“Take out the trash from the front bar, will ya?” Nick’s mouth brushes my ear as he issues the instruction. My body responds with a nauseated tremor. “There are two bags.”
Like I’m not already dealing with enough trash in this place, boss included. At least this type of garbage I can haul out.
The bachelor party in the back has entered that sloppy, destructive phase of inebriation where glasses get knocked over and napkins become confetti. Thankfully, after the mysterious stranger who never shared his name threatened Mr. Handsy and kissed me like he owned me, no one in that group has given me any problems.
If I wasn’t aware of all the disgusting slop that went into the trash, I’d poke through the bags before tossing them. Broken beer bottles create perfect curves, which can add an extra dimension to my mosaic artwork.
“Right now?” I ask.
“No, next week. Yes, right now.”
He tosses me the back door key on its coiled plastic bracelet.
I bite down my snarky reply and slip the bracelet over my wrist. The money in my pocket crinkles as I move. After thatexorbitant tip, nothing can bring me down tonight. Six hundred dollars from one customer.
I wonder if the intense, sinfully hot tipper who acted like he could read my mind will return. Unsettling or not, I wouldn’t say no to another kiss. I squirm just thinking about it and find myself scanning the crowd, searching for a pair of broad shoulders and predatory grace.
No luck. The man’s long gone, and I doubt he’s coming back. I might as well take out the trash.
In the staff area, I dig through the supplies for industrial-strength rubber gloves that extend past my elbow. After a memorable incident involving broken glass and a mysterious foul-smelling liquid, I can’t be too careful.
The two bags stuffed under the front bar bulge at the seams. I hoist one in each hand, stopping at the exit to unlock the door before nudging it open with my hip. After the sweltering heat inside, Chicago’s summer night air provides relief.
But the sight of two men in the alley freezes my blood.
The incredibly hot stranger who kissed me has murder in his steely blue eyes. And he’s facing off with a second man who’s holding a gun.
Wait, theybothhave guns.
My brain catches up with the scene. I know the other guy. Benny Parker. A regular at Red Bird’s since his release from prison.
Holy shit.
Time for me to get the hell out of here.
When I drop the trash bags, they hit the concrete with a clatter. I scurry backward and collide with the door, which slams shut behind me. The metallic clang echoes through the alley. I fumble for the key around the thick rubber glove before yanking the bracelet off.
Both heads snap toward me.
Recognition flares in Hot Guy’s eyes.
In that split second of distraction, Benny charges me. “Give me that key!”
Without conscious thought, I sink to all fours. Rough concrete scrapes my bare knees.
Benny lunges. When his foot catches on a bag, he pitches forward, sprawling across the dirty alley while trash spills free.
We collide in a tangle of limbs, his weight crushing the air from my lungs.
“Give it to me!” He tugs at my arm, digging his fingers into my wrists as he attempts to pry my hands open.
“I don’t have the key, Benny. You made me drop it!”
The bracelet’s lost in the mess he created when he tripped.
In my peripheral, Hot Guy lurches toward us just before a cold object pushes against my temple.
“Either put your gun away, or I’ll put a bullet in her brain.”
