Cyrus (The Henchmen MC 9)

Why?

Yeah, that was the fucking question.

Because she was the kind of woman who deserved to be noticed.

She was on the tall side with mixed-race skin, long somewhat curly hair, a delicate face, and light green eyes. Her body was slim-to-average from the waist up, but widened at the hips. I imagined she had a fucking phenomenal ass hidden beneath some giant, hideously cute burgundy grandma sweater, and why she would obviously work so hard to cover it was completely beyond me.

But she was gorgeous in a way that I was finding it hard to explain as she walked up to the counter, getting greeted warmly by both Jazzy and Gala like she was a regular. Actually, this was proven when not a couple seconds after she walked up, Jazzy produced a drink faster than she could have possibly ordered it.

See, I had seen, flirted with, fucked, and even casually dated a lot of good looking women in my day. So I knew the different kinds. There was your girl-next-door kind of pretty. There was your exotic pretty, your model pretty, your trying-too-hard pretty, your I-don't-care-if-I'm-pretty pretty... the list went on and on. And I had known them all.

But this girl was something different, something unique, something I couldn't put a finger on.

As I watched, she half-turned from the counter, looking over her shoulder discreetly so as not to be seen checking out the space, likely looking for someplace to sit.

And there were open chairs.

Beside my Henchmen brothers.

Literally.

Each one had chosen a table with an open chair so that when the women came in - and they sure did - they would have to ask to sit with them... or leave.

So Roderick and Virgin had women at their tables.

Sugar had one until one of her other friends showed up, and the two seemed to have plans to head out.

But I had a strong feeling that this woman, this sweet-looking, seemingly standoffish woman, wasn't going to walk up to an intimidating biker, and ask if she could share his table.

No fucking way.

I watched as she took a stir stick - the plastic kind with the hollow insides - and stuck it in the hole of her to-go coffee cup, moving along the counter, and behind the tables to stand against the wall where she stayed, oddly sipping through the stir stick, and as a whole not seeming to let her eyes settle in any one place for more than a few seconds, and not on any of the men in the room at all.

Hell, I was on the stage where most other people had their focus, and she barely glanced my way. When she did, her eyes went to my guitar, my hands, and even my feet, but I didn't catch her once looking at my face.

And, damn, I got a face worth glancing at, man.

But regardless of whether she noticed more than my hands or not, I fucking noticed her. I noticed her way more than I should have. I noticed her so much that the girl who had requested the song, who I would normally be singing directly to, kept checking where my eyes were drifting, huffed, jumped up, and stormed out.

I noticed her so much that I missed out on surefire pussy.

That was saying something.

I didn't know what it was about her, what the pull was. So what if she was pretty? Pretty was a dime a dozen thing.

Maybe there was something more. Maybe I was picking up on something about her that had more to do with than looks.

Honestly, it was so fucking new to me that I didn't have the slightest clue what to call it, what to think of it.

All I really knew was that I had to catch her before she walked out, which she had seemed about ready to do since the moment she had stepped inside, to be perfectly honest. It was clear she wasn't comfortable, that this kind of thing wasn't her forte.

So as soon as my set finished, I stood up, thanked the crowd as well as Jazzy and Gala for having me there, then dropped my guitar next to Sugar.

"Hey, I'm not saving that seat for your guitar," he said, reaching to move it.

But I wasn't paying attention.

Fuck the guitar.

I had one thing and one thing only on my mind.

It wasn't an unusual drive for me - to get the girl. In fact, that was generally what was on my mind. But this felt different. This felt oddly urgent. And not in a 'I haven't gotten laid in two weeks' kind of urgent. It was something else, something deep in my gut, a strange pulling sensation.

So I walked between the tables, half-tripping over some chick's purse handle, in my mission to get across the room before she bolted.

And then I was right there.