"Something like that." I twisted his wrist a fraction more, and he winced. "Now you're going to pay your tab, walk out that door, and never come back. Understood?"
"Fuck off man."
I leaned in closer, dropping my voice so only he could hear. "I've killed men for less than what you just did. Walk away. Now."
Something in my eyes must have convinced him I wasn't bluffing, because all the fight drained out of him at once.
"Fine. Jesus. Let go."
I released him, and he stumbled back, rubbing his wrist, practically ran for the exit, not looking back.
The whole exchange had taken maybe thirty seconds. Most of the bar hadn't even noticed.
But Betty had.
"I had that handled," she said.
"I know you did."
"Then why did you intervene?"
Because he touched you. Because his hand was on your skin. Because I wanted to rip his arm off for daring to put his fingers where they didn't belong.
"Because I didn't like the way he was looking at you," I said instead.
"A lot of people look at me, Hudson. It comes with the job."
"I don't like that either."
Her eyes narrowed. "That's not your problem. You're here to protect me from dirty cops, not from guys hitting on me at my own bar."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive."
She planted her hands on the bar and leaned toward me, her eyes flashing. "You don't get to be jealous. You don't get to act like some possessive caveman every time someone flirts with me. We're not together. Remember?"
The wordyethung unspoken between us.
"I remember," I said quietly. "But that doesn't change the fact that watching another man touch you makes me want to commit murder."
Her breath caught.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The bar noise faded into background static, and all I could see was her. The flush on her cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers curled against the bar like she was holding herself back.
Then someone called her name from the other end of the bar, and the spell broke.
"We're not doing this here," she said, her voice low and unsteady. "Stay in your corner and let me work."
She turned and walked away, her shoulders rigid with tension.
I went back to my stool and watched her for the rest of the night, my blood still hot with jealousy, my hands still itching to touch her.
She was right. I didn't have the right to be possessive. But that didn't make it any less true.
The bar closed at two.
I helped Marco clear out the last few stragglers while Betty counted the register and Jesse wiped down tables. By two-thirty, the bar was empty except for the two of us.
"You didn't have to help," Betty said, pulling on a light jacket over her t-shirt. "That's not part of your job description."
