The handsome blond one, the enforcer, laughs and scrubs his scruffy jaw with his hand; his smile is megawatt. He looks sort of like Heath Ledger and I wonder how he didn’t win at life just on his looks alone.
“Depends on what you’re serving up, beautiful.” That all-American smile widens with his words.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Drinks and food,” I enunciate in adon’t fuck with metone as I set down their silverware tucked into napkins.
“We don’t take this one out much,” the man beside him says in a low voice, hiking his thumb over his shoulder. I look at him pointedly for the first time. The treasurer. He’s all sharp edges with messy brown hair and piercing blue eyes that house the look of past torture.
The two men chuckle, and it only serves to make me more pissed and uncomfortable.
“Forgive these fuckin’ idiots.” The deep, smoky voice of the sergeant stops their laughter immediately. It’s smooth like thick honey, as if he has all the time in the world to speak because no one would dare interrupt him.
I let my eyes move to him, willing myself to stand strong and not appear fazed by the grace he carries himself with. He leans forward, straightening out his knife and fork on the napkin with perfect precision, before folding his hands together as he props his elbows on the table.
He’s muscular in a way that says he’s strong as hell, like he works out seven days a week. His corded forearms flex with rigid veins and I notice that even his knuckles have symbols and words on them. I’m a sucker for tattoos on a man, but I haven’t known any personally who have this many, so I shamelessly take them in. My eyes settle on his right hand and what I can catalog quickly. A cross made from detailed-looking daggers covers his finger. It’s on the end of an ornate chain that winds down his hand, connecting to a cracked compass, on top of which sits a peaceful dove. It’s not unlike the one I have inked on my own shoulder that I put there in memory of my mother, only mine is in flight. I like to think that when she passed, she escaped her cage. I wonder briefly why he would choose a cross, and the dove. Then I blink and scold myself for even noticing. He clears his throat, taking in my stare. I bring my eyes back to the depth of those dark, emerald pools, and I swear I see a hint of amusement in them as he cocks his head and speaks to me again.
“We’ll take three bourbons—Hellbender. And …” He pauses for a moment. “Yeah, we’ll all be eating tonight.” His voice is strong and poignant, sending another current up my spine with the flash of an unexpected vision, one where his face is buried deep between my thighs.
I suck in a breath, needing to get out of his sight. I don’t know what the hell has gotten into me, but instead of feeling the disgust I should toward him, he sends my blood racing as I try to push the image from my head.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” I say, heading for the bar.
My back is turned while I put their drinks order in, but I canfeel the heavy weight of his stare on me. I’m certain he’s watching me. The feeling is eerie and exhilarating all at once.
“Thanks babe,” Chantel says as she breezes up to me, looking around.
“Perfect timing.” I exhale a long breath.
“You okay? You’re shaking.” Chantel’s face is lined with concern.
“Yeah, just …” I nod at the table of men I just left and Chantel’s eyes flit toward them.
“Oooh shit, some bad-boy Hounds of Hell members? Mama likey,” she says, eyeing them all up. I shake my head with a scoff, keeping my eyes away from that deep gaze.
“They’re all yours,” I tell her, heading to pick up table four’s appetizers. I should be glad I’m free of the sergeant’s stare, but moments later, I can’t help myself. I decide to glance up at his table, feeling the pull of his gaze—and when I do, I find those dark eyes still unapologetically fixed on me like he can’t look away any more than I can.
CHAPTER THREE
Layla
The rush of the bar never stops as the dinner crowd transforms into the drinking crowd. Our dance floor opens up at eight and fills right away under the soft glow of the string lights.
I head to work behind the bar as two more servers come in to take over the late shift. I get on with Tyson, who’s the manager and weekend bartender. He’s funny and kind. He sort of reminds me of my older brother Dell, and we’ve gotten into a flow. He takes care of his end, I take care of mine, and sometimes we meet in the middle. We manage the hectic bar with ease most weekends.
People come and go as the night continues, but the one nagging constant is the three Hounds of Hell members sitting in the corner. Aside from their periodic laughter and the consumption of an absolute feast, you’d never know they were there. Unless you were me and could physically feel the eyes of their leader on you.
I duck down and grab a Corona from the cooler beside the overstock. I crack it open and pass it over the bar to a regular and take another order from a man beside him.
“You have beautiful eyes,” he yells over the music. “Name’s Ryan,” he adds, not that I asked.
I nod and smile at him. “Thanks, what can I get you?”
“A drink for me and a drink for you?”
Ryan, if that’s his real name, is a business type, wearing dress pants and a button-down. He looks like he’s lost his jacket and tie at some point since he arrived—as well as his wedding ring, but the tan line is still present on the ring finger of his left hand.
“I don’t drink while I work,” I say, taking the order of the woman beside him while he takes his time with his drink choice. I pass her a glass of house white and glance back at Ryan.
“Have you decided?” I ask.
