Volt: MC Romance (Dark Pharaohs Motorcycle Club Romance Book 5)

Chapter 5

A grin touches my lips as I sit back down at the bar. The bartender, Fallon, walks over and leans against the other side of the bar, a small smile playing across her lips.

“Not really a spandex kind of guy,” I say.

“Okay, so you’re not a professional superhero,” she replies. “I guess you just cruise around, saving damsels-in-distress as a hobby?”

I laugh softly. “You look like a capable enough woman. I don’t think I’d ever call you a damsel in distress,” I respond. “I’m pretty sure if push came to shove, you could have beaten their asses yourself.”

She cocks her head and looks at me. “So why step in like you did?”

“Because I came in for a quiet drink and those two obnoxious assholes were being too loud,” I tell her. “They were interrupting my moment of Zen.”

“Ahhh, I see. Yeah, those two tend to do that,” she says. “But for what it’s worth, I think everybody in the bar is grateful. When you went outside to finish them off or whatever you were doing, half a dozen of the regulars asked if they could buy you a drink.”

I gave her a small smile and looked down into the bottom of my beer mug. Fallon is a strikingly beautiful woman. I’d say she’s in her mid-twenties with long, wavy red hair, flawless alabaster-colored skin, eyes that sparkle like polished sapphires, and a body that’s absolutely rockin’. Her black jean cutoff shorts showcase her long toned legs, and a tight T-shirt hugs and accentuates her full, round breasts—not that they needed to be accentuated in the least.

Fallon has the kind of curves men kill for and if I were in a different mindset tonight, I would probably be hitting on her. But I’m not in that headspace right now. Not with everything that’s happened. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try to stop thinking about it, I can’t help but see Prophet taking a slug to the head. I keep seeing the way his head snapped backward and that spray of red gore that hit the floor behind him. I hear it splattering and see him slump to the ground. And those eyes. I can’t stop seeing his eyes, wide open and staring into the void.

That wasn’t my first time experiencing death. I saw plenty of horrendous shit over in Afghanistan. But there’s something about watching the way Prophet died that’s just... different. His death hits a lot different than the deaths of some of the guys I served with. Maybe it’s because I felt closer to Prophet than to any of them. It’s not that I didn’t love the brothers and sisters I went to war with. It’s just that I loved Prophet differently. And his death, for whatever reason, hurts a lot more.

“So, like I said, I haven’t seen you around before. Just move here?” she asks. “Or are you just passin’ through?”

“I live in Blue Rock,” I tell her.

She grins mischievously at me. “Last time I was there, I seem to recall seeing a lot of bars in Blue Rock Bay,” she said. “You get kicked out of them all or something?”

I take a drink of my beer then set my mug back down. “Nah. Just needed to be somewhere else tonight.”

“Well, that’s vague and mysterious.”

“You make me sound more interesting than I am.”

She shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. A stranger who swoops in and saves me from a couple of obnoxious drunks is plenty interesting in my book.”

“If you think that’s interesting, I think you probably need to get out more then.”

Her laughter is rich and sounds like crystal wind chimes stirring in a soft breeze. It’s a pleasant sound and it’s infectious. The more she laughs, the more I can’t keep myself from smiling. It’s like she has some sort of magic wand she’s waving that is somehow lightening my spirits despite my best effort to stay firmly rooted in this dark pit of misery I’m currently wallowing in. It’s a darkness that’s comfortable right now.

I’m still trying to absorb everything that happened and everything Spyder said to me earlier. I’m still trying to accept the fact that it wasn’t my fault. That there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop what went down. But deep down, I still can’t help but feel responsible. Prophet’s dead and I’m not. That’s the bottom line and I feel guilty as hell about it. Survivor’s guilt, I’ve heard it’s called. Maybe I do feel guilty that I’m not laying on a slab in some funeral home alongside Prophet. Maybe somewhere in my head, I don’t understand why I’m alive and he’s dead and that’s what has me all fucked up. I’ve got all kinds of questions rattling around in my head and precious few answers.

“So why’d you have to get out of town? Running from the wife and kids?” she asks, arching an eyebrow at me.

“No wife or kids to run from,” I reply.

“IRS in town trying to audit you?”

“Definitely not. I pay my taxes, and I don’t cheat.”

“Cops chasing you?” she asks.

“Not today.”

She taps one of her fingernails against the bar and screws up her face, dramatically thinking about it. Fallon turns her blue eyes on me, and I feel a breath catch in my throat. Her gaze is intense and seems to be burning straight into me. It’s like she can see through me and see my innermost thoughts. I shift on my stool and look away, the feeling of being laid bare by her gaze discomfiting.

“So no wife or kids,” she said, a sly grin on her face. “And you’re not on the run from the IRS or the cops. Let me guess... some guy caught you in bed with his wife and you’re avoiding Blue Rock until things cool down.”

“You certainly have a vivid imagination.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

I laugh. “No. It wasn’t that either.”

“Okay, I give. Why are you hiding out here in Pineville?”

I drain the last of my beer and before I set the mug down, Fallon is already pouring me another. She sets it down and takes away the empty then picks up a glass of soda, and I can’t help but watch the way she slips the straw between her full, red lips. I watch the way she drinks and though I can guarantee she didn’t intend for it to be so, I found it slightly... erotic. I certainly felt a warm stirring sensation deep inside of me.