“You don’t have to rush off,” she says lightly, keeping her voice casual even as her eyes stay on mine. “It’s late, but notthatlate.”
“I’m fine,” I answer.
She tilts her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I know. I just meant… I’d like it if you stayed a little longer.”
Before I can digest that flirting, she’s gone. Another offer hanging between us with my silence feeding her hope. Eventually the tension is going to crack and I don’t have any idea how we’ll end up.
Chapter 9 - Hailey
“Problem incoming,” Melissa whispers on Tuesday.
I look up, hoping it’s Wes since she calls him ‘my problem’ or ‘my distraction’ regularly even though he hasn’t stayed longer than having a beer since our conversation on Saturday. He hasn’t come to the bar directly in almost a week.
Instead, I find him at his usual table along the far wall, working on paperwork while occasionally lifting his head just enough that I can see his eyes even though they don’t land on me. A clatter draws my attention to the person Melissa’s talking about.
One of the older guys, probably in his forties, staggers in, leaning on tables and toppling others’ drinks. When one of the guys stands up to talk to him, his voice is so loud it carries. “Sit your ass down and respect your rank, fucker!”
Okay. I was told when I started that PTSD or overly drunken people could walk in any time and the best move was to try to calm them. Considering Sergeant Dow is clearly drunk at best and has high rank, I’m not entirely sure what Melissa’s willing to do if he gives orders.
“Don’t serve him,” Melissa whispers. “No matter what he orders.”
He stumbles to the bar and I walk around when he nearly falls off the stool. I offer my help and he sneers. “Your dad don’t mean anything. He never saw what I saw.”
“Sergeant,” I say gently. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is I wan—want a drink,” he slurs, tapping the bar too hard. “Pour it.”
I don’t move. “I can’t do that,” I say calmly. “You’ve had enough.”
His brows knit together like the words take effort to process. He leans closer instead. Too close.
“We both know it’s not about the drinks,” he mutters, eyes unfocused. “You keep me company. That’s what girls like you do. Drinks and company.”
“I can offer conversation,” I reply evenly, already stepping back to create space. “Nothing else.”
He squints at me like the room won’t stay still. “Not even ranked,” he mutters, gaze dragging where it doesn’t belong. “Soft thing like you. Too nice to waste on talking.”
“Sir,” I say, firmer now, putting space between us. “Let’s keep this appropriate.”
His voice jumps, loud and sloppy. “You don’t tell me what to—”
Wes is there before the words finish leaving his mouth. He steps in fast, broad frame cutting the space cleanly in half, one hand pressing flat to Dow’s chest and driving him back a step.
“Back away,” Wes says, voice low and absolute.
Dow tries to puff up, drunk bravado flaring. “Who the hell do you think—”
He swings. It’s clumsy and wide.
Wes shifts just enough to avoid it and answers with a single, controlled punch that lands squarely and knocks the breath out of him. Dow stumbles back into the bar, glass rattling as he barely keeps his feet.
Wes doesn’t let up. He advances immediately, positioning himself fully in front of me, blocking Dow’s line of sight as much as his body, one arm out to keep distance.
“You’re done,” Wes says evenly. “You raised your voice. You disrespected staff. And you’re going to apologize.”
Dow laughs harshly, rubbing his jaw. “I don’t owe—”
Wes steps closer, presence overwhelming, his tone dropping into something unmistakably commanding. “You owe her an apology. Now.”
