Page 11

Owen

With three hours of broken sleep and an unsettling lost feeling gnawing in my chest, I’m highly irritated as I mix drinks.

The day didn’t start off too badly. Miles has a recipe book for every alcoholic beverage that’s served at his bar, and following it is pretty straightforward. The job itself isn’t challenging at all, but the people . . . Christ, the people. The incessant chatter is bound to drive me insane, and every second person is nosy as fuck.

As an assassin, I knew the players. I lived by strict routines and absolute control. My name carried weight. People were cautious of me and knew crossing me meant certain death.

Working with the FBI to take down Bastien and the Nikitin brothers was my sole focus for the past three years. Seeing the evil motherfuckers get back-to-back life sentences made it worthwhile.

Now there’s nothing. No hunt. No familiar rules. No power.

Christ, there’s just a fuck-ton of noise.

How do I become a regular person who works a normal job? How do I interact with people?

It doesn’t help that most of the female patrons are staring at me like I’m some fucking fresh piece of meat that’s been dropped in their laps.

The few women I crossed paths with while I worked for the Bratva were either traumatized and conditioned or just as brutal as the men.

Patience, Rowan. Familiarizing yourself with this place and people will take time.

Last night and this afternoon, Annie’s been nothing but friendly. Even though I feel out of my depth and don’t know how to interact with her, I find a weird sense of peace every time I look at her. Just then, my eyes flick to where Annie is clearing a table, and a sense of calmness dims some of the chaos I’m feeling.

“Owen.” It takes a beat before I realize Miles is talking to me, drawing my attention away from Annie. When I look at him, he asks, “You good?”

You’re no longer Rowan, and stop staring at Annie.

I nod at him and carry on taking orders.

Owen Casey. Owen Casey. Owen Casey.

“Hey, sugar,” a brunette says as she rests her forearms on the counter, leaning forward so her cleavage is on display.

“Oooooh . . .” One of the men sitting by the bar chuckles. “Vanessa’s on the prowl, guys.”

She grins at him and winks. “Careful, old-timer. I might set my sights on you, and I’m not sure your heart can handle a round in the sack with me.”

Everyone laughs, looking happy to see Vanessa. She has a careless and fun vibe.

Turning her attention back to me, she looks me up and down with way too much interest. Her smile becomes seductive, and her voice is low when she purrs, “Four tequilas, please, pretty boy.”

The term pretty boy makes a wave of agitation move through me.

While I pour the shots, she adds, “And one for yourself to celebrate you working at my favorite drinking hole.”

“No, thanks,” I reply, locking eyes with her while keeping my expression indifferent. “Anything else?”

“Hmm . . . tall, dark, and broody is like catnip to me.” Her smile doesn’t waver, but instead she leans even closer, her breasts bulging from the low-hanging top she’s wearing. “Yeah, give me your phone number, Mr. Serious.”

I shake my head just as Miles joins me behind the counter. “Give the man a break, V. I don’t need you scaring him off.”

“As if a little thing like me could scare him off,” she replies in a teasing tone as she picks up one of the shot glasses. “But if that happens, I’ll have your handsome face serving me again.”

I move to the other side of the counter and take the empty glass from Rick, a regular who apparently comes in every night for a beer. Never more, never less.

“Anything else?” I ask.

He shakes his head while pulling the bowl of pretzels closer.