The memory of that vivid tattoo of a red rose with sharp green spikes creeping up a milky forearm enters my mind, and my dick roars to life. Fucking roars to full mast in seconds. Without anyone even touching it. In memory of a tattoo on a person I fuckingloathe. In public, no less.
I chug my beer and regret… a lot.
I’m gesturing to Rory for another when I hear a familiar male voice behind me, and I still. I don’t hear that voice often. I slowly turn my head, and there he is: another asshole fromthatnight. Walking in like he owns the place. Like he has any fucking right to enjoy life when others can’t anymore.
He looks around and tenses once he notices me.That’s right, asshole. I’m here.
Even from my seat at the bar, I can see how tightly he clenches his jaw. I hope he fucking loses all his teeth. He rakes his hand through his hair, messing up his man-bun. A fuckingman-bun. Who wears that?
Training his eyes on me, he walks to the other side of the bar and motions for Rory to come to him. When she hasn’t even brought my drink yet. I don’t think so. I stand up from my stool, about to voice my opinion, when Harry, the bar owner, comes into view in front of me, placing my drink on the bar with a loudthud.
"Not here, Justin. Not in my bar. Is that clear?" He looks between Mark and me (I spit his name even in my head). I feel my nostrils flaring while trying to contain my anger, but I finally nod. “Is that clear, Mark?” He raises his voice to be heard through music, and the asshole finally nods, too. “Good. Enjoy your evening, boys.”
Everybody knows Mark and I can’t be in the same space without a fight. Often a physical one. That’s why we try to avoid each other.
Mark downs his drink just as I did a moment ago and relaxes in his seat. He’s alone. Probably waiting for his degenerate friends, whoever they are. Leopards don’t change their spots.
I take a deep breath and try to shift my attention to my glass. I’m considering another one but decide against it. With Mark here, it’s not a good idea to push any limits—Harry’s warning will mean nothing to me after another drink, and I’ll be banned from the only decent bar in town. Not worth it.
I drop a few bills on the counter and walk out without a glance, feeling his stare on my back the whole time. I decide to leave my truck parked at the bar and walk home; it’s about ten minutes down the street anyway.
I’m leisurely strolling along the sidewalk when I notice the lights at Marina’s diner are on. A brief look at my phone screen says it’s past eleven—I don’t know why somebody would be there so late. A weird, worrying feeling nudges at my chest—the last time something felt off was when the diner was on fire withherinside.
A shiver runs down my spine, and my legs pick up speed of their own accord. When I’m at the diner entrance, I push the door handle with too much force, and the door smacks on the wall, nearly making me jump. But not her, no: with headphones tucked in her ears, she can’t hear a thing, not even flinching at my loud entrance. She’s shaking her tight ass in those skintight black leggings that I hate with every fiber of my dark soul to some heavy beat in her ears. That red rose with its green spikes on full display in a cropped tank top that barely covers anything. I take a deep, cleansing breath and watch her move along the wall of the diner with a paintbrush.
She has a few colorful streaks on her skin and clothes from the wet paint. Her hair’s tied into a messy bun on top of her head, and from here, I don't see any color added to it. Huh—she always has some type of color in there, so that’s new. If I knew her better, I’d know what color represented what, but I don’t know her, nor do I want to.
I open the door again and smack it with all my might into the wall, causing the windows to shake. She finally jumps, startled by the loud noise that was able to penetrate whatever rock ballad she’s been rupturing her eardrums to.
“What the hell?” she shrieks, yanking the headphones out of her ears. Then she takes me in, and her eyes go round before darting around us. “Justin? What are you doing here?”
“Why is the door open?” I ask, ignoring her question.
She tilts her head, staring at me in confusion. “What?”
“Why is the door open?” I repeat, slower this time, pointing at the entrance.
She looks between me and the door. "What’s it to you?”
I take a step toward her, causing her eyes to go even rounder. “Not long ago, you were locked in that pantry,” I remind her, pointing at the door where I found her, tied and nearly unconscious, “and now you’re dancing around with your headphones in without a care in a world with an unlocked door where anyone can just walk in?”
She throws her arms wide. “It’sLittle Hope.” Like that’s supposed to explain everything.
“It’s not that Little Hope anymore. Times change.” I clench my jaw. “You have to adapt.”
Her face darkens in an instant. “That’s what I’ve been doing all my life. Adapting.”
“Have you?” I hum, my tone menacing, taking deliberately slow steps toward her, carefully watching her actions.
She looks around, but there’s nobody around, and that’s my point. Anybody could barge in, and she wouldn’t know because she wouldn’t fucking hear!
Only two feet of space separates us now, and she hasn’t moved an inch, hypnotized by my slow approach. I stop in front of her and watch for her reaction—fight or flight. That’s what has always been between us, and that’s what will always be.
“Justin—” She wants to say something but decides against it.
“Yes?” I nudge her.
“I—” She clears her throat and licks her lips. My eyes instantly dip and follow the movement of her pink tongue, which makes an appearance just for a second, leaving her plump lips moist and ready... then she snaps me out of my trance. “I meant to say thank you for helping me.”
