring at me in a way that is so electrically charged, that I am sure my skin feels hot to the touch. Flushed. I look away, because I feel like a colony of bats are swarming around in my gut. Blindly banging around inside my body like they're trying to find a way out but can't. I reluctantly look back up to meet his deep set eyes as he moves a few steps forward and gently lifts my chin with his strong, calloused pointer finger. It's like he knows that there is something else that I want or need to say.

"Thank you." I manage to fumble out softly. "You know for helping us out of there."
 

He grins in what I assume is a, "you're welcome" but says nothing. He just keeps staring at me.
 

Hard.

Sloan lets out an obvious fake cough to break the tension between us, but I am too flustered for it to do much good. My attention waffles between shifting my eyes from the stranger's perfectly shaped lips, to his ears, to the small mole on his neck, to the tip of his tattoo and everywhere else to avoid those eyes of his; clearly calculating every breath I take. I have a deep suspicion that if I stare into his eyes long enough, that he could tell me to jump off of the nearest bridge and I gladly would.
 

"Tell me your name." His tone has shifted. It seems more urgent and darker.
 

Suddenly I begin to nervously coil a few strands of my shoulder length hair around my fingers. I don't have a huge amount of experience with guys, but I know with great certainty that I'm in way over my head with this man. He looks hard and seasoned, like he's been around the block a few times, but in the best way possible. Every woman that walks by is gawking at him, and I imagine that most women are drawn to him like moths to a flame. Clearly I'm no better, since it's glaringly obvious that the stranger has the unique super power to turn me into a complete moron. I have yet to say one intelligent thing in his presence so far. It's ridiculous. I graduated on the Dean's List for goodness sake.

He reaches over to untangle the hair that I have unwittingly twined around my fingers and then moves forward to tuck the loose strands gently behind my ear. As his fingertips lightly brush the small area of skin behind my ear, I slowly blink my eyes and struggle for shallow breaths. His strong fingers move to raise my chin in order to refocus my attention on him, and when my eyes meet his gaze this time, my body betrays me in a most unmerciful way. My nipples tighten underneath my flimsy halter top and are on full alert like a pair of headlights. I don't know how he knew to take a look, but the stranger takes a sweeping glance at them, takes a small swipe of his bottom lip with his tongue, and smiles suggestively at me. That tongue move of his makes me wonder what it would feel like if he touched my taut nipples with those strong fingers and then next with that beautiful mouth. I bet it's deliciously warm and wet.

So as if it isn't enough that I am completely embarrassed by the fact that I've allowed a complete stranger to touch me twice, not to mention my body's response to his handling of me-- I've completely forgotten what his original question was.
 

I feel seriously discombobulated.
 

This is six degrees of all kind of wrong.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?" I ask annoyed with myself.

While I manage to somehow articulately ask him to repeat the question, I squirm while waiting to hear it repeated, as he lazily rakes his eyes from my neck, to my breasts, to my hips, legs, and then back up to my eyes. When he is finished eye fucking me, he smirks as if I'm already smoking a post-coital cigarette, and then he speaks to me in a way that requires a definite response.
 

"Your name."
 

Oh that's right moron.

"Elizabeth."

He flashes a delicious small grin on his face, which showcases his gorgeous dimple, and I am actually pleased with myself that I was responsible for putting it there.
 

Oh. My. God. What is my problem?

"Were you having a good time tonight Elizabeth?"

"In the club? Sure, it was all right." Why does he say my name like that? Dripping in seduction. Like we've already done something very wicked with each other.

"Did you two come together or did you come alone?" He asks with mild curiosity.

"Together." Sloan interjects.
 

This is the first time I notice that Sloan is staring at the stranger in almost the same way I am. Lustfully. He is sexy as hell; there is no disputing that. I can't even blame her, although I'm starting to not really like it.

"Is this your first time?" He smiles when he asks me that. I assume he is talking about visiting the club, but the question is loaded with sexual innuendo.

"I'm a regular," Sloan interjects again. "But it was her first time."
 

I'm not exactly sure what's going on here. Sloan is acting strangely. I need her to shut up and stop speaking for me. I can't believe that I'm even considering this, but is it possible that she could be a little miffed that the stranger isn't giving her the usual attention she receives from men? Or maybe she's just being a good friend and answering for me, since I seem to be incapable of talking for myself. It's probably the latter. That's what I choose to think anyway.

"Is that right–" He holds his finger up and turns his back to us to take a call on his cell phone. "Excuse me one second ladies."

"Yes," I hear him answer gruffly to the person on the phone. "It's done."

Still feeling slightly shell-shocked and buzzed from a combination of everything that has taken place over the course of the evening, I stop trying to eavesdrop on the stranger's phone call, and glance across the street towards the entrance of the club in disbelief. What a strange night.
 

I see small clusters of men and women in assorted states of disarray. Some people were clearly hurt and nursing wounds from being nearly trampled. Others were hunched over making calls on their cells or sitting on the ground coughing and rubbing their eyes which were no doubt still smarting from the pepper spray. The police have finally arrived and have started the business of clearing the club, tending to the injured, and questioning staff.

I scan the crowd to look for Marco, but notice someone else. The same blond from the bar who was wearing the really cheap looking, tacky off the shoulder turquoise mini dress with ruching on the side. She's a very pretty girl but was dressed and acted like she didn't know it. She was also the woman who I suspected to be the cause of this entire evening from hell. I'd bet someone a hundred dollars that she had a bottle of pepper spray attached to those keys that she pulled out in the club. In fact I was pretty sure that I saw her pull it out and press the button, although it is hard to say for sure due to my vantage point at the bar. I wonder if the police have questioned her yet.

I watch her reservedly as her eyes squint in my direction and then hone in on the person speaking on his cell phone directly behind me. The same man who was responsible for commanding my nipples to attention just moments ago. He notices her staring at him too and abruptly finishes his call. At least it seems abrupt to me, but maybe that's his usual phone etiquette.
 

When he walks back over and stands directly in front of me,
I don't like how completely out of my own body I feel. I bravely look up into his eyes thinking maybe the words will come, but now I wish I hadn't. My breathing slows and my chest locks up. His eyes are like magnets. Pulling me into some strange vortex. I've read novels featuring characters that have an instant attraction to each other, and I roll my eyes every time I read one of those plots. I've been attracted to several guys over the years, and seriously dated two of them, but never experienced anything like this. I didn't think this really existed.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He asks with concern.

"Yes." I nod while rubbing my arms.

"Cold?"
 

I can't hide the fact that I'm slightly shivering. The nights are getting cooler as the summer starts to wind down, not to mention the fact that I'm totally underdressed. Last time I'll wear Sloan's skimpy tops.

"A little."

He takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders, allowing his hands to linger across my shoulders a little longer than necessary. The lining of his jacket is a midnight blue satin, which smells uniquely like him and it warms me quickly with his residual body heat. I was just about to let out a small audible groan, if I hadn't caught myself. I'm pretty sure he notices.

He pushes up the sleeves of his shirt and holy mother of god there are more tats. Two intricate arm sleeves worth on strong, corded forearms. A simple but very expensive looking silver watch adorns his left wrist. I can't help but stare and once again, he notices.

"May I ask what you do?" He asks me.

"What I do?" I nervously rub the thin horizontal gold bar necklace I'm wearing between my fingers.

"Most of the women that come to the club on techno night are tightly wound corporate types looking to let loose."