Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
He taps my chest with the back of his hand, that dick-hardening smile in place. “And do they even have darts at a gay bar?” Clyde points to the board hanging behind us.
I snort. “In a hurry to lose?”
Clyde’s eyebrows rise. “You’re very cocky for someone about to be knocked down a peg. Hey, bartender? Can we get the darts?”
“And another two shots,” I add.
I give his back a gentle pat, so I have an excuse to touch him. “You think someone who’s as good at throwing knives as me will lose to you at darts?” His nape looks so warm, so inviting, and I restrain myself from kissing it at the last moment, because the barman is there, placing shots in front of us along with some darts and a strong warning to not throw them at people. Seems like it’s something that’s happened before.
As soon as he’s away, Clyde shrugs at me with a smirk. “It’s a different skill, babe.”
He grabs some darts, downs his vodka and moves to stand in front of the board. I pull him back behind a line on the floor. Another excuse to touch him. The second shot of vodka already burns the back of my throat.
“Now you’ve got something to prove. How about we make this more interesting? Dart truth or dare,” I say because there are things I don’t know about him yet, and with the peace between our clubs crumbling, I don’t know how much time we have left. I’m not going to be a baby about the inevitable, but I will gorge myself on his company for as long as I can.
Clyde smiles. “Sure. Go first. Whoever's closer to the bullseye wins.”
The darts are different from the ones I’m used to, lighter, and their weight is not evenly distributed. So maybe I was overly confident when I shot my first shot, without taking my time to assess what I’m working with, and it drops too fast, almost avoiding the target altogether. Smug as a peacock spreading his tail, Clyde takes his time, and while he’s also far from the bullseye, his result is better.
I end up asking for a dare, a little intimidated about him being able to ask anything. I’m told to drink herb liquor, which he knows I hate, but I guess it wouldn’t be a dare otherwise.
“I see your strategy,” I grumble. “Getting me an extra drink first, so my aim is off.”
Clyde spreads his arms. “Got me there.”
But I’ve got a strong head for booze, so I’m not worried, and I win the next one. Again, I have this itch to ask him about things I haven’t gotten to yet, but when he too picks the dare, I demand that he does a handstand by the nearest wall. I half-expect needing to help him out, which would be yet another sneaky opportunity for touch, but while it takes him three attempts, he does manage to fulfill my request. His T-shirt rolls down, exposing the treasure trail of dark hair. It beckons me to follow it, either up or down, but before I can make up my mind, Clyde lands back on his feet, his hair in a delicious mess.
“We’re only getting started.”
“Okay, big shot, next round? Facing away.” Clyde’s a little flushed after the handstand, and it only makes him hotter. Before I know it, he faces away from the board and throws the dart over his shoulder.
It doesn’t even touch the wall, let alone the board.
He frowns at me when I laugh. “Let’s see how you do, smartass.”
I smirk, because this is something I practice on a regular basis. With knives, of course, but it still should make a difference, and my dart manages to strike the target. I offer Clyde a smug smile. “What will it be this time, Blue Eyes?” I ask, resisting the urge to trace the scar cutting across his brow.
Clyde rolls his eyes. “Go on. Truth.”
Yes.
I’m almost embarrassed of the way my heart skips, but my voice is even when I speak. “Why did you join the Butchers? What’s the history there?” I ask, leaning against the bar.
I need to know if I’m to ever have a chance of disentangling him from their clutches.
Clyde groans. “Oh, fuuuck… Dare?”
I shake my head. Looks like this story needs a beer, because he orders another drink, and only with his hand full, Clyde leans against the wall next to the dart board.
“Because of my dad I was prepared for it, or at least the idea that it could be my future. I wasn’t as big as Roy, and didn’t know if I’d prospect, so it was all up in the air as my time in high school was ending. I’ll have you know I actually graduated at seventeen.” He wags his finger at me, but it’s a digression, so I nod and don’t let him change the topic. “But then…” Clyde stares down into his beer as if he’s counting all the bubbles in it. “I got beat up real bad around that time. My dad was furious that I wouldn’t tell him who did it, but it was winter, the guy’s face was half-covered, and I didn’t see shit, just some ink on his hands. My dad thought I was covering for the fucker, that I didn’t want him dead, or was afraid or something, and I was sick of being seen as weak. Being weak. What that fuck did to me…” He takes a swig of beer. “It made me realize I need to be tough. That if I have people like the Butchers at my back, no shithead will dare fuck with me. So I stopped being weak, and joined as a prospect.” Clyde glances up at me with a cocky glint in his blue eyes. “And a month later, I broke your finger.”