"Cocky bastard."But there's heat in it now.Interest.The air between us shifts, charged with something I haven't felt in a long fucking time.
Want.
Raw, uncomplicated want.
"You get off soon?"I ask.The words are out before I can think better of them.
"Why?"She leans closer, elbows on the bar, eyes locked on mine."You offering to walk me home?"
"Something like that."
"I don't need walking home."
"Didn't say you did."
Her tongue darts out and wets her bottom lip.I track the movement; feel heat pool low in my gut.
"You're trouble," she says softly.
"Yeah."
"I don't do trouble."
"That right?"
"Usually."She straightens, pulling back just enough to make me ache for the loss of her nearness."But it's been a long week."
"Tell me about it."
She studies me.Really looks.I can feel her taking me apart: the patch, the scars on my knuckles, the ink on my neck, the way I sit like I'm ready to fight or bolt at a moment's notice.Whatever she sees, she must like it.
"My shift ends in twenty," she says finally."There's a door out back.Wait for me there."
Then she's gone again, moving down the bar like we didn't just negotiate something dangerous and inevitable.
I finish my pint.Order another.Don't taste it.
My heart's pounding, slow, heavy beats that echo in my chest.I can't remember the last time a woman got under my skin like this.Most of the time, I don't bother.Club comes first.Always has.And the women who hang around the clubhouse are fine for a night but nothing more.
This feels different.
She feels different.
I shouldn't care.I shouldn't be sitting here waiting like some desperate fucking teenager.But I am.Because something about her—the attitude, the armor, the way she looks at me like she can see straight through to the ugly parts and isn't afraid—makes me want to know more.
Makes me want to take.
The twenty minutes drag.I watch her work, watch her deflect advances from drunk guys with practiced ease, watch her count tips and wipe down the bar top with mechanical precision.When the clock hits midnight, she says something to another bartender, a dark-haired girl, then slips through a door marked Staff Only.
I get to my feet and head for the back exit.
The alley's dark.Smells like piss and rotting garbage.Rain's still falling, a light mist that clings to everything.I lean against the brick wall, hands in my pockets, waiting.
The door opens.
She steps out, pulling on a leather jacket.It’s black, worn, and fits tight across her shoulders.Her hair's down now, falling past her collarbones in waves.She sees me and stops, door swinging shut behind her.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
