“You sure you don’t want me to fuck up Mr. Charm for you?” Savage asked.
Player stared out the window at the man who was just now straightening up, his eyes still glued to Zyah. This time it was very clear he was staring at her tits. What an asshole. He was out for pussy. Hopefully, she was good enough to read that shit and not be dazzled by his appearance. He stank of money. His jeans were designer all the way.
“How much do you think he paid for those jeans?” Player asked.
“Five hundred, easy,” Lana said. “Shirt is about three. That sweater? Close to a thousand. The boots? At least a thousand. He would be turning up his nose at your boots, Savage.”
Savage looked down at his well-worn motorcycle boots. “What the hell’s wrong with my boots, Lana?”
“I think you’ve worn through the soles.”
“I have not. I’m not falling for that. You’re tryin’ to make me look.”
Another round of laughter went up. Lana grinned at him and nudged Player with her hip. “Just so you know, there is an alternative to Hannah Drake. I heard a rumor that the Red Hat ladies in Sea Haven . . . well . . . I think that encompasses Caspar as well. I think a group of the Red Hat ladies sometimes help men get their women back when they’ve screwed up. Or if they want to plan a real romantic date. Something like that. Inez told me about it. You know how she chatters. She’s part of it. She was very enthusiastic. She said some men just aren’t good at planning and they throw out ideas for them. Brainstorming, she called it. I thought it sounded kind of nice.”
“Who in the hell are the Red Hat ladies?” Player demanded.
“I think it’s officially called the Red Hat Society, but don’t quote me,” Lana said. “When you hit a certain age, you qualify to join. Women, I think. They get together and do whatever they want. Wear what they want, get crazy together. Just enjoy life. But the point is, they know stuff. Like Blythe does. They’ve lived and learned. We don’t know shit, Player. That’s the one thing we can all agree on. We don’t have the least idea of what it is we’re doing, especially when it comes to relationships. I’m just saying, if Zyah spits in your face like she should, maybe you can ask them for help.” She shrugged. “Or not. It’s up to you. On the other hand, when you go in and talk to her, maybe you’ll decide she wasn’t all you thought she was.”
Zyah shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other on the tiled floor behind the counter, wishing she didn’t have such a bad habit of removing her shoes whenever she wanted information on someone. Unexpected gifts from the universe could be curses as well. She had been so certain she had found the man she fit with. Everything in her responded to him. Her body tuned to his. When she danced, the vibrations of the earth seemed to mold them into one, so they felt as if they shared the same skin.
Player had felt so fractured to her when he first entered the room. His color was nearly gray. Little beads of sweat dotted his forehead. His pulse was all over the place. She could tell his head was really hurting him. When her heart went crazy, tuning itself to his, attempting to slow his to normal, she was shocked at how strong her reaction was to him. She had to help him. She had no choice. Every single cell in her body reached for his. She’d been absolutely 100 percent certain he was the one destined to be her man. She’d been so wrong.
It hurt. Not only did she feel like a complete fool, but she was ashamed of the way she’d behaved with him. Clearly, he thought his fellow bikers had paid her to spend the night with him. Dancing. Fucking. She’d been making love to him. Giving herself to him. Being vulnerable. He’d been taking everything and not giving a damn. It was a hard lesson, but she’d learned it.
Now there was this man. Perry Randall. Flirting. Giving it his all. He was using all of his charm, trying to persuade her to go on a date, leaning on the counter, looking at her through his sunglasses that cost as much as his shoes had. She’d calculated several times how many homeless people she could feed with his clothes alone. Then shelter dogs. Then feral cats.
He was one of those men who was interested, but before he actually asked her out, he had to make certain he looked great, staring at himself in every mirror he passed by and fixing his hair as often as possible. He was definitely the type to ask himself if his friends would think she was hot. Once he’d convinced himself they would think she was gorgeous enough to belong on his arm and in his ride, then he would make his move on her and continue to do so, thinking she was playing hard to get if she said no, because who would ever refuse him? That was the kind of thing that always happened to her, no matter where she was in the world.