Hung Read Free

half interest, now the hundreds of partiers packed into the bar were displaying an almost prurient, primal desire to get forward and watch the fight proceed.
    Whether those at the back knew who was involved or not, or whether they were just responding to the excitement running through the crowd, I didn't know. It didn't matter.
    "It's Clay fucking Hunt," I heard someone hiss excitedly over the general raucous hubbub inside the bar, then the rush to the door really began as star struck fans surged to see their idol beat the pulp out of someone on the street. My stomach sank with disappointment and I sank back onto the stool, resting my guitar haphazardly on the floor as my head fell to my chest.
    This was supposed to be it, my big chance.
    The bar was half empty now, and the only people remaining were the staff and those—mostly packed by the bar—who were too drunk to really understand what was going on.
    "Fuck!" I whispered vehemently, responding to the anger coursing through my body. I didn't even look outside, had no interest in seeing the celebrity who'd probably just ruined any chance I’d had a career in music, even if just a few hours before I been hankering over a picture of his gigantic cock in the hair salon. Right now, no one in the world was less attractive to me.
    Thwack!
    I heard one last punch landing, and in my heart of hearts I hoped that I was hearing the sound of Clay ‘Hung’ Hunt being knocked out cold. I even imagined it, reveling in the schadenfreude of seeing him laid low.
    But I wasn't nearly so lucky. Just a couple of seconds passed before he walked into the bar, shirtless and blood dripping from his lip, a few droplets trailing their way down his powerful, rugged frame.
    I’d said that there was no one in the world less attractive to me – but if I were being honest, I'd have to say I was lying. I hated the man right now, hated his guts, and wanted to punch his lights out for ruining my night.
    But if he asked, I'd share his bed in a heartbeat.
    I snuck a peek out of the window and saw a beast of a man, easily fifty pounds heavier and three inches taller than the cocky pop star who'd just strolled almost unharmed into the bar, lying on the pavement – completely unconscious. He looked like a hard bastard, too, the kind of man you wouldn't want to cross in a dark alley, and yet Clay had laid him out like it was nothing.
    I couldn't help but be impressed. Not that watching men fight was my kind of thing, but the contrast between Clay’s undeniable good looks – his ice blue eyes and Hollywood jaw – and the beastly, battered thug lying in the gutter was patent for everyone to see.
    Clay looked like some kind of hero, and he was getting a hero's welcome. Even the drunks lining the bar parted like the Red Sea, aware they were witnessing something pretty special. I couldn't hear what he ordered, but the girl behind the bar sprang into action so fast that I could tell she was star struck and trying to hide it. A few seconds later, he had an amber whiskey in his hand and he was turning to the stage.
    Turning to face me.
    "Where's the music?" he called out in a jocular tone, and the crowd – now flooding back into the bar behind their idol – simpered along with him.
    Where’s the music? Where's the goddamn music?
    Inside, I was fuming. I wanted nothing more than to scream at him for ruining my night, but I knew that wouldn't get me anywhere. I bit my lip hard to avoid saying anything I'd regret in the morning, when the Jack Daniels coursing through my veins wasn't loosening me up and urging me to say something I'd beg to take back.
    But I came pretty close.

3
    Clay
    T he moment I saw her , I knew I was going to fuck her.
    I just didn't know she was going to change my life.
    I flashed her a huge smile, the same smile that had gotten me into dozens of women's pants in a heartbeat, but the reaction I got wasn't exactly what I was expecting.
    She stared back at me with a vicious anger in her