Page 3
"Exactly. I don't want Dave giving you a hard time when you're not receptive."
"Because that's your business how?" I brace my hands against the edge of the bar and force myself to hold his gaze. I've come a long way in the last few years. And maintaining eye contact with men big enough to break me in half hasn't come easy. "Why are you always here, Sully? Don't you have a life?"
It's blunt. And maybe even rude. But Sully's constant presence at the Pelican whenever I work is a lot to puzzle out. I've seen him talk to customers as they come and go. Watched a bevy of women flirt with him. But he doesn't take them up on the offers I hear tossed his way. Never has as far as I know. At least not since I've been here.
A new group of customers arrives, all men. I recognize them as bikers belonging to the Blackwater Saints MC like Ty and Sully. They gather here at the bar sometimes to plan their charity rides and events, mostly fundraisers of one kind or another. The lot of them are more bike enthusiasts than anything, with their commonality a fondness for riding with a tendency to give back to the community of Carolina Cove.
They nod at Sully, and a couple more guys get up from a high-top in the corner to join the group, greeting each other with one handed back slaps the way men do.
I realize I've seen or talked to the majority of them on multiple occasions. Unlike the biker gang on the island in the nineties, the Blackwater Saints are the good guys and the opposite of troublemakers, though if one judged on looks alone, their rough exteriors and tattoos would definitely make a person wary.
The men begin to call out orders as I make my way down the length of the bar. I'm as friendly as I get, but other than taking their drink requests, I don't linger to talk and maintain distance as I serve their drinks and keep going.
I hear them tease Sully and call him Hollywood, and I smirk at the nickname since it matches my earlier thoughts. I catch him gazing at me and notice his face looks a little flushed, like he's embarrassed.
The nickname fits, though. I give him an extra napkin with his drink. "In case you need to give an autograph."
The guys roar with laughter, and Sully cocks an eyebrow high at my teasing. I back away before he can say anything and go about my duties, loving the fact I finally have something to tease him about.
Five minutes after getting the last of the orders out, the phone rings, and I make my way to the wall. "Pelican," I say, forcing myself to speak louder than normal to combat the background noise. "How can I help you?"
"Yeah, this is Rebecca Morales," the speaker says, going on to identify herself as an assistant in a county prosecutor’s office. "I'm trying to contact Violet Greene, formerly Urich."
I still and press a finger to my ear to try to hear the woman better, my stomach tightening with unease as I frown. "I'm Violet Greene. What's this about?"
"Ma'am, your sister gave me this number. You asked to be contacted about your case with Thad Urich. He was released on January thirty-first."
The floor shifts beneath my feet, and I press a hand to the wall to catch myself. Yesterday I thought I spotted Thad and called myself crazy. "But— That was two weeks ago. How did— Why did he get out early?"
"From what it says here, good behavior and overcrowding. I'm sorry for the notification delay. Our office makes the calls around active cases we’re currently working on."
"I…I understand. Where is he?" I manage to say.
"I don't know, ma'am. Stay safe. If any issues come up, contact your local law enforcement agency. Have a good night."
The air leaves my lungs.
Have a good night?
The floor beneath me spins.
Chapter 2
Sully
* * *
I ignore my buddies from the Blackwater Saints and focus entirely on Violet. When I’m on shift and can't make it to the bar on the nights Violet works, one or two of the guys will come hang out as a personal favor. The Pelican is as safe as an island bar in a tourist town can get, but I don't like the idea of Violet in here bartending when the crowds are such a wide mix of locals, bikers, tourists and complete unknowns.
She has her back to me as she answers the old-fashioned portable phone, but her shoulders shoot up around her ears after a few seconds listening to whoever is on the other end. I can tell she's speaking, but whoever she's talking to isn't getting a warm reception. Not that my girl is ever all that warm toward anyone.
I freeze with my drink halfway to my lips, hold the thought for a second or two longer, and then shrug and set the bottle down.
My girl.
She's not mine in any way, shape or form, but I like the way that sounds. The way it sits and feels when it hits my system. I think I claimed her as mine the moment I saw her the first time.
Violet might be a bit cantankerous to the outside world, but to me? I see a protective shell over a fragile vulnerability she tries hard to hide. A shell built from pain and strength and whatever she faced in her past that put the shadows and distrust in her wary blue eyes whenever she comes into contact with men.
