How can I expect to be calm, really, when this man is going to die, and it’s going to be my fault? I didn’t expect to want to do this so soon, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, Mastyx be damned.
The man stands from his seat at the end of the bar and walks over to me, his chin high, cocky confidence radiating off of him. “Hello,” he says, setting his bottle of beer beside my drink. “Can I buy you a shot?”
I flutter my lashes at him. He’s not sexy at all, not really, but he’s not a fat slob either. I’d say he falls into the cute-but-plain category. He needs a haircut and a clean shave, and could standto gain a few pounds, but he seems harmless enough, with his quiet, smooth voice.
“Sure,” I say, taking a small sip of the pink drink still sitting nearly full in front of me.
He flags the bartender over with an overly hairy arm, the tail end of a snake tattoo peeking out from beneath his short-sleeved t-shirt. “Get us a couple of those apple pie shots.”
“Oh, that sounds good.” I push up my sleeves on both sides and lean my elbow on the bar, resting the side of my head against my hand. “So, what’s your name?”
“What’s yours, sweetheart?”
A lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow, and I look away from him so he can’t see the fear rising in my eyes. It’s the way he saidsweetheart, that sends my mind right back down memory lane. The biker bar incident is still toying with my sanity, as I’m still unable to remember every detail.
I swallow hard, take a deep breath, sending my fear back into the pit in my stomach, and turn to him, “Tessa.”
“Pretty.” He extends his hand sideways to me, his eyes drifting to my cleavage. “Brent.”
What a perverted asshole.
I take his calloused and rough hand to shake it, and he lifts mine to his face, kissing it softly. “Nice to meet you,” he says, his thin lips lingering on my skin. He runs his nose across my wrist, my arm jerking toward him as his nostrils trace up my forearm. “What is that? It smells so good.”
Jesus, this guy’s handsy.
“Marc Jacobs,” I smirk, trying not to let him see me squirm.
“I love it. It’s very alluring.” His eyes meet mine, and a devious smile spreads across his face.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat before I tug my arm from his grasp.
The shots slide in front of us across the wooden bar top, and we pick them up, clank them, and gulp them down.
“Want to sit in a booth?” he asks, taking a swig from his bottle of Guinness.
“Okay.” I grab my clutch off the bar top and stand, realizing at once that I’m nearly half a head taller than him. He doesn’t seem to notice as he nods to a booth in the corner and slides in first. I scoot in next to him, my left knee purposely bumping his right. His hand raises to the bartender, holding up two fingers, mouthingtwo more shots.
“So, what do you do for a living?” I ask him as I slide my phone out of my clutch.
“I’m in sales.”
Sales.
The way he says it, without elaborating, has my mind coming to one and only conclusion.
Drug dealer.
Still, I play along, luring him into telling me more. “Do you sell anything good?”
His arm stretches over my back, landing slyly across my shoulders. “I can get you anything you want, beautiful.” He raises the shot glass the bartender sets on the table and dumps it down his throat. I pick up mine but don’t drink it.
“How about you?” he asks, setting the shot glass down on the table.
“I make art out of dead animals.” I set my shot down, touch my phone screen and turn it toward him, showing him the finished ram’s head skull piece.
His eyes widen. “You made that. Wow.” He squints at the screen. “And you sold it for six hundred dollars?” His eyes light up with a greedy glint of amusement.
“What?” I peer down at my phone and realize it does, in fact, say sold. “Huh, it must have sold after I left the house. Nice.”
