“I’m good, thanks,” I tell him, my tone courteous but firm. “Enjoy your night.”
I successfully step around him, but he’s hot on my tail as he corrals me to the only tall circular bar table that’s empty. “Come on,” he pleads, his smile looking a little more predatory under the dim lights. “Just one drink. I’m buying.”
If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s patient. Never have been. What little scrap of patience I do have tends to run out faster than lube at an orgy. Anger is the emotion that often takes its place, especially after a seventy-hour work week wherein I wasinterrupted in meetings by two different men named Jake. Two Jakes, same bullshit.
I could’ve told this guy I’m married or gay or scheduled to get hit by a train four days from now, but I prefer the power of truth. It’s liberating to refuse to hide behind the illusion of a partner or some other excuse when someone’s hitting on me. I don’t need a shield to tell this dingus to fuck off. If he can’t accept me at my polite decline, he deserves to get melted by the ball of fire growing in my throat.
“Yeah, I understand the offer,” I reply stiffly, “because I speak English. I’m just not interested.”
We stand there silently for a beat as I let the words sink in. I can tell that he’s heard me based on the flash of hurt in his eyes. When it disappears, his smile widens menacingly, causing my stomach to tighten in a way that tells me to run in the opposite direction of his man. That this is some kind of game for him. But I don’t move because fuck that and fuck this guy. I was having a great time before he showed up, and I’m not going to let him ruin my night.
If I didn’t think I’d get arrested for it, I’d choose violence, but I have too much to do next week to get myself thrown behind bars.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, stepping to the left and trying to catch Vyla’s eye from behind the bar. She’s too busy pouring a row of shots, though, and doesn’t look up. Can I successfully remove myself from this guy’s path of destruction without putting myself in danger? I can’t even tell what kind of monster he is. Truth be told, I forgot he was one until now. I assumed he was a human man, based on his disgusting behavior, because that’s what I’m used to. Weren’t the beasts who roam Mapletown supposed to be better than this?
I feel his thick fingers close around my forearm, and I wonder how much of a scene I’ll have to make in the middle ofthis crowded bar just to get out of here alive. If the goal is to scare off a creep, I like to go big or go home.
“You don’t want to be rude, do you?” he grits out, pulling me closer.
I look around for someone,anyone,to come to my aid, but no one is paying attention to me. They’re all dancing and lost in their own worlds. I’m on my own in this.
Story of my fucking life.
The words come tumbling out, laced with venom. “Rude is actually my default setting, especially when dealing with shrimp-dick assholes who––”
“I really don’t like what I’m seeing here.” A low, rumbling voice from behind Finn or Fergus, or whatever his name is, interrupts my rage spiral, and I realize I’ve now been interrupted by three men this week. If this one’s name is Jake, I’m pretty sure my brain will implode. “Care to explain, Finny?”
Ah, so the creeper’s nameisFinn.
I look around, unsure of where the hell this newcomer came from. One moment, I felt trapped and alone in the middle of the crowd with Finn, and the next, he’s here, this giant man with a disapproving gaze narrowed on my harasser. He’s wider and almost a foot taller than most others in the room, with striking light blue eyes and short inky black hair, a clump of it in the front already pure silver. The concentration of silver in that one spot makes it look intentional and effortlessly chic, but based on the small holes and stains on his t-shirt, and the thin scars covering his arms and neck, I’m guessing this is just how his hair looks naturally, and he’s too busy to worry about the maintenance of a single chunky highlight on his head. His trim salt and pepper beard surrounds lips that look far too soft for someone who could have ties to the mob, andwhy the hell am I staring at his lips?
“I know you wouldn’t be putting your hands on a lady in my bar without her consent now, would ya?” he asks the creep as he crosses his gigantic arms over his chest. The bulge of his biceps is almost comical, and I lean an inch toward him, waiting to hear the seams of his shirt snap under the pressure.
Finn lets go of me, and I rub the skin on my arm, trying to erase the memory of his hold.
“Nah, Dom. It’s all good,” Finn says, his eyes nervously flicking between me and Dom.
This must be the owner of the bar, I realize. Natalie’s boss, Dominic. She went on and on about how he’s too beautiful to look at, but in a rugged way, and I detect no lies. When his eyes land on me, a flutter in my belly catches me by surprise. He looks like he was carved from a block of marble.
When’s the last time a single look made me feel this way? Not even one memory surfaces. Well, one does, but I was a teenager, so hormones likely deserve the credit there.
“I was trying to buy her a drink, is all,” Finn adds.
I open my mouth to lay out how many times I said no, but Dominic steps forward, shaking his head. “See, I saw that happen when y’all were standing near the restroom. I also saw her say no.” His Southern twang flows through me with a pleasant warmth, like a glass of barrel-aged whiskey. He clears his throat. “Help me understand why you continued talking to her beyond that point. Because we both know that’s where it should’ve stopped. Don’t we, Finny?”
“Well…” Finn replies, but Dominic grabs his shoulder, and I can tell by the slight narrowing of Finn’s gaze that his grip is tight.
“You’ve been coming here, what, six years? Since the day I opened, yeah?”
Finn nods, his lips curving up on one side, making him look eager to impress the bar owner. There’s a treasure trove ofdaddy issues in that expression that Finn will have to work out someday.
Whatever. Not my problem.
“Right, and”––Dominic puts a hand over his heart––“I appreciate that. I do. The thing is”––he tips his head toward the bar––“that sign has been here since the very beginning. And I know you know what it says, don’t cha? Go on and recite it for me.”
Finn shifts his body to read the sign, but Dominic’s knuckles turn white as he keeps his top half immobile. The smile pulling at the bar owner’s lips is friendly, but everything else about his body language and tone indicates that he’s not fucking around, and based on the way Finn is trembling, I’d guess this level of seriousness is a rarity for Dominic. I also wouldn’t be surprised if Finn was shitting his too-tight black jeans.
“Uh,” Finn begins, voice shaky, “touch others without consent, be prepared to taste cement.” Then his voice turns panicked as he pleads, “Look, man, I’ve had one too many, and I didn’t mean any harm.” He turns to face me. “I didn’t mean it, okay?”
