om coming. And the really shitty part about that was the way those crazies killed interest from the normal women. Nice women. Women like his buddies had found. Like Jax’s Lexi, Wes’s Rubi, Ryker’s Rachel, Troy’s Ellie. Even the fucking OCD, pain-in-the-ass Marx, the Renegade’s risk assessment manager, had landed a sweetheart in Grace.
His mind drifted to Brooke and that brief moment when he’d thought he might have found that kind of woman too. He’d been on the verge of starting something with her when a crisis with Brooke’s sister had taken her back to Florida on short notice.
And Keaton went back to attracting these lunatics, like the tube-top, short-shorts, four-inch-platform-wearing woman now sauntering his direction.
Irritation twisted in the pit of his stomach. And something else. Something tight and vague and hollow. He’d never identified with the phrase “the one that got away,” but he’d wondered over the last year if Brooke might have been that woman for him.
Keaton sucked down the last of his beer just as the lunatic’s hip bumped the bar next to him.
She leaned close, giving Keaton a good whiff of cigarettes and powdery perfume. “Hi.”
He didn’t want to engage, but he didn’t want to be an asshole either. “Hi.” He didn’t look at her as he pulled cash from his wallet and tossed it on the lacquered surface beside his beer to cover his bill. “I’m just on my way out.”
Her hand curved under his forearm and hooked on. Irritation jolted through his body.
This was another thing—the way women touched him, like they had the right.
“That works for what I had in mind,” she said, her voice sliding into a familiar, sultry tone. “Because since I set eyes on you, all I’ve been able to think about is strapping your hands to a headboard with your belt and giving you the best deep throat of your ever-loving life.”
All consideration for her feelings flew out of his mind. Keaton huffed what should have been a laugh but that came out sounding like disgust. They just got bolder and bolder. And when the hell did that start turning him off instead of making him hard? He couldn’t identify the turning point.
He met her eyes briefly as he pushed off the stool, and found them alight with the kind of raw sexual hunger that didn’t thrill him anymore.
“How much is that gonna cost me?” he asked her, partly just to see how she’d respond, partly to make her realize how her approach made her look—because, honestly, these were the same kinds of offers every guy got from hookers in Vegas. The fact that no money would change hands now didn’t make this offer feel any less sleazy.
His challenge took the edge off her cockiness. But instead of getting angry, she gave him a sassy “I’d ask that you return the favor.”
Keaton looked at Cameron and slapped his shoulder. “Have fun, kid. Just don’t miss the plane in the morning.”
He grabbed his leather jacket from the stool and wandered through the milling customers, ignoring her taunt at his back. “What’s the matter, stud? Don’t like the taste of pussy?”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, disgusted she’d said such a thing in public. If the situation was reversed and he’d done the same, he’d be in the back of a cop cruiser right now. But women could do any damn thing they wanted and men just had to be men and walk away.
So Keaton acted like a man, stepped onto the sidewalk, and started down the street.
The night was cool—a nice break from the heat they’d had here all summer—and he relaxed as he put distance between himself and the bar. Between himself and that ugly feeling he couldn’t quite understand or escape lately.
The thought of heading home to LA and his friends helped smooth his rough edges. He let the soft air whisper over him as he rolled his shoulders, shook out his arms, then paused for a quick stretch of his calves against the curb, groaning at the relief sliding through his muscles.
It was a good hurt. The kind that confirmed he was learning and growing. That his skills were getting better. But it still hurt—even after he’d already taken a hot shower, stretched completely, and rested ice packs on a few key joints before coming out for dinner with Cameron.
“It’s an ibuprofen kind of night.”
It was also good he had some time off to look forward to. They wouldn’t start filming the next season of this series for another three months, which would give Keaton time to switch up his workout to build different muscle groups.
He continued toward the river and his hotel, wondering how a guy got the wrong women to leave him alone and the right women interested. But based on Rubi’s and Cam’s assessment, it was beginning to sound like Keaton would have to change some very elemental parts of himself to accomplish that. Because how did you get other people to perceive you differently? It wasn’t like he had control over others.
He paused as he passed a little restaurant called Vic’s Diner, where the trunk of a live oak created the perfect place for Keaton to stretch his shoulders. With his hand planted firmly on the rough bark, his body set, he twisted away from the tree. The muscles across the front of his shoulder stretched from his pecs all the way to his biceps. It felt so good, his eyes fell closed on another moan. When the muscle released, Keaton worked the other arm.
The new position turned him toward Vic’s, and as he stretched, his gaze focused on the warm glow inside, where a waitress stood at a table, chatting. She was middle-aged and African-American, with a round, youthful face and big, dark eyes. But what struck Keaton was her laughter—it lit her up and highlighted her animated, relaxed posture, making Keaton smile.
Another waitress joined the first. A younger, girl-next-door blonde, delivering apple pie smothered in vanilla ice cream to the table. She was as happy as her coworker and stayed to chat.
When the two girls broke out into laughter so loud Keaton could hear it through the glass, he couldn’t help but grin. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and wandered a little farther along the sidewalk, curious about the person they were talking to.
Their customer was another woman. Her hair was long and dark and waved loosely past her shoulders. She had her head bent in laughter, her hair hiding her face, but Keaton guessed she was closer to the younger waitress’s age. She held a spoon in one hand while she held her head up with the other, her shoulders shaking with humor. And whatever the three women were talking about had to be universally funny, because even customers in booths around them started laughing and joining in the conversation.
Keaton found himself smiling and leaned his shoulder against the tree. The light, fun, easy atmosphere playing out inside the café churned a yearning inside him. What they were laughing about didn’t matter—he knew with a certainty that this was what he wanted more of in his life. More normal. More sweet. More real. More hometown and apple pie.