Chapter One
Nash jerked his chin up at the bartender, who was finishing up serving a patron down at the other end of the noisy and crowded bar. He pointed to his empty whiskey glass and the bartender, who was wearing nothing but a black leather jock strap with matching leather wrist cuffs and collar, nodded back in acknowledgment.
The long bar wasn’t the only area noisy, the whole place was. That was because a band was rocking out on stage and while half of the patrons at The Cockpit were paying attention, half were not.
Fuck no.
Half were there for the entertainment; the other half for their entertainment.
The Cockpit was a known pick-up joint. But that’s not why Nash was there tonight.
That wasn’t saying he’d say no if the right person came along, especially since he hadn’t hooked up with anyone in a while. His main reason for being at this well-known meat locker on the outskirts of Pittsburgh was strictly for business.
His band, Dirty Deeds, needed a new guitarist and singer. Normally, Nash was the front man, singing and playing guitar for the AC/DC cover band he’d started almost fifteen years ago. He could also play the drums and bass himself, but he couldn’t do it all. And it was nice to have someone else in the band who could be the lead singer when Nash’s voice was in the shitter.
Like after a night of heavy partying, which tended to happen after playing a few sets at one of the many Dirty Angels MC pig roasts. Which had been his band’s main gig, until recently.
Problem with that main gig was it didn’t pay, except in beer, booze and pussy. While Nash would partake in the first two, along with whatever fat joint was being passed around the bonfire, he rarely took part in the third.
He could fake it, but he preferred not to take it.
And while occasionally he was drunk enough to fall face first into pussy, it wasn’t his preferred meal.
No, he preferred to sink his teeth into something a little different. Like the guy sitting three stools down to his left. The blond man caught his attention when Nash went to break the seal a half hour ago.
While Nash was a biker, he didn’t come out to other bikers, even his own club brothers.
That would be just plain fucking stupid.
He also tended to drift toward men who were more clean-cut. Men opposite of him. Plus, he knew those types of men would never travel the same circles as any of the bikers he knew, so his secret would remain safe.
Even so, if anybody saw him here, his excuse was trying to poach the band’s lead guitarist. Though, in this case, he wasn’t. He’d lost interest not long after hearing him play. While the guy playing the Fender was good, he wasn’t great. So, he was taking a hard pass on this one. Unfortunately, he’d have to keep searching.
He threw a crumpled ten spot on the bar when the bear of a bartender dropped off his Jack on the rocks. Nash waved a hand, indicating the man should keep the change. Especially since the bartender couldn’t afford clothes, apparently.
As he raised his glass to his lips, someone bumped his elbow and he barely recovered his drink before it splashed over the rim.
“Fuckin’ watch it,” he muttered. His life revolved around loud music and crowds but only when he was on stage. He didn’t enjoy being bumped into, stepped on and talked over any other time.
“Problem?”
Nash set his glass down slowly on the bar and eyed the man who now perched on the stool next to him, his knee pressing into Nash’s thigh.
“Yeah,” Nash mumbled just loud enough to be heard over the music.
The guy leaned in to ask, “What?”
Nash gave him the side-eye. “You.”
“Didn’t mean to bump into you, man. Got shoved from behind.”
“Whatever,” he grumbled.
“Is broody asshole still a thing?”
Was the guy trying to be funny? Nash ignored him and knocked back half of his whiskey before slamming the glass back on the bar. “Don’t know, is it?”
“Haven’t been out looking, so I’m not sure what’s hot right now.”
“Wouldn’t know, either.”
The guy settled more solidly on the stool, but left his knee touching Nash. And as he leaned forward to grab the bartender’s attention, his chest brushed against Nash’s arm. Once he placed his order of a draft beer, he turned enough where his knee slid along Nash’s thigh.
Wasn’t being too fucking obvious.
Problem was, Nash was trying to ignore him but was having a hard time doing so.
The guy leaned closer to Nash again to make sure he was heard over the din of the bar. “Name’s Cross.”
Cross. How fucking gay was that?
“Yours?” The question was yelled in his ear.
Nash dropped his chin and eyed the fingers this Cross wrapped around his bicep. The grip was firm, his fingers long and, for a split moment, Nash wondered how they’d feel wrapped around his dick.
Again, he reminded himself that wasn’t what he was there for and, in truth, he was too close to home to hook up. It was risky. Even if it would be a random, anonymous fuck.
But since the guy introduced himself—assuming that was his real name—the anonymous part was no longer true.
“Got a name?” the guy asked again, his dark brows dropping low over his light blue eyes.
“Everybody’s got a fuckin’ name,” Nash answered and turned back to the bar, picking up his glass and downing the remainder.
He put the empty glass back on the bar and slid it down past several other patrons toward the bartender and gave him a nod.
“You driving?”
What the fuck. What a nosy fucker.
“Nope.” Nash was riding, not driving. His sled was tucked out front between a light blue Mini Cooper and a pink Mazda Miata.
“Do you come here often?”
Jesus fuck. Nash slammed his palm on the bar top. “Can’t a man just grab a fuckin’ drink and enjoy a band?”
Cross dropped his hand from Nash’s arm and even though he pulled back, Nash could still hear clearly, “In a gay bar?”
“Is that what this is?” From the corner of his eye, Nash could see the guy studying his profile, an amused half-smile on his face.
Cross snorted next to him. “You want to play dumb?” He shrugged. “Then play dumb, but you don’t look stupid. If you haven’t noticed, the name of the bar is The Cockpit. Pretty fucking obvious. Plus, our bartender is a big, burly bear wearing leather gear and letting his hairy ass hang out. That’s not a normal sight you see at a typical neighborhood bar.”
“You might not be hangin’ out at the right bars.”
“This is the right bar,” Cross said softly, but Nash still caught it since the band wrapped up their first set and walked off stage to a smattering of applause. A DJ started up almost immediately but was nowhere near as loud as the band.
That was his sign it was time to go, especially since the DJ was playing techno dance music. Not his scene.
He dug out another wrinkled ten from his front pocket and threw it on the bar just as the bartender snagged it and slid another glass in front of him before dropping off a fresh beer for Nash’s nosy neighbor.
Nash didn’t notice Cross requesting it. Maybe the bartender knew him, and he was a regular.
“Must be here often,” Nash muttered.
“Haven’t been here in a long time.”
“Why not?” Now he was being the fucking nosy one.
“Was tied up for a while with someone. Problem was, he was out and proud, and didn’t like I wasn’t. Not that I’m ashamed, but I can’t go publicly blasting that I like cock.”
Nash turned his head toward him. Besides the light blue eyes, the man had a full head of short dark brown hair. Cut neat. A beard, trimmed way cleaner than Nash’s own, which tended to stay on the scruffy side. He’d cut it back recently because it was becoming annoying as fuck, especially when he ate, but he still didn’t keep up after it on a daily basis. And he certainly didn’t remember the last time he cut his hair. Most of the time he put it up in a ponytail or a man-bun which some women liked, some didn’t.
Not that Nash gave a fuck what they thought.
He was a rocker and a fucking biker, and his hair was for himself, not them.
If a woman wanted to drop to her knees and suck his cock, he was fine with it, but the second they started giving him suggestions on his look or whatever, he couldn’t get shot of them fast enough.
And it wasn’t like he would keep a woman long-term anyway, because what he preferred was sitting next to him being a pain in his ass.
Now, if that one was on his knees gagging on Nash’s dick, he might listen to a suggestion about trimming up his facial hair. Not that he would do it, but he’d listen.
“You’re not out?”
Cross shook his head.
“Why?”
“My job.”
“Which is?”
“Not very tolerant.”
Nash understood that completely. A couple of his bandmates knew how he leaned, but that was it. And they didn’t talk, not if they wanted to remain a part of Dirty Deeds. Right now, with a new manager, their band was starting to book all over the east coast. And the money was finally starting to roll in. Most of them, except for their guitarist, wanted to benefit from that.
However, his lead guitarist had a ball and chain around his ankle, consisting of a wife and three kids. He couldn’t just up and go do multi-state tours for weeks at a time.
Nash had a lot of freedom when it came to that. The only ball and chain he had was his MC and even that was a light one.
“So, you’re into women and you’re sitting in a gay bar, not just any gay bar, but one known for random pick-ups. Why?”
“Why the fuck not? There’s a band playin’ and I’m a musician.”
Cross’s eyebrows rose. “What do you play?”
“Guitar, drums, bass. Sing, too.”
“You good?”
Nash lifted a shoulder. “So I’m told.”
“Ever play here before?”
“Fuck no.”
“Why? Because it’s a gay bar?”
No, because it wasn’t a biker bar, which was most of the gigs they’d had recently. While they wanted to expand, gay bars were not on their radar. One of his band members was a homophobe and would flip the fuck out if he or their manager suggested it.
Another reason Nash kept the fact that he was bi on the DL.
Plus, it wasn’t anyone’s business but his and whoever was on the receiving end of his dick.
Even so, Lenny was a great drummer and Nash didn’t want to risk losing another band member, homophobe or not.
“Yeah, since I’m not gay.”
Cross jerked his head toward the now empty stage. “Think any of them are gay? As long as they’re getting paid, bet they don’t care whose pocket that money came from.”
While Nash agreed, he wasn’t going to say that out loud. “Time for me to go.” He shifted to get to his feet, but long fingers snagged his bicep again, this time giving it a squeeze first.
“Hold up, you didn’t give me your name yet.”
Nash’s heart began to thump like a bass drum. He should’ve left the moment the guy began to chatter, but something had kept him in his seat.
The guy was good looking and Nash’s type, but something bothered him. Something Nash couldn’t put his finger on.
Then it hit him. Something he should’ve caught from the get-go. Maybe the beard had thrown him off.
Cross’s eyelids got heavy and his blue eyes heated as Nash leaned in close, inhaling deeply as he slid his nose along Cross’s jaw, not touching, but close all the same. His cock twitched when the subtle cologne the man wore filled his nostrils, but he could still smell that identifiable stink beneath it.
Cross’s fingers tightened painfully around Nash’s arm when he got even closer, putting his mouth to the man’s ear, murmuring, “You smell like a pig.”
Cross froze but didn’t let go of Nash. Instead, he glanced down at himself. “Did I spill something on myself? I swear I showered. Do I stink?”
“Yeah, you stink,” Nash growled in his ear. “Got that distinctive odor that comes with badges and jail cells.”
“You forgot about the handcuffs.”
“Never forget about the handcuffs,” Nash murmured, then sat back, studying the man once more. From what he could see, the maroon button-down long-sleeved dress shirt the man wore pulled at his shoulders, which meant there were muscles under there. His gut was trim and his thighs pretty damn thick in his jeans. His face, though handsome, was a bit baby-faced for Nash. He wasn’t super young, but he wasn’t old enough, either.
Nash didn’t like to mess with anyone who needed direction. He didn’t have the time to waste on lessons. He wanted a man, or woman, who knew what the fuck they were doing. This way they could do their thing and Nash could bounce shortly afterward.
So, no. Nash didn’t need a headache like this one. Even if it was for one night.
Pigs and bikers didn’t mix, anyway.
“Gotta go.”
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