My hands itch to wipe that smug look off his face. The old me would have. The old me wouldn’t have hesitated, consequences be damned. But I’m not that person anymore.
I force my fists to unclench.
“I’m not looking for trouble, Aaron.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” His gaze flicks to Bryce, who’s still on the floor whimpering about his nose. “That’s twice tonight you’ve put hands on my people.”
“Snake was running his mouth. Bryce was assaulting an old man.”
“And that’s your business why?”
Because I’m not like you. Because someone has to give a shit about the people who can’t defend themselves.
But I don’t say that. Aaron wouldn’t understand, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care.
“Just trying to keep the peace,” I say instead. “Derek doesn’t need his bar torn apart.”
Aaron studies me for a long moment. The whole bar has gone silent, everyone watching to see what happens next. Even the college girls have stopped crying, frozen in their booth like rabbits sensing a wolf.
Finally, Aaron steps back. But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You might not be in the life anymore, Dom. But that doesn’t mean you’re off limits.” He jerks his chin toward the door. “Remember that.”
He helps Bryce to his feet and they shuffle out, trailing blood and muttered threats. The other Sinners follow, shooting me looks that promise this isn’t over.
The door slams shut behind them.
Martin’s going to have my ass for this.
The thought settles into my gut like a stone as I survey the damage. Broken glass glitters across the floorboards. A chair lies on its side, one leg snapped clean off. There’s blood—Bryce’s blood—smeared across the wood in a pattern that tells the whole sorry story of our brief altercation.
Martin Chen has owned The Rusty Anchor for fifteen years. He took a chance on me when nobody else would, gave me shiftswhen I was fresh out of the system with nothing but a chip on my shoulder and a reputation for trouble. The man’s been more of a father to me than anyone who shares my DNA.
And I just broke his unspoken rule: don’t start shit with the Sinners.
I grab the broom from behind the bar and start sweeping, the familiar rhythm doing nothing to calm the buzzing under my skin. Aaron’s threat wasn’t empty. The Sinners have long memories and short fuses, and I’ve just painted a target on my back. Again.
Stupid. Reckless. Just like always.
“Hey, Dom?”
Earl sidles up to the bar, phone still clutched in his weathered hand. He slides onto a stool and fumbles in his pocket, producing a handful of crumpled bills and loose change that he counts out twice before pushing across the wood.
“Bud Light.”
I grab a bottle, pop the cap, set it in front of him. The coins are warm and slightly damp. I try not to think about where they’ve been.
Earl doesn’t drink. He just sits there, staring at his phone screen with his tongue practically hanging out. The glow illuminates every crag and wrinkle on his face as he zooms in, scrolls, zooms again.
I go back to wiping down the bar, moving in slow circles that let me watch him from the corner of my eye. His thumb traces the edge of the screen like he’s touching something precious. Something sacred.
“Hey Dom.” Earl doesn’t look up. “How much you think I could get for this? Selling it to one of them tabloid sites?”
“Depends.” I don’t break my rhythm with the rag. “How much is a cease and desist letter worth to you?”
Earl’s head snaps up. “A what now?”
“Cease and desist. It’s what celebrities send when you try to profit off their image without permission.” I scrub at a sticky spot that’s probably been there since the Clinton administration. “Their lawyers bill by the hour. Trust me, whatever TMZ pays won’t cover the legal fees.”
