Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) by Stevie J. Cole Read Free Book Online Page A

sounded like a Sting song.
    Chills shot through my bones, not just my spine, no—splintering chills coursed through every bone in my body when my eyes landed on Jag parting the crowd like the Red Sea and making his way toward the bar with his eyes honed in on me.
    Shit!
    I waited, and then the rest of the lyrics to “Roxanne” flowed across the room, and the entire club damn near fell silent. People were taking pictures, videos, some of the girls were even grabbing onto him as he passed by them. I decided maybe if I just ignored him, he would go away, but Jag was just like a rash: ignoring doesn’t make it go away, and scratching it only makes it worse.
    I quickly made my way to a customer and placed his drink on the bar. Looking up as I took the customer’s money, I went limp when I noticed Jag was still coming straight at me. I felt my eyes twitch and my nostrils flare; my breathing was growing shallow and erratic, my heart banged around in my chest like a steroid-injected gorilla that had been shoved into a tiny cage.
    Jag leaned against the bar and the crowd of people closed in behind him. His eyes narrowed on me and one side of his full, blush-colored lips curved up, causing the piercing below them to glint under the lights.
    “Well. Nice to see you again. Enjoy the show the other night?” He leaned over the counter, which put his face way too close to mine. He was close enough that I could smell him over all the liquor and beer that had been spilled on the bar top. He smelled like tropical sex and money; it was clean, and crisp, sexy smelling, and I was ashamed at how badly I wanted that smell to be all over my body. I wanted to hate that scent, but my traitorous body betrayed me, flushing head to toe.
    He inched a little closer, and now I could see the tiny golden flecks embedded in his dark brown eyes. This guy made me nervous and uneasy, and the only way I could handle that was…
    “No, I told you, your music sucks !”
    I acted like a child. I was really good at that.
    I panicked and grabbed the rack of glasses under the counter, dropping them a little too hard on the counter. I watched droplets of dish water fly up and land over his cheeks.
    Carlos is going to kill me.
    Jag’s eyes flinched, but he didn’t bother wiping the water off. “Are you gonna take my order or what?”
    I should have just calmly asked him what he wanted and fixed him his drinks, but that would have been too easy. I watched him smile, shake his hair from in front of his face, and then wink at me just before he ran his tongue over his lips like he was suggesting he wanted to sample me. I couldn’t stand him, so why was I so damn nervous? Why was I shaking on the inside? He stared at me like I was a challenge, and I couldn’t handle that. I had to retaliate.
    “Well, we only serve alcohol here, so if you want your usual suicidal cocktail of cocaine and ecstasy laced with a little bit of embalming fluid, you’ll have to go talk to the crackhead over off Ventura.” I couldn’t help but snort at that little comment.
    “Nasty!” he hissed, his smile spreading farther across his face. He arched a brow, casually folded his arms over the countertop, and leaned in even closer. At this point he was literally an inch away from my face. “Looks like somebody needs to get laid to take the edge off her attitude.”
    I swallowed, and disgust rippled through me.
    This was who he was, a womanizer.
    How many girls had he talked to like this, in that sex-laden, flirtatious tone of his? He thought I was easy; he expected me to give into him because that’s what girls did with him.
    I was certain that Jag Steele was an exception to even the most prudish, wholesome girl. I had no doubt that he could have a virgin spread eagle on the hood of a car in five minutes flat if he wanted.
    The difference with me was that I had issues that cut deep down inside, and I was broken to the point that not even something as superficial as spreading my legs for