Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
No, I don’t think he’d have to. His eyes drop, and I suddenly remember where I was going and why.
“I’ll be back. I’m changing. He gets a free beer,” I tell James before I make my way around the gorgeous man. He grabs my hand before I can make my escape.
“What’s your name?” His voice comes out rougher now. I don’t know if it's that or his touch, but my whole body comes alive with a strange tingle across my skin.
“Clover. I own the place.” I give him a smile. I’ve somehow kept this place going, and I’m kind of proud of that. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it, but I have so far.
“Clover.” He repeats my name in a husky tone.
“And yours?” His brows lift at my question.
“My name?” he asks as though no one has ever asked him that before.
“Well, yeah.” I laugh.
“Dylan.”
“Well, Dylan, welcome to Get Lucky.”
“How do you know I’ve never been here before?” he asks, still holding on to my hand.
“’Cause I know everyone here.” And I would so remember him if I’d seen him before. A lot of people are regulars or old timers. We get some new faces here and there.
“Do you now?” A smile plays on his lips. Am I missing something?
“Yeah, I do.” I pull my hand from his. “I’ll be back.”
“Promise?”
“Like I said, I own the place. I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him before I turn to head toward the back. Is he flirting with me? It takes everything inside of me not to glance over my shoulder to see if he’s watching me walk away.
I don’t date customers or do one-night stands.
I never get lucky around here. Or anywhere, for that matter.
CHAPTER 3
DYLAN
She doesn’t recognize me. There wasn’t a flicker of recognition in her beautiful blue eyes. I practically skip to the bar. The security guard follows me and ducks under an open part of the bar.
“What’re you having?”
“Whatever’s on tap.” I haven’t drunk beer in a long time. A case of dark malts are in my rider, but that’s for Chris. I usually drink whiskey and sometimes this moonshine that my bodyguard and I discovered during the Asia leg of my last tour. It’s 58 proof and knocks you on your ass.
“Light or regular? You look like a light guy.” His hand is on a tap, ready to pour me the wateriest beer possible.
“Even if I was a light guy, I’d have to say regular because obviously my manhood is on the line here.”
Mr. Security doesn’t crack a smile, but he does move his hand one spigot over and fills a frosty mug with a dark liquid. He has a challenging glint in his eye when he places the mug in front of me. I feel compelled to drink half of it in one go. Like I said, my manhood is being challenged.
He grunts when I set the mug down, but I can’t decipher if it’s approval or disgust. I finish it and motion for him to hit me with another. As he’s refilling my mug, I allow my gaze to wander over to where Clover disappeared. She said she’d be back, but the minutes are ticking by. To occupy myself, I inspect the interior. It’s actually a lot bigger inside than the drab exterior suggests. Had I known how big it was, I might not have stopped in, but there was something about the four-leaf clover logo and the words Get Lucky that felt like a sign. I’d been lucky to escape the stadium, lucky to find a taxi driver who was willing to take me anywhere—literally—for the right price, lucky to find a bar where no one knew me, lucky to run into a smoking hot babe like Clover. Get Lucky is my new motto.
There’s no stage here like my old college bars. Instead, a couple pool tables line the back wall. A vintage jukebox in the corner plays some old ‘80s rock, and a handful of people sit around tables, some eating, one group playing cards, and a couple looking like they are on an awkward first date. None of the patrons seem to require someone with the word Security emblazoned on their shirt.
“See a lot of fights in here?” I turn back to the bartender.
“No.”
“Maybe they haven’t drunk enough,” I muse. Early on in my career, I went on a few benders, and that was about the only time I needed security.
“You’re awfully nosy.” He wipes down a non-existent spill.
“How so? I haven’t asked you a question about your finances, your smoking habits, who you’re sleeping with. I don’t think I’ve even begun to be nosy.”
He folds his burly arms across his chest. “You trying to start a fight with me?”
I think my bodyguard would have a hard time taking this guy down.