Claiming Beauty (Taking Beauty Trilogy 2)

Whoever it was, he could wait a minute.

Ticking a couple of more checks, I finally turned around to see the same biker from before – the jester of the group.

Well, more like the leader, from the way the other bikers regarded him. He was leering at me for some reason, and I felt a pit deep in my stomach.

“You forgot something,” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” I answered, letting my tone demonstrate how unapologetic I really was. “My memory’s a bit fuzzy. What was it?”

He sat an empty shot glass on the counter.

I glanced at it, then back up to him.

“I wasn’t kidding. I really don’t remember. What was it again?”

His eye twitched, but he backed off a little.

“Crown.”

“Oh, right,” I nodded, reaching for the liquor bottle. “Fireball shots for everyone, and another Crown for you.” If he’d have been any less of a total creep, I would have snuck him a second one, just to make up for it.

It wasn’t becoming for a bartender to have to scribble down the drink orders, but I’d been managing pretty well all night. On crazy nights, I took the excuse to do it, which made things run way less stressful for me.

Of course, it was on a simple shot for the most intimidating and questionable guy all night that I’d lose my train of focus.

“Here you go,” I placed it back down on the counter for him.

“Thanks,” he grumbled, walking away.

But he was still watching me out of the corner of his eye. I didn’t like it.

I sighed inwardly, turning to my other patrons. They’d been trying to ignore the raucous bikers, but even they could sense the unsettling tension in the room that had developed around the group.

And there was the way they looked at me…

Maybe I’d get lucky and they’d lose interest before closing time. Risking a quick look, I caught the big biker staring, a crooked smile growing across his unshaven face.

I’d never been a very lucky girl…

Trent

After ditching the shitty after-party, it was a small matter to figure out where to go. I still felt like drinking, but if I’d stepped into any old bar here in the city I’d be recognized and ambushed for autographs and selfies.

Fuck that shit.

I needed something a little more discreet.

That’s why I slipped out and hopped into one of the rentals that were made available for band use. It was nothing special, just a shiny little red jeep – not really my style, but I didn’t really care. After all, who the fuck was I trying to impress out here?

Hitting the road, I found my way to the Interstate and just started driving.

Once I got away from the light pollution, the night sky was beautiful. Crystal clear stars without a cloud in view. It was hard to find the time to appreciate the stars when you were on seemingly permanent tour.

Only two more weeks of this shit.

Another little voice reminded me: for now.

That’s life. Hard work plus luck begets success. A spot of good luck definitely sparks the fire, but the hard work? That’s what keeps the blaze going strong. I knew damn well I’d be back on tour soon enough.

After about thirty minutes cruising down the highway in the rental jeep, I decided to take a chance on the next exit. Out here, the tall, monolithic restaurant and gas station sides were all weeded out, and I was lucky to spot a Chevron station from the interstate.

This particular exit looked like it led to the middle of nowhere. The sign said “Riverton”, but the endless, dark woods all around practically screamed “dilapidated little town.”

Never heard of the place.

Sounded small. Quaint.

Just to my tastes.

But after cruising down the main road into town, I realized that I might have chosen a place a little too small. There wasn’t a lot to this little backwoods town. Hell, I hesitate to even call it a town.

True to its namesake, it was situated on a riverbank. The spot was primarily residential, with a ton of ramshackle houses and borderline huts. Not a whole lot of businesses. You had your hardware stores, combination gas station slash small grocer, and a few tiny, ancient restaurants. This was one of those little commuter towns where everybody drives forty-five minutes to work in the city.

If this place wasn’t the sticks, nothing was.

I’d just about given up on finding this place when I spotted a derelict old bar by the side.

Riverton Bar...

“Alright,” I muttered to myself, flicking on my blinker and slowing down. “So long as they don’t actually piss in the stills, this should be fine…”

Something about the place looked appealing despite its shoddy state. Maybe it was just that it was so different from anywhere I’d been since hitting it big. These days my life was full of big city bars and clubs, and the occasional lavish hotel room after-party.

But that was only really part of it.

It just looked like how I felt inside.

Filthy.

Broken-down.

Borderline functional.

Committed to the cause, I pulled up beside a battered collection of old trucks and crumpled, ancient sedans.

Hopping out of the jeep, I became aware of how clean and pristine the rental looked, especially beside these dirty, sputtering rust-buckets…

And, glancing down at myself, I realized that I was definitely going to stick out like a sore fucking thumb in these parts. I hadn’t even bothered to change from my stage clothes.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside, walking into redneck central dressed like a fucking rockstar.

Which, let’s be honest.

I totally fucking was.

With a glance, I surmised the atmosphere. Not too many people here, maybe a dozen at most, but the ones that were painted a pretty vivid picture for me.

A group of gnarled old bikers.

Couple of sloppy rednecks.

Some older women holed up in the corner.

Yeah…definitely not my speed.

I hesitated at the door, but then my eyes fell on the bartender. She was in the middle of taking a drink order at one of the bar tops and was about as out of place as an angel in hell.

She wasn’t just pretty. She looked fucking beautiful... Her luscious hair barely graced her shoulders. Long, bare legs stretched for miles from her miniskirt down to her cute and almost criminally disheveled pair of red Converse sneakers. Her low-cut blouse hinted at moderately sized breasts – not too big, but not small.

Perfect.

My feet moved of their own volition, stepping closer towards the counter. The patrons were already looking at me with their stupid, judgmental eyes, but I didn’t give a shit.

They could get fucked.

Half of them looked like they could use it.

As I comfortably took my seat, the bartender glanced over her shoulder at me – flashing me a look at her sharp and beautiful eyes.

My cock twitched in my shredded jeans.

That’s when I knew.

I was fucking her tonight.

Angel

Tending bar as an eighteen-year-old girl – particularly one with a pretty face – had taught me a valuable skill: the art of keeping an eye on the entire room at once.

The newest arrival proved to be a bit of a distraction. He was dressed in a tight shirt that clung to a deliciously muscular frame. A brief slick of red ran through his hair, and he finished off the look with a pair of fashionably torn black jeans. He’d been staring ever since he walked in. I could feel his burning gaze bore into me from behind as he hungrily treated himself to some eye candy.

Without a word between us, I knew I could flirt a big tip out of him. Maybe it would be enough to get some decent food for the next few days. It was time to play hard to get.

“What can I get you?” I offhandedly asked him after plugging in the previous order.

“What do you want to get

me?” he replied.

I turned around to try and catch the jackass undressing me with his eyes, but his gaze was surprisingly fixated on the chalkboard drink specials instead.

“I’ll take a draft,” he said before I could respond to his little comment.

“Which draft?”

He chuckled arrogantly to me, flashing a condescending but admittedly sexy smile.

“Your favorite draft.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t drink.”

A genuine look of surprise flickered across the man’s face. “You work behind the bar...”

“All the more reason not to drink. Let’s try this one again: which draft do you want?”

He nodded thoughtfully, ignoring the tone of my voice. After a moment, he opened his mouth to answer, his tongue absent-mindedly sliding across his canine.

“I’ll take Abita. Tall.”

I took a second to shake that sexy tongue flick out of my head.

“Amber or Lager?”

“Lager.”