“She can hold her own,” Mack grumbled in that not-so-polite way of his. “She don’t need you fightin’ her battles.”
Rafe briefly cut his gaze to the bartender, then back to Bailey and the assholes.
Mack had a point, but that didn’t mean Rafe wasn’t ready and willing to do just that. And while he had no intention of starting any shit, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen anyway. Rafe was a magnet for shit. Had been his whole life. Didn’t matter if he was here at Moonshiners, at the diner, or hell, at the bakery, for that matter. Wherever he went, it seemed someone wanted to rag on him for something. The douchebags in this town thought he was an easy target. They generally learned their lesson with a bloodied nose, hand-delivered—pun intended—by him.
Over the past ten years, Rafe had learned there were only two ways to silence the chaos in his head. Fighting or sex. Never together, of course. The fighting was saved for the assholes who deserved it, and the sex was reserved for the women who could handle him. For the record, there weren’t all that many of the latter. Not these days, anyway.
Although he was abstaining from his promiscuous lifestyle, the anger was still a living, breathing thing inside him, churning hot, bright, and powerful. It had been that way for the past seventeen years. Ever since the night his crazy fuck up of a father forced Rafe to kill him. Even with the old man rotting in hell, Rafe still hated him with a passion.
Every time he thought about that night, he remembered how Rex had been chained to the bed, crying, terrified as Jolene Snyder, his father’s warped and twisted girlfriend, had dared to put her hands on him. Rafe remembered his brother’s sobs. Hell, he still heard them in his nightmares. They were what had woken Rafe from his hiding place in the closet that night. Without hesitation, he’d grabbed their grandpa’s shotgun, pushed to his feet, and squared his bony twelve-year-old shoulders. There hadn’t been any rage at that point, only single-minded purpose and a desperate need to save his brother from the hands of the devil.
“What, honey? Your bodyguard won’t let you have no fun?” one of the assholes crooned at Bailey.
Rafe didn’t move, but his gaze was honed on the fucker.
“Leave well enough alone, son,” Mack told him. “There’s no sense lettin’ ’em rile you up. They’re just tryin’ to get you to cause trouble.”
There was that word again. And today, it could very well be his middle name. That was what these pricks expected of him, wasn’t it? They expected Rafe to detonate with the slightest provocation because he was the outcast, the deviant who’d gone and killed his father. Didn’t matter that he’d claimed self-defense—which had been the truth—and the jury had agreed. It also didn’t matter that Rafe hadn’t spent any time in prison for ridding the world of the insane bastard.
Nope. They simply knew him from the bullshit story that had drifted through the grapevine: the spoiled brat who’d pulled the trigger because he didn’t like his father’s new girlfriend.
At least part of that was true. Rafe had hated Jolene Snyder with a fucking passion. If he’d been a homicidal maniac, he would’ve killed her that night, too. In fact, he should’ve killed her the first night she put her fucking hands on him. Rafe still had fucking nightmares about it. Had he taken her out then, she never would’ve had the chance to put her hands on Rex. That was his only regret. That he hadn’t done something sooner. And he’d lived with it for nearly two decades, unable to face his brother because if he’d been stronger, his big brother would never’ve been put in that situation.
Rafe hadn’t shed a single tear when Jolene overdosed just a month after Rafe had filled his father full of lead. The bitch could rot in hell right alongside Rafe’s old man for all he cared.
“You got a problem, boy?” the redneck at the pool table asked, glaring daggers at him from across the room.
Rafe didn’t say a word. He tipped his beer bottle to his lips and held that bleary-eyed stare.
Daryl Hogan was a piece of shit who deserved to get his ass kicked, but Rafe had been making strides lately. He’d kept himself out of trouble, focusing on working and nurturing the few relationships he’d established since he got back. Rumor was Rafe had turned over a new leaf. He wouldn’t go that far, but he’d admit he wasn’t trying to buck the system as much these days.
Granted, he wouldn’t turn away from a fight if it came knocking on his door. The mere thought of it had his hands flexing, his muscles coiling as the adrenaline slithered through his bloodstream.
“Rafe?”
The sweet, almost musical lilt of her voice had Rafe turning to look at Bailey as she approached. With a smile, she slipped off her apron and tucked it behind the bar before coming to stand beside him.
“I’m ready to go. Can you give me a ride home?”
Rafe wasn’t sure how he’d gotten so damn lucky to have Bailey as a friend, but at some point, that was exactly what had happened. And he liked her. A hell of a lot more than he should, considering.
Granted, it hadn’t been her sweet nature or kind eyes that had originally turned his head. No, he attributed that to her ass. Yeah, Bailey had an ass that deserved a fucking shrine. The way she filled out a pair of jeans should’ve been illegal. But the moment she’d turned those pretty hazel eyes on him, Rafe had been a fucking goner.
Although he certainly enjoyed spending time with her, Rafe hadn’t come back to land a relationship. He wasn’t looking for love, romance, or even a hookup. Hell, he hadn’t even been looking for a friend, but then there she was.
And damn near every day since, Bailey had been right by his side, making him laugh with her stories, giving him insights into all the goings-on in this small town.
Rafe valued her friendship because those were damn hard to come by for him. She had grown up here, heard all the stories from whoever shared the tale of woe that pertained to the Sharpe brothers, yet she still insisted on hanging out with him. Rafe couldn’t figure out why she wanted to be around the likes of him, but he was long past questioning her motives. The woman was the only light in an entirely too dark world.
“Come on,” she said with a nudge of Rafe’s arm. “Let’s go.”
“You slummin’ it tonight, Bailey?” Daryl asked with a yellow-toothed grin. “’Cause, honey, you just hafta ask. I’d be more’n happy to oblige. I could take you home, spend some time foggin’ up the windows in my truck.”
Bailey cast him her signature sweet smile, but her voice held a slight edge. “Oh, Daryl, I’m not sure what your wife would think about that.”
When she turned back to Rafe, she rolled her eyes and feigned gagging.
Setting his beer on the bar, Rafe stood. He pulled out a twenty, tossed it beside the bottle.
