The band flows into a new song, but we don’t stop, taking up the middle of the floor as we remain attached. No words need to be spoken, my confession keeping us here, a moment sealed in time. Eventually though, that bubble has to pop.
“The fuck you mean you have no Jack!?” I hear the loud voice over the music, aggression lining every word. Both of us look to the bar where a college-aged kid yells at one of my staff.
“Nope.” I pull away from Roman and head toward him, tapping him on the shoulder when I get close enough. “Who do you think you are?” I ask him.
His lip curls up. “Fuck off.”
“What the fuck did you just say to my wife?” Roman presses up against my back, his body practically vibrating.
“I said —” The kid squares up and I feel Roman tense, coiling up tight and ready to strike.
He doesn’t get another word out as the security hired for the night swoop in and grab the guy by the tops of his arms. He hollers as he’s dragged from the bar while I turn to my employee.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” She shakes her head, “I’m fine. Just trying to find a minute to restock.”
“I’ve got it,” I tell her. “What do we need?”
She reels off a list of a couple of spirits and mixers, so I head through to the stockroom, Roman on my heels.
I don’t bother trying to stop him. He wants to help, and we need it, so I pile everything into one box and hand it to him.
“Can you take that out?” I ask.
“Anything else?”
“I’ve got it. Be out in a sec.”
I watch him take the bottles out and then gather up all the empty packaging left behind from a messy and busy night. It will only take a minute to clean it up and take the trash out, and if it’s one less thing for my staff to do, then I don’t mind easing the burden.
When I’ve got it all folded down, I pile it into my arms and head toward the back exit, pushing open the door to lead me into the alley where the dumpsters are.
I’ve barely got the lid open when I feel a presence behind me.
I try to spin, but their hand goes to the back of my neck, pushing me up against the side of the dumpster.
“That’s a pretty ring,” A deep, male voice grinds out from behind me, his other hand gripping my wrist to yank my hand up to the light above the exit door of the bar.
Iknowwho it is without seeing him or knowing his name.
“Get off me.” I demand.
“I gave this to his mother,” He muses. “Worth a lot of money. It’s the least I am owed.”
“You don’t want to do this, Jenson.”
“So, he’s told you about me?” The hand loosens a touch.
“He has.”
“What is it going to take, Niamh?” Roman’s father asks. “Do I need to hurt you too?”
“That didn’t work though, did it?” I laugh humorlessly, pushing away the fear that wants to force me to my knees. This man doesn’t get to see that weakness. “Where are you now, Jenson?”
The hand tightens again, and he slams me forward, my jaw colliding with the edge of the dumpster, the hard metal cutting. Pain bursts through the lower half of my face, rattling through my teeth. I can taste blood pooling on my tongue from where my teeth have cut into my cheek, and when I press my tongue to it, the flesh feels raw.
“I am a patient man.” He snaps. “Where is he?”
