Easy money.
"Cash or card?" the bartender shouts over the music.
My breath catches when I look over.
Her.
Mahogany hair in loose curls around her face. Freckles scattered across her skin like somebody painted them there on purpose. She's short, barely able to reach over the bar to hand a drink to a customer, and fuck, my attention gets caught on the way her chest presses against the bar top when she stretches over to hand someone their drink.
No.
Come on, Raul. Pull it together. You can't get hard on the job, dumbass.
I force my eyes forward and scan the crowd again, pretending I'm doing my job and not watching her every few seconds. But my attention keeps sliding back.
"No, it's twenty dollars a shot!"
"Twenty?" A man's voice cuts through the noise, ugly and slurred. "That's fucking crazy. You gonna suck my dick or something for that kind of money?"
Her face hardens instantly. "Excuse you?"
The guy is older, white, drunk enough that he can barely stand straight. Long limbs, gray hair, smirk like he thinks being disgusting is charming.
"I'm just suggesting," he says, leaning over and caressing her arm, "that if you want me to pay that kind of price and tip, maybe you give a little extra. Let me see those." He winks and gestures toward her chest.
Oh hell no.
I'm moving before I even think about it.
"Back the fuck off," I snap, grabbing his arm.
He turns, offended, wobbling on his feet. "And who the fuck are you?"
I can smell the liquor on him now, thick and sour. He sways once, tries to pull free, then swings at me like he actually thinks he's in any shape to do something. I catch the second arm before it lands.
Then I drive my fist into his stomach.
He folds with a sharp grunt, the air punching out of him in one ugly burst.
For a second, the whole bar seems to shift around us.
The bartender's eyes go wide. The drunk doubles over, coughing and cursing, one hand braced on the bar like he can't decide whether to fall or fight. I keep my grip on him, keeping him upright just long enough to make the point.
"Walk away," I say low.
He looks at me through watery eyes, stunned that anybody had the nerve to touch him back.
"Touch her again," I add, my voice going colder, "and I'll put you on the floor."
The man opens his mouth like he's going to argue, but something in my face must get through to him. He jerks his arm free and staggers off, muttering under his breath as he disappears into the crowd.
I stay where I am for one beat longer, chest tight, pulse still hot with anger.
Then I turn to her.
That's when I realize I made a much bigger mistake than punching some drunk asshole.
She's staring at me like I just stepped out of the dark and ruined whatever version of this night she was hoping for.
