Page 129 of Cold Bastard
“Here you go,” I said, forcing myself to smile as I set the drinks down. “Enjoy.”
One of them, a blond with a sunburn that looked painful, grabbed my wrist. “Hey, you’re really pretty. You got a boyfriend?”
I pulled my hand back smoothly. “Not interested, but thanks.”
“Come on, just one drink.”
“She said no, asshole,” Emory shouted from across the room, her voice cutting through the noise as she carried her own tray, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, her expression daring the kid to push it.
I met Emory Carter not long after I started at the bar. She was a little bit wild and wasn’t afraid to throw down when tourists got handsy with her. Like me, Emory rode a Harley, which we bonded over one night when I walked out of the bar to find Eros’ bike had a flat tire. That night she called one of her friends and waited with me as he efficiently changed thetire. Which I was grateful for, because God only knew what Eros would do to me if he found out I wasn’t taking care of his bike.
The patron raised his hands in surrender, laughing. “Alright, alright. Just asking.”
I shot Emory a grateful look and turned back toward the bar.
The bartender, Maverick, was pouring shots with the efficiency of someone who had been doing it for twenty years when he caught my eye and nodded toward the next order ticket.
Table twelve. Six beers, two shots of tequila, and a vodka cranberry.
I grabbed the tray and started loading it up, my mind drifting the way it always did when I was working. Autopilot. Muscle memory. The kind of mindless routine that kept me from thinking too hard about where I was or why I was here.
Two months.Two months of sun and sand and pretending I was someone else. Two months of telling myself I was free. Two months of lying awake at night and wondering if he was looking for me. If he even cared that I was gone. If he thought about me the way I thought about him—constantly, obsessively, with a kind of ache that never quite went away.
Stop it.
I shook my head, forcing the thoughts down. I couldn’t afford to think about him. Couldn’t afford to wonder if he missed me or if he had already moved on to some other broken girl who needed fixing. I was done being broken. I was done being his.
Liar.The word whispered through my mind, soft and insidious, and I ignored it. I had to. Because if I let myself admit the truth, that I missed him, that I wanted him, that some fucked-up part of me still belonged to him, I would never survive.
“You gonna cause trouble tonight, Alex?”
Smiling, I looked at Maverick. “Who, me? I’m as innocent as a lamb.”
“You know wolves eat lambs, right?”
“Only if they catch it.” I laughed as I hoisted the tray onto my shoulder and turned toward table twelve, and that was when it happened.
A hand, thick, sweaty, and entirely uninvited, grabbed my ass.
Hard.
My tray tilted. Drinks slid. Glass shattered as the entire tray crashed to the floor, beer and tequila and vodka cranberry mixing into a sticky, alcoholic puddle at my feet. I spun around, my hand flying up before I could think, and slapped the fat fucker across the face as the sound echoed through the bar, sharp and satisfying. For a second, everything stopped. The music kept playing, but the surrounding noise died as heads turned to watch. The guy in his mid-forties, balding, with a gut that hung over his belt, stared at me in shock, his hand rising to his reddening cheek.
“Not again, Alex,” Maverick groaned from behind the bar, his voice loud and exasperated.
I ignored him. My heart pounded as adrenaline flooded my system, but I didn’t give a single fuck that I had just made a scene. The fat fucker’s expression shifted from shock to rage as his hand drew back, fist clenched, and I braced myself for the hit that never came.
A hand shot out from somewhere behind me and caught the guy’s wrist mid-swing. The grip was iron, unyielding, and the voice that followed made my blood run cold.
“Mine, fucker.”
The growl was low, dangerous, and unmistakable.
No.
No, no, no!I turned slowly, as my breath caught in my throat, because he was here.
Nano. Standing right behind me, his hand wrapped around the drunk’s wrist, his eyes locked on the guy with a look that promised violence. His leather cut hung open over a black T-shirt, the Brotherhood of Bastards patch visible on his back, as his jaw tightened with barely restrained fury.
