Savoring Mila (Rockers' Legacy Book 3)

“Fuck it,” I muttered to myself and just dived in.

I was tiny—maybe not as small as Mom, but enough that I could get into smaller places than Dad or Maverick ever could. I dipped under some guy’s arm and squeezed between two other men who were right at the bar. But as the one right beside me turned, his drink in hand, our gazes locked, and I suddenly found all the air pushing its way out of my lungs.

Holy hell, those eyes. This close, I could see the way they swirled, shifting from one shade of brown to another in the blink of any eye.

At first, I thought it was just the lighting. No way could a person’s eyes do that. Not without contacts or…something. But no. I saw no outline of contacts on the whites of his eyes.

I stood there, dumb struck and more than a little turned on—by just his fucking eyes—no doubt looking like a complete idiot. With eyes like that, he must have had girls throwing themselves at him all the time. They were…beautiful.

“What’s your name?” Beautiful Eyes demanded, his voice deep and full of all the hunger I was feeling low in my gut.

My mouth instantly snapped shut, and I shook my head, trying to clear it. I finally focused on the rest of him. And there was a lot of the rest of him. He had to be at least a foot taller than me, his hair dark and cut short. Something about his face struck a familiar chord in me, but I couldn’t immediately place him.

His shoulders were so wide, he took up the space of two people at the bar, making the black T-shirt he was wearing stretch tight over his massive muscles. His waist was lean and narrow, causing his jeans to hang low on his hips, and I felt a small shot of disappointment that they weren’t tighter across his crotch so I could see the outline of his cock. His boots were black and scuffed, as if they were his favorite pair and he couldn’t bear to part with them.

Licking my lips, I lifted my gaze and collided with those mesmerizing brown eyes again. A soft breath escaped me, and I took a step closer to him.

Only for the guy beside him to chuckle and snap me out of my lust-filled daze for the second time in as many seconds.

Angry with myself for reacting to him like that, I turned and glared at the bartender who was standing right in front of me now. “I’m with Volkov,” I snapped at him, and the guy nodded, leaning forward to hear me better over the music. “I’ll take a shot of Spirytus if you have it.”

The bartender’s eyes widened as he skimmed his gaze over me. I was tiny, and Spirytus was 192 proof. It was my drink of choice, though, and I might have snuck in and filled a flask—or five—from Hannigans’ bar on occasion.

“We don’t carry Spirytus,” he said, but I smelled a lie.

“Balkan vodka, then,” I snipped. “Don’t tell me you don’t carry that, asshat. I said I’m here with Volkov, and I know for a fact that he keeps that shit everywhere.” It was a lie. I didn’t know what kind of liquor he kept anywhere, but it was a safe assumption to make.

“The lady wants Spirytus,” Beautiful Eyes said from beside me, leaning closer to me. “I just saw you pour those two jerk-offs down the bar a line of shots of it.”

“She weighs a buck ten, if that,” the bartender told him, his jaw tight. “I can’t give her that stuff. She’ll be in the hospital two shots in.”

“You ever drink this stuff before, baby?” Beautiful Eyes asked.

I turned my glare on him. “I’m not your baby. And yeah, I’ve drunk it plenty. My uncles own a bar.”

“You haven’t

told me your name yet, so until you do, you’re ‘baby.’ How many shots before you’re wasted?” he asked, his eyes continuing to swirl. I’d never thought brown was pretty before, but right then, I didn’t think I’d ever seen a more beautiful color. I just couldn’t decide which was my favorite shade.

“Three,” I told him honestly, unsure why I was admitting it. “Not that it matters. My brother won’t let me get into trouble.”

He leaned in and lowered his head. “What would it take to make you want to get into a little trouble…with me?”

Chapter 3

Lyric

New York City had some good clubs, I’d give it that, but it wasn’t LA. Still, it was where the best tattoo artist in the country was located. I’d been dreaming of working with the guy since I was sixteen and snuck out to get my first tat with my brother. As I’d watched the tattoo gun mark my skin, I’d suddenly known what I wanted to do with my life with a clarity that had forced all the air from my body for a second.

Tonight, I was celebrating because not only had I scored an interview with Dustin Branch, my idol—without the help of my aunt—but I’d gotten the call over dinner that the job was mine. Stephen, my college roommate and friend, suggested we grab drinks and find some fun at a club where his friend worked as a bouncer.

Turned out, the bouncer friend didn’t work there anymore, but one call and I’d made sure we were let in without having to wait in line and shown directly to the VIP. Having a brother-in-law who owned the hottest club in all of California had its perks, even all the way across the country.

Finding the hot little chick beside me at the bar while I was getting a drink, though?

I suddenly had a flash of the future as I looked down into her stunning gray eyes. I was going to introduce this chick to my mom. I was going to take her home and make sure Aunt Emmie found me the biggest diamond ring her tiny hand could hold, and as soon as she had my last name, I was going to make her a mother.

Realizing all of that wasn’t a punch to the gut. It didn’t blindside me.