I can’t give in to those feelings. Especially with a man like him.
Heck, with everything going on in my life, I can’t catch feelings for anyone, period. Who knows when I’ll need to take off. Having feelings for someone means I might as well tie an anchor around my neck and jump into the nearest body of water.
I have to do something.
Behind him, the drunk climbs to his feet. Something in me snaps — I'm not done, and I'm not some damsel who needs rescuing.
“Oh, no, you don't.”
I march after him and somehow muster the courage to stick an accusing finger in his face. It shakes, my hand shakes, my heart’s in my throat, but somehow I yell, “Don't you ever talk to a woman like that again, you creep.”
The suddenness of my shouting startles him, and he trips, his knee twisting awkwardly as he falls to the ground.
“You bitch,” he hollers.
As soon as those words hit my ears, my vision goes red, my heartbeat thuds in my chest like a war drum, and I ball my hands into fists.
“What’d you call me?”
The drunk's eyes go wide, and he scrambles backward on his ass, one hand raised in front of him like he's warding off a demon. "Nothing! I didn't say nothing!"
"That's what I thought." I stand over him, fist still clenched, chest heaving, feeling powerful in a way that scares me. In my heart, I hope this drunk will get the hint and leave me alone, because I know that if it comes down to it, I won’t be able to do anything with these fists I’ve made. "Now get the hell out of here and leave me the hell alone."
He doesn't need to be told twice. The drunk hauls himself up, limping badly, and hobbles toward the road without looking back. I watch him go, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from my veins and leaving me shaky and cold.
"Not bad."
Breaker's voice is low, quiet, and dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with violence.
I turn to face him. "I told you I didn't need your help. I can take care of myself.”
“I wasn't going to just stand there and watch."
"Why not? You made it pretty clear earlier that you don't give a damn about me."
Something flickers across his face, gone too fast to identify. "I don't."
"Then why are you still here?"
The question hangs between us, heavy and charged. Rain drips from the eaves, pattering against the gravel. Somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle engine rumbles to life and fades into the night.
Breaker doesn't answer. He just looks at me, and I feel that look all the way down to my bones. It's like he's seeing through me, past the bravado and the sharp words, down to the scared, broken thing underneath; the thing I've been trying so hard to hide; the thing that’s the real me after learning some real hard lessons.
I hate it.
I hate that he can do that with just a look.
“Go home, Riley." His voice is rough. Strained. Like the words are being dragged out of him against his will. "And take my advice: while you’re working here, don’t let anyone get close to you."
"Including you?"
"Especially me."
He turns and walks toward the bar, boots crunching on gravel, broad shoulders swallowed by the darkness between the streetlight and the bar. I watch him go, my heart doing something complicated in my chest that I refuse to examine too closely.
When he's gone, I finally let myself breathe. My hands are still shaking, but not from fear.
Not anymore.
