I’d been at the party for forty-five minutes. I got there after my shift, rushing home and changing clothes because Tab had texted to say she and Shy were already there, so I’d gotten there pretty late (or late for me).

And when I got there, the party was in full swing. There were a lot of people there, lots of women, other bikers from different clubs (if the patches were anything to go by), and it was what Tabby said it would be. The music was loud. The people were loud. There was making out. Groping. Flirting. Drinking. Shots thrown back. And smoking, including the marijuana variety.

In this mess, although Tab found me right away and got me a drink, Joker hadn’t even looked at me.

Not once.

I looked to the guy behind the bar. I’d just met him and he’d told me his name was Snapper. He was in the Rush/Shy/Joker age group of the Club. Currently, he was acting as one of several bartenders (though they didn’t seem to have an official one, guys went back, girls went back, you wanted it, you got it or you asked whoever was back there to get it for you).

I had my hand around a warm beer and my seat on a stool, my eyes locked to Joker, and Tabby had left to go to the bathroom.

So I was alone.

Again.

Even at a big biker party.

“Sorry?” I asked him, the fact he’d spoken to me belatedly processing through my thoughts.

“Fresh,” he said, tipping his head to my plastic cup that was not even half-drunk. “Toss that warm shit and I’ll get you a cold one.”

“Um…” I couldn’t answer because I couldn’t think.

I could only hurt.

Why did I hurt?

Why did I even come?

Joker, it was now clear, didn’t want me.

Maybe he kissed back whoever kissed him. He was a guy. Guys probably did that. And it was obvious from the used condom wrappers that he had experience. Maybe he was just a good kisser because he’d had a lot of practice.

But I had in no way given him the impression I wanted it to stop.

He’d stopped it.

I was taken from my thoughts again when Snapper pulled my cup out of my hand, threw it (and its liquid contents) in a trash bin, and grabbed a fresh plastic cup. Then he went to one of the three kegs behind the bar and pulled me a new one.

He came back and set it in front of me.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, and as I did, I took that opportunity to take him in fully.

He had light blond hair, long and pulled back in a slipshod bun at the back of his head. He had light blue eyes and blond lashes, the both of them together unusual and attractive. He had blond stubble on his cheeks, but I knew he shaved (though, apparently infrequently) since the whiskers at his chin were a lot longer than the rest so I figured when he was feeling in the mood to be neat, he just wore a goatee. He also had nice cheekbones, very white teeth that probably seemed whiter due to his tanned skin, and a straight nose.