“Too well,” I say, too quiet for her to hear.
Riley says nothing at first, just stands at my side in the way that only someone who’s survived the same kinds of storms knows how to do. Finally, she says, “Watch your back.”
My throat tightens as my eyes scan the crowd and settle back on Evan. Evan, who is now laughing at something Mayhem says, his shoulders loose, his eyes bright.
And for the first time, I don’t feel heat looking at the man I love.
I feel cold.
Because the worst part isn’t that he might be dangerous.
It’s that I invited him in.
And I’m wondering if Evan isn’t who he says he is.
Chapter Thirty
Molly
Friday nights at The Noble Fir are a living, wild animal — loud, hungry, and mean if you don’t feed it fast enough.
I keep it fed.
I keep this beast in line.
“Two IPAs,” I snap, sliding pints down the bar. “And if you say anything more to me other than your next order, I’m charging you extra for the emotional labor.” Then I pause and wink at the guy who looks like he’s about to open his mouth about how he’s got some bullshit right to free speech or how his presence as a paying customer entitles him to my goddamn ears. “I’m a bartender, not a therapist. That’s the arrangement. But less talk, better pours, sweetheart.”
A couple of guys laugh. One groans. The noise swells, glasses clink, boots scrape wood. Riley zips past with a tray and a grin.
“Roof guy’s still out there,” she says, like she’s reporting the weather. “Working hard. Still shirtless. Sweaty, too.”
“I don’t care,” I lie, not looking up. OK, just a little — my eyes may flicker to the window for half a blink, because I absolutely care, which is the problem. No, not just that I care, but that peopleknowI care.
“Uh-huh,” she says. Then her voice drops a part of an octave and she winks at me. “You’re looking at him like the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire…”
“Did you really just sing The Bloodhound Gang at me right now?”
“You know you want to do ‘The Bad Touch’ with the hot roofer,” she says, then whirls away before I can slap her.
I stare at the back of her head as she dances away, then get back to work and try to get that fucking song out of my head. It doesn’t work. Because as hard as I work, I keep thinkingsweat, baby, sweat, baby, your sex is a Texas drought and you do the kind of things that only Prince would sing about. I’m trapped in that fucking song when a hand slaps down hard in front of me.
“Hey, bartender.”
My eyes drift a few degrees to take him in. Local. Not patched. Carhartt, whiskey breath, entitlement oozing from his pores along with an odor that not even a teenage-sized dose of Axe body spray could cover up.
I keep my face placid; he’s nothing new, nothing I haven’t seen before. Nothing, really. And with all the patched Devils in this bar, I know this place is my turf, and if anything should even threaten sideways, either one of the boys from the club or the shotgun I keep under the counter will be more than enough to keep me safe. “What?”
He leans in too close. “Been watching you. I like the way you work.” He puts a handful of twenties on the counter. “You got something sweeter you can give me?”
“I’ve got water,” I say. “It’s free, so you can take back this baby dick-sized wad of cash you’re trying to use to flirt, and it’ll help with… whatever this is.”
His eyes drop to my chest like he’s trying to buy me with his stare. “Don’t get smart.”
I set the rag down, slow. “I don’t get smart. Iamsmart. What do you want?”
“You, sweetheart.” His eyes run up my body in ways that only Evan’s are allowed to do. “A female like you should beflattered. Yeah, you’re beautiful, but you’ve got some roughness around the edges and time’s catching up to you: the wrinkles, the sagging skin, the stretch marks. Maybe you should realize you’re just a bartender whose best years are behind her and you should take what you can get.”
With a charming argument like that, it’s a wonder my panties don’t drop so hard and fast that the impact leaves a crater big enough to kill the fucking dinosaurs.
