One Size Fits All

  Keira squinted her eyes into a silent death glare and, as if it were a scene from The Exorcist, slowly twisted her head to glower at Summer. “Very funny. At least spidery isn’t an adjective people use to describe my legs.”

  “Says the black widow. Besides, that’s pure fabrication. I’ve never heard anyone use the word ‘spidery’ to describe anything about me.” Summer offered her own glare in return, doing her best to intimidate.

  It was an on-going joke that Keira was BBB—bitch, born and bred. I doubted she was capable of being intimidated. Here we go, I thought and rolled my eyes.

  “It’s whispered, because no one wants a quick death by a hairy pair of legs. Dress them up with designer shoes all you want…it doesn’t make take away the truth.” She shrugged, letting that marinate for a while.

  Laney smirked in approval of Keira’s well-placed barb, which caused Summer to groan in agitation. It got tense for a second, but then Summer spoke up. “You know my legs chafe if I shave too often.” It was all we needed to ease the tension. The four of us ended up in a hysterical fit of giggles.

  My squad was filled with beauties and brains. A killer combo. We all had amazing bodies and an equally lethal tongue meant for slaying. It never ceased to amaze me how lucky I was for meeting them, and how we complimented each other. A true sisterhood, and a friendship that withstood the test of time. It survived broken hearts, dysfunctional families, and most of all, saw no jealousy in regards to one another. Bitches could be catty, vicious, and a well-placed eye roll could ruin a night.

  Despite the two rousing each other. We were thick as thieves and deeply adored one another. Summer’s legs weren’t at all spidery. If anything, one could make the case Keira’s were. However, I wasn’t about to get into this verbal bitch-slap on the count of nerves. This was all about going to a new place in the wrong part of town, and the many possibilities to how the night might end.

  “Okay, let’s talk about Jugs & Stokers,” Keira decided. Hopefully, we’d get more information about this place.

  Laney’s voice filled with concern when she asked, “Jugs and Stokers? Really? What kind of name is that?”

  “Okay, here’s the scoop. It’s a new biker bar and I heard it was fucking awesome. Word is, it’s been packed every night. And you know what that means,” Keira said, wagging her eyebrows. It wouldn’t be the first time Keira’s so-called “word” was incorrect.

  “A biker bar?” Summer’s voice was full of concern. “You never mentioned that. And the last time you convinced us to go on your ‘word’”—she threw her fingers up to air quote—“we almost got arrested.”

  “Not arrested! Thrown out…” She batted her eyelashes a mile a minute. “You just refuse to admit it was a good time. And since we’re on this topic…when did fucking in a bar become prohibited? If something’s not allowed, shouldn’t there be a sign somewhere? This is New York! Very little is actually prohibited, and in my opinion, we should start a movement if it’s even a real thing. Which I still don’t believe…” She mumbled on under her breath, nervously dissecting her new manicure.

  “And you call me a maniac,” I said, shaking my head. Unbelievable. “Sex-crazed is what you are.”

  “That’s two words. And seriously, Georgia? Did you have a better suggestion?” she asked, and then directed her attention to the other girls. “This could totally be the night we meet our boys of summer.”

  “Doubtful, Don Henley,” I grumbled, giving her an exaggerated eye roll.

  She smiled and grabbed my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Just say, ‘you never know?’”

  “Seriously? What are you five years old?”

  “Worse, twenty-two, and every day we’re inching closer twenty-five. A quarter century! I’m almost eligible for the senior citizen discount. So be nice to me. Any day now, I’ll need a mammogram.” Her frown deepened.

  She was truly a disturbed individual, but she had a point. With a heavy sigh, I decided to not let her choice of places ruin our night. “Fine. You never know. This could be our Don Henley boys of summer night. Are you happy now?”

  “The only bikers we know are from the Sons of Anarchy,” Laney added.

  “I know, and that Jax is responsible for breaking a shitload of magic wands. Let’s just pray they’re all Jax. Then we can just name them Jax One, Two, Three, Four and so on…” She raised her forearm in front of her. “Look! I have goose bumps. That’s got to mean something, right?”

  “Yeah, you’re a horny bitch who’s in desperate need of a shrink,” I answered, getting lost in the possibility of meeting my own Jax Teller. My mother would have an absolute break with reality. But I had to admit, I was getting excited. New place. Hot biker men like Jax Teller. Man, the possibilities were endless...

  CHAPTER TWO

  “How was a best friend like a 4-leaf clover?”

  Because they are hard to find and lucky to have.

  We double parked in front of Jugs & Stokers, thanked the driver, and jumped out quickly. However, Keira leaned in on the passenger side, needing to tell the driver something. “I would paste a giant sign right here.” She pointed to the door. “Mini-sized.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get right on that, legs,” he said before abruptly pulling away. Wise man.

  “Mid-sized my ass,” she rambled. We needed to get some booze in her before this rant continued all night.

  “Let’s go, praying mantis. We have a night of fun and debauchery waiting for us,” Laney announced as she walked toward the red brick building in front of us.

  Front and center was a set of wood double doors; a silver ornate handle hung from both. The name “Jugs & Stokers” illuminated in old script above, and a green, white, and orange flag waved proudly. I hadn’t paid too much attention to national flags in school, but I was fairly certain it was an Irish flag, which didn’t make too much sense considering this was supposed to be a biker bar. I pondered if bikers even had flags, and assumed it had to have been the club’s colors. However, what did I know? I only knew what I read in books and watched on TV. Both were fiction. None of us had ever been to a biker bar—ever.

  I continued to puzzle this all out, and managed to walk into a human brick wall. He blocked the second entry into the bar. He didn’t move. Instead, he crossed his massive, tattooed arms across his chest, clearly annoyed. Ink. Colorful, pretty ink I wanted to explore.

  “ID.” His deep baritone rumbled, shaking me out of my thoughts. I blinked twice before my brain registered his request. His hair was black as ink, and he had a pair of dark blue eyes I’d love to get lost in.

  “Erm. Oh, of course.” I fumbled with the zipper of my bag awkwardly before I began to rummage through my large Chloé moto bag—which probably looked like a weekender bag to him. Tonight was the perfect excuse to use my new motorcycle handbag. Oh my God, where the fuck is my wallet?

  My eyes scanned the area quickly for a table to dump my shit on. He quirked an eyebrow and a grin touched his full lips. Ugh, his lips. I loved a good full lip. Hell, my mother filled hers with all sorts of shit to achieve that fullness. Although, I had no idea what he meant by the smirk. But one thing was for sure…I couldn’t waste the time figuring it out. I was in search of something, and contemplating the Adonis left me brain dead and incapable of remembering what it was. Oh, God; I want to crawl into this damn purse and hide. Tampons, gum, loose change, a water bottle, and a candle were pulled out. I prayed he wouldn’t ask about the candle—even I didn’t know why it was in there. Next came the lanyard for my school ID, minus the school ID part, a power bar, a lighter—probably for the candle—and keys. Twenty-five keys to be exact. Why did I have all this shit in my bag?

  “Janitor?”

  Heat scorched my face, and the girls chuckled behind me. It wasn’t the heat on my face that concerned me, but the warmth filling my lower extremities. “Dancer.” I smirked as I produced my driver’s license between my fingers.

  Note to self: Stop being a fi
lthy hobo, and clean out your bag.

  He took it, and for the briefest second, his hand touched mine. A tingle rippled down my arm, and I wondered if he felt it, too. There might be a little truth to Keira’s claim about me being a maniac. His gaze dropped to my shoes, traveled up my legs, and finally settled on my breasts. A swipe of his pink tongue over his lower lip caught my eye, my attention glued to the wetness left behind. I swallowed hard, feeling flushed. Fuck, it was hot in this vestibule. I began to nervously fan myself.

  “Christ on a mother-fucking-cross. It’s not like you’re reading braille,” Keira said and sidestepped me.

  He nodded, seemingly amused—although, I couldn’t find anything amusing about her. After handing my ID back, he opened the door for us to walk through. Being granted entrance must’ve lightened Keira’s mood. She hooked her arms around us and directed us to the nearest bar. There were three, but she chose the one closest to us.

  She turned to me before ordering. “I’m sorry, but it’s Thirsty-Thursday, and I’m thirsty.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” I was still annoyed over her antics at the front door. There was nothing worse than a best friend with a quick tongue while embarrassing yourself in front of a hot guy. A quick glance over my shoulder to the entrance proved to be pointless. He wasn’t there.

  However, I noticed there seemed to be a nice crowd. An even guy-to-girl ratio—perfect.

  Now, to get a drink. We inched our way into the perfect corner spot, successfully pushing the other customers out. It was a rare night when we weren’t able to find optimum real estate at a bar. With Keira’s modelesque height, we definitely had an advantage over most.

  “Okay, I’ve got the first round. Cosmos?” Keira placed a one-hundred-dollar bill on the slab of gleaming, polished wood comprising the bar. It was long and narrow with a few bartender’s working it, all dressed in black slacks with white buttoned shirts. She waved to catch their attention once we all nodded in agreement over our usual cocktail.

  A man with dark, slicked back hair nodded in our direction. However, when he made his way over to us, I noticed he was the only one wearing an ascot. I didn’t think it was very biker-ish, but again…what did I know? Aside from the material tucked into the neckline of his shirt, he had defined, masculine features: dark eyes, strong jawline, a slightly skewed nose, and a scar that ran through one eyebrow. He was handsome in a roguish way. Rugged. “Whatcha havin’ lass?”

  Keira’s eyes began to devour his body. “Ooh, nice ass-cot,” Keira cooed, seductively enunciating the first syllable. I laughed. She was a whore for any kind of accent. What women wasn’t? “We’ll have four cosmopolitans with lime. Lots of lime,” she added with a nod to each of us. He was claimed. Which meant: hands off or lose them.

  “No,” he said emphatically.

  “Wait. What?” She leaned away, gasping in response. She wasn’t used to the word no. None of us were, but in a bar socially…a flat out refusal. Well, I’d be damned. We continued to watch the exchange between the two.

  “Order something normal. Like whiskey.” His arms crossed over his broad chest and I noticed some hair below his ascot disappearing into his shirt. Not an inhuman amount, but enough to be sexy. However, he was dug in, and it didn’t look like he’d make our cosmos. Not a good way to start the night.

  Summer let out a forced laugh and turned to Laney with concern in her eyes. Laney smiled, loving the banter. I really hoped he was kidding, because the idea of whiskey had me almost gagging.

  “Whiskey?” Her appalled voice rang out. “Let me get this straight, Irish…you’re refusing to make cosmos in a New York bar?”

  He approached the edge of the bar and leaned against it with his elbows. His smirk implied he found this entire situation comical. “Aye. Whiskey, stout, or nuthin’.”

  Telling Keira no was one thing, a very dangerous thing…but refusing her a cosmo was something far worse, punishable by castration. Which was why her feigned disapproval came as a shock. By the looks of her body language, she was going to compromise, and it had all our jaws dropping. It was clear Keira had a stiffy for this guy. No one else would’ve gotten away with what he did.

  “Okay, girls, looks like we’re drinking whiskey.” She curved over the bar, giving the Irishman an open invitation to ogle her ample breasts.

  He licked his lips, clearly enjoying the view, and then grabbed four shot glasses and the bottle of Jameson off the shelf. The bartender smiled, nodding to someone behind us, most likely another patron looking for a drink.

  My heavy bag was already a nuisance, so I concerned myself with finding somewhere to put it and found several hooks under the lip of the bar. Perfect. Once I attached it, I readied myself for the whiskey shot and noticed five glasses lined up in front of us. I assumed the fifth was for him—it wasn’t uncommon for a bartender to take a shot with a group of hot women. But this was New York, and these kinds of establishments were strict about barkeeps drinking on the job. Sucks for them, and personally, I didn’t agree. But hey, not my bar. Not my booze.

  He lined up the five shots and poured them quickly. I grabbed mine first, eager to start the night. “Toast?” I asked, looking at the girls.

  A clean scent hit my nose before a thick, colorfully inked arm picked up the fifth shot. The same ink that belonged to the wise-ass from the door. My breath stilled in my lungs as my knees weakened nervously. But I chose to play it cool.

  “A proper toast then…” The doorman had an accent, too. I didn’t pick up on it earlier, as I was too focused sifting through the shit in my bag.

  Laney was the first to turn, but not before a wink in my direction. I cringed, praying they weren’t going to do or say anything to further my embarrassment. Summer and Keira followed with wide eyes as they, too, took in the wide-legged human built like a tree. Mmmm…a sexy, handsome tree. His thick legs sheathed in denim; a Metallica T-shirt stretched taut across his sinewy chest, emphasizing his slim waist. I quickly wondered if he was in a band before realizing it didn’t matter. With a body like that, I’d find any reason to be his groupie. My god, he had to have been 6’4. Possibly taller. What the fuck is in Shepherd’s Pie?

  Kiera elbowed me in the ribs and a whoosh left my lungs. “Reel it in. And stop your face from doing whatever it’s doing. You look chock-full, babe.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Sorry, but not sorry.” She shrugged as if she was actually helping and not insulting me.

  My glower projected a thousand razor blades her way. She ignored my mental assault to eye-fuck the hunky doorman.

  He cleared his throat. “Ahem.”

  “Oh, doll, you don’t have to clear your throat to get our attention. Just stand there,” Keira added, batting her thickly coated lashes. If this bitch thought she’d get away claiming two men tonight, she had another thing coming…in the form of a stiletto to her toe.

  I turned my attention to the giant wall of sex standing in front of me. His smirk made me want to smack him or kiss him—either would be a start in the right direction. That heat from the vestibule returned with a vengeance and slowly crept along my thighs. His arm brushed mine as he held up his shot of Jameson. We followed his gesture and raised our own glasses. “May all your ups and downs be between the sheets. Slainte.”

  The girls repeated him, but all I could do was stare at the amber liquid with a grimace.

  His meaty hand wrapped around my wrist, calling my attention. As soon as my gaze found his, he whispered, “Hesitating after a toast leads to bad luck.” He must’ve understood my confused expression, because he continued. “Drinking alone will leave you…playing alone for donkey’s years.”

  “Donkey’s years?”

  His slow spreading grin sent an intense heat down my body where it settled between my legs, warming me completely from the inside out. “A very long time.”

  His earlier warning finally registered in my brain once I no longer questioned how long a year was to a donkey. Apparent
ly, by not drinking with the rest of the group, it meant I’d have to dance to the beat of my own drum—sexually speaking—for a very long time. I rolled my eyes and noticed his shot glass was still full. I pointed to it and asked, “What’s your excuse?”

  “I’m waiting for you. You know what they say about drinking together after a toast while looking at the other person?”

  “No…” It was nothing more than a breathy whisper as I clenched my legs together.

  “Drink and find out.” He held up his glass again and said, “Slainte.”

  “Slainte,” I repeated blindly, keeping my gaze locked on his. I hadn’t a clue what it meant, but it sounded legit. My mouth filled with the most repulsive taste—next to a latex condom—where I held it, refusing to swallow the fiery liquid. Mouthwash tasted better, and I didn’t swallow that shit.

  “Fuckin’ Irish pricks,” Keira nearly hit the floor in an exaggerated wince. “If I have hair anywhere I shouldn’t—like my chest—you’re fucked.” She pointed a finger at the smiling bartender.

  “Aye, hopefully I’m fucked,” he bantered back playfully. There were two things Keira loved. Cursing and a hot man with an accent. Check and check.

  I still had a mouth full of whiskey.

  The handsome doorman whispered in my ear, but not before I got another whiff of his cologne. Goddamn him. “It’s meant to be swallowed, darlin’ girl.”

  I sniffed and swallowed. In the end, his fucking cologne won out. “Thanks, I wouldn’t have known that.” I grabbed a heap of bar napkins and dabbed some whiskey that found its way past my chin.

  The bartender introduced himself as Mickey, shaking each one of our hands until he came to Keira. She grabbed his hand roughly, practically pulling him over the bar. Demure wasn’t a word used to describe to Keira. “Nice to meet you, Mickey. I’m Keira,” she flirted.