Raging Hard(3)

By: B. B. Hamel



Well, I wasn’t Lydie, but I could still party. I headed over to the bar, winding my way through the crowd, and stood toward the end. The place was packed with people, from normal preppy dudes to your classic Jersey Shore meatheads. We were all the way down in the Outer Banks, and yet if there was a beach, there would be plenty of Guidos and Guidettes, or whatever they were calling themselves.

I watched patiently as the totally overworked bartender filled drinks as fast as he could. For some reason there was only one guy back there making drinks, and he wasn’t even glancing my way.

I stood there for something like ten minutes. I was nearly ready to give up. All of my thunder was slowly subsiding and I was more tired than mad. Frankly, I didn’t really want another drink and was pretty much ready to go home. I was all filled with anger and indignation at first, but the longer I stood there, the more deflated I felt. I had planned on finding a guy and showing Lydie what kind of virgin I was, but that plan was just a stupid fantasy.

Truth was, I never picked up guys at bars or parties or anything like that. Sure, I could flirt, and I’d kissed plenty of guys, but I just wasn’t the outgoing type like Lydie was.

Maybe it was time I just accepted who I was. I wasn’t like Lydie, or like any number of the blond girls in their skin-tight dresses. I was brunette and plain, or at least I thought so.

As I moved to get away from the bar, I suddenly walked directly into what seemed like a brick wall. I stumbled back, shocked.

“Shit. I’m so sorry!”

“Careful there, babe.”

I looked up, ready to tell him off for calling me “babe,” but the words died in my mouth.

The guy grinning back at me was gorgeous. He had stubble all along his perfect chin and bright, piercing blue eyes. His body was muscular and cut, but he wasn’t just some tanned gym rat. His jeans and T-shirt combo made him stand out from the crowd, made him look like he was effortlessly attractive. I noticed tattoos along his arms, disappearing up beneath his shirt. An anchor stood out on his forearm, but I didn’t have much time to inspect it.

“You look like you need help,” he growled into my ear, squeezing into the space next to me.

“Excuse me?”

“This bartender. How long you been standing here?”

“I don’t know. Too long.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Whiskey and soda.”

He looked away from me and toward the bartender. After a few seconds, he waved his hand in the air, giving the bartender a nod. The bartender immediately walked over.

“What can I get you?”

“Beer and a whiskey with soda.”

I gaped at him as the bartender walked away and started making the drinks.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“Confidence.”

“Seriously, do you know him or something?”

“That’s your problem, you don’t even realize what confidence can get for you.” He stood close to me, his nearness and his smell overwhelming me as he spoke in his deep, gruff voice. “You would have stood here quietly while that guy ignored you.”

“That’s not true,” I said meekly, annoyed with myself for my weak response.

“It’s absolutely true. But don’t worry, babe. I can handle it.”

The bartender returned with the drinks and my mystery man paid for them. He handed me mine and held up his beer.

“Cheers, to getting some confidence.”

I clinked his glass and sipped mine. I felt completely out of my league with this guy. He was basically calling me weak to my face, and yet the way he said it with his cocky smile and the easy way he had about him made me want to listen to him.

“So how do I get more confidence, then, if you’re such an expert?”

“You’re an attractive girl. You just need to get men eating out of your hand.”

“Oh yeah? That something you do a lot?”

“I eat out girls, sure. Not their hand though.”

I blushed. “I bet.”

The song changed and the guy perked up. “What’s your name?” he asked me.

“Claire.”

“Come on, Claire. Let’s dance.”

“I don’t really dance.”

He slammed his beer back, finishing it off, and then grinned at me. “With an ass like that, you don’t dance?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you have an ass I’d go home and jerk off to if I weren’t about to grind up against it.”

I was totally taken aback at how forward he was being. I was used to assholes coming up with stupid pickup lines, but this guy was something completely different. He was talking dirty, but there was nothing fake or put-on about it. He really meant what he was saying; there was no doubt in my mind.

Hot Read

Last Updated

Recommend

Top Books