I’m not scared. My brother’s not the affectionate type either. Sometimes I jump into his lap and smother him with kisses just to annoy him. But with Lucifer, it’s different. Something tells me he needs space. He likes being alone. He thinks he doesn’t need love.
He’s wrong. Everyone needs love—and mine belongs to him.
“I don’t make promises.”
“You’ll have to make one for me.”
I can’t see his eyes. He’s standing in the dark. He always seems to be in the dark—even in the daylight.
I hear him sigh, but it sounds more like a lion’s growl.
“Go inside.”
“Not unless you say you’ll come back,” I insist.
“I’ll come back, Jackie. Maybe sometimes you won’t notice. I won’t let you see me, but I’ll see you. I’ll protect you. I’ll watch over you forever.”
He turns away from me, climbs onto his motorcycle, and rides off without looking back.
I cling to whatever I can.
I memorize the words.
“I’ll come back, Jackie. Maybe sometimes you won’t notice. I won’t let you see me, but I’ll see you. I’ll protect you. I’ll watch over you forever.”
The idea of him watching me from the shadows doesn’t make me feel safe—but there’s nothing I can do about it.
Lucifer said he’d watch over me, so I’ll be watching too. If he gets lost in the darkness, I’ll follow him there. I’ll bring him back into my light.
Chapter 2
New York
Nine Years Later
“Taylor,[1] they’re asking for extra bread at table four!” I shout to the redheaded waitress.
I know she doesn’t want to go there. None of the girls want to deal with five arrogant, sexist jerks—and as if that weren’t bad enough, they’re also very drunk, just to make it worse.
Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do. I’m not the manager. I’m the bartender.
Taylor is five years younger than me. She hasn’t been working here long. She came from a small town upstate, right here in New York, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that, sadly, those guys are pretty much our average clientele. She’s not used to this kind of idiot. In fact, she can only work here—a bar that mainly sells alcohol—because I supervise her, since I’m twenty-four.
The crowd here is made up of rich assholes with wallets full of cash and brains the size of peanuts—at least when it comes to how they treat women.
More than once, I’ve had to call security to step in, because some of those pricks think our asses are part of the menu, like some kind of appetizer, and they can just grab them if they leave a nice tip at the end of the night.
“Herb or plain?” she asks me.
“Sweetheart, the only kind of herb they like isn’t on our menu, so just take them the plain.”
She fills one of the baskets with warm bread—kept in the oven by one of the kitchen assistants to make it seem fresh, even though it was delivered this morning.
I have to swallow my anger as I watch her walk over to the jerks’ table with a fake smile. No woman should have to feel uncomfortable at her workplace. I’ve been thinking of quitting, but the tips are good—and I feel protective of Taylor. If I leave, she won’t have anyone else watching out for her at the bar.
I glance over at the table she’s serving.
Even though they look under thirty, they’re all wearing suits, which means they’re either lawyers or executives. If they’re lawyers, they should know exactly how much hell we could rain on them if we accused them of harassment.
