by Eve R. Hart
“Dad,” a female voice called out from the entryway and that was all it took for the man to calm down. Then he shuffled off and made his exit. “I’m so sorry…”
All she did was raise her hand to wave the woman off. That was when I saw the blood running down her arm. I snatched her hand, really in no mood to deal with this kind of distraction, and turned it over to inspect it.
“First Aid Kit?” I mumbled low but didn’t dare look up to see what kind of expression she was pinning me with.
“Uh, here,” someone said sliding the white plastic box across the bar top.
We didn’t speak as I cleaned the few cuts that dotted the tender part of her hand. I did my best to focus on the task and not how soft her skin felt against my calloused fingers. Or how her strange scent invaded my nose. Or the fact that her breathing was just a bit heavier and the fact that I could tell she was doing her best to hide it.
I didn’t care about any of those things. But I had no explanation why I’d jumped in and helped her. Why I had to be the one to see to her injury. Or why I was taking my time looking her over.
“It doesn’t look like there are any shards left behind,” I mumbled as I rubbed some ointment on them and covered them with a square piece of gauze and some tape.
I resisted the urge to bring her hand up to my lips and place a tender kiss on top of the bandage. It was a habit, that was what I told myself. I’d been doing that for years with my son, because he was convinced it made the hurt go away. With a deep sigh, I released her hand and made my way back to my stool. She was fixed now, she had no excuse to not bring me my damn drink.
I kept my head down as she walked around the bar and grabbed the abandoned bottle that was meant for me. She finally made her way over and stood right in front of me, but neither of us said anything. She didn’t thank me, which I was grateful as fuck for. I didn’t need to be thanked. Hell, maybe I shouldn’t have even helped her in the first place. But then again, that wasn’t the type of person I was.
She reached down under the bar and pulled out a squat glass, then gingerly set the glass on the bar. Pouring whiskey into the glass almost to the brim, she looked down at me, her head still held high. Before she could even set the bottle down, I snatched up the glass and tossed the whole thing back. I relished in the burn of it going down as I swallowed.
I set the glass back on the bar top with a heavy thud and stared at it as I waited for her to fill it up again. There was a long beat of us at a standoff of unmoving. Our bodies were frozen in place but the air around us seemed to crackle with a strange kind of energy. I slowly lifted my head to meet her eyes.
“Another,” I grunted. Her brow inched up in a way that seemed like a warning. That was when I noticed how full and beautifully sculpted her brows were. They sat perfectly on her face and made her round eyes more prominent. “Please,” I said trying to seem unaffected by the simple fact that her being a few feet away from me was too much for me to handle.
Her hand still gripped the neck of the bottle. Her pointer finger curled and her short nail tapped against the side three times before resting in a cocked position against the glass.
“Tell me something,” she said, her voice deep and low. It was like I could feel it all the way to my toes. But no, that was the whiskey hitting my blood. That was all.
I waited. Usually when someone said that it followed with a question of what it was that they what to know. But there was nothing. Was this like an open-ended thing? Was I supposed to fill in the blank?
I was in no mood for games. But strangely, it didn’t feel like she was playing one. She wasn’t interested in me like the clubwhores were. No, the look in her eye was sparkling with curiosity and that seemed to be the simplest truth of it.
Now, women throwing themselves at me, wanting a piece of my cut or dick, I could deal with—I knew what to do with. It was as simple as turning them down a few times, then they would curve their energy elsewhere, to someone who was an easier target. Someone who maybe even wanted them. But someone wanting to simply know something about me, especially a woman, was fucking Greek to me.
I squinted, looking deep into her stunning eyes. It was like I was hypnotized as I opened my mouth to speak.
“My son is dead and I can’t find a reason to live for.” My own words shocked me.
I blinked trying to clear my head. I had no idea why I’d just said that. It was the truth, but it was my truth that I wanted to keep hidden.
When I came back out of my thoughts, I saw her watching me. The look of shock that filled me was not shared by her. Or if it was, she hid it well. It was quite the confession, I thought. I expected to see sympathy or a horrid expression with mouth gaping and maybe even a bit of wetness in the eyes. That was what I was used to getting. I swallowed, finding myself more intrigued and a bit giddy about her.
She poured my drink.
I downed it.
Then waited for another.
Her hand was still wrapped around the bottle and the other pressed tightly into the edge of the bar as she leaned in a little closer. Not much, not enough that a normal person would notice, but I did. As I slyly studied her, I wondered if she was even aware that she’d done it.
“Name?” she asked after her eyes danced around my face with no reaction to what she was looking for or seeing.
Everything about her was hesitant and well thought out. I was used to women who were wild and had no problem spouting off whatever was on their mind. I had no idea what to do with this stoic statue in front of me.
I instinctively wet my lips. I may have been a bit nervous and intimidated.
“Ta-Noah.” I don’t know why at the last second I gave her my real name. The only person that called me that was my mom. I almost wished she would have said it back to me, just so I could hear how sweet it would be coming off of her lips. But she didn’t. Instead, she just gave me a short nod.
Needing to break whatever was going on, I pulled out my wallet and slapped a hundred down on the bar. Just like I had the week before.
“Leave it,” I growled and turned my attention elsewhere. Without another word, she turned and walked away, her head angled just the slightest bit like she was looking in the mirrored wall behind the bar. I found myself wanting to know her name. If only for the small fact that I would have something to call her in my head. “Yours?”
She paused. Her head turned further to the side as she looked over her shoulder, her wavy hair sliding behind her with the movement.
“Dya,” she supplied before continuing to walk away. The way she pronounced it with a bit of an accent made me pause. Dee-yah. What a strange name. But in a way, it seemed to suit her because she was a little odd and definitely unique.
I may have felt a twitch in my heart the moment her name spilled from her full mouth. But fuck if I knew why.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nadya
He did it again.
He fucking did it again.
Closing time and his big ass was hunched over the bar, passed out. I wasn’t sure if I was more irritated or elated. I couldn’t deny that I had let him get too close. I let him touch me, for crying out loud. The softness that he handled my cuts blew me away. It was unexpected to say the least. And I had no idea what the fuck to even do with that.
What I did know, was that I was pissed about the fact that I’d given him my name, and with very little thought. True, it wasn’t my full name but that was only because the first part got stuck in my throat as I forced it out. Like my brain knew it wasn’t a good idea to give it away. It was almost like I wanted him to know something but at the same time wanted to keep my secrets.
There was no recognition in his eyes. He had no idea who I was or what I did. That only led to more questions popping up in my head. Because when I was sent on a job, my targets may have been surprised, but almost always, they expected it. They knew the end was coming and they knew who they’d done wrong. This guy, Noah, was clueless. It made my stupid brain spi
n even more than it had been the days since I’d last seen him in person.
The whole week I watched him. The same cycle day after day. There were sometimes, hints even, that he was thinking about changing things up. But in the end, he always drowned himself away.
When he opened his mouth and gave me his brutal honesty, the dark cloud that held his soul captive, I just about shit myself. Outside I was cool as could be, but inside I was shaken to the core. I didn’t know more than that he had lost his son. And from the way it was tearing him up, his son was his world. The reason for which he had breathed life. With that taken away, he felt like he had nothing, no reason to keep his heart beating.
It was an emotion that I didn’t understand. Not because I was so black on the inside, but simply because I had never felt anything like that. I didn’t have anyone that I held that close to me. I didn’t have something that made me get up in the morning. Sure, I loved my girl Eyes, and the man that had once took me under his wing and taught me everything I knew. But while I was grateful for them, I didn’t tie them to my blood or my soul. I didn’t let them have a place on a shelf so deep inside of me that I might feel empty if they weren’t there.
Shitty of me?
Maybe.
But I had learned to keep moving in life. That if you stayed still too long, you would begin to see all the ugly around you. And when your eyes were open to that you couldn’t ever undo it.
I was raised a traveler, a roamer, moving from one job to the next, never having a say so in it. I was brought up learning tricks and ways to read people. Con and move on. The culture around me the same as generations before me, because they were hesitant towards change. And when some wanted to find a new path, groups divided. That sometimes led to families being torn apart.
My father always chose the path he thought was the easiest. The one that he was sure would lead to a better life. He was set in his was set in his ways, believing that the old ways were the right ones.
My father believed that women had very little value. Another thing that the group I’d been born into was divided on. Some of them taking the side that women were there for one thing only, and I grew up feeling that weight. Like I was a woman and for that reason, I was needed but never wanted. On the road, held up in a tiny RV with my mom and dad I was shown how to cook and clean between so-called jobs. A disappointment out of the womb because I had a slit between my legs, even though I had no choice in the matter. And my father let me know it every chance he got. He was practically counting down the days until he could marry me off.
That never happened, though. Because three months shy of sixteen, the age he would have gotten his wish, I ran. However, it might not be for all the reasons you might think.
Snapping myself back into reality, I looked over at Noah. His light snores filled the air.
Once again, I had the guys drag him upstairs when I was done closing down the bar. After I made sure he was settled and down for the count, I took my place in my chair.
I may have been slightly irritated. I liked my space. My alone time. I also liked to spend that alone time being as comfortable as I could. Meaning, as soon as I walked into my door, I freed my boobs from their horrible underwire confinement, trading it out for a bra that didn’t make me feel like those bad boys were up to my neck. My shoes usually went next, followed by my pants. There was something freeing about walking around in a shirt and boy shorts. Or cheekies. Or even a thong when I needed to feel sexy. It was my winding down ritual. One that I couldn’t do at the moment. Damn that massive beast of a man.
Then I looked over at him and I just couldn’t hate him. I couldn’t be mad at him. With his peaceful face covered ninety percent in hair. His thick lashes that rested along his cheeks as he slept. His beautiful steel eyes that I could see in my mind, even though his lids were closed. His massive arms and legs spread out in all directions. I took in his fucking hulking form. He was like a damn thick tree. A strong and solid, dare I say, hunk of a man.
What the hell is wrong with me?
With that, my mind wouldn’t stop wondering as my eyes roamed all over him. I was suddenly hot, the air around me felt suffocating every time I tried to take in a breath. My chest rose and fell a little faster.
My eyes slowly took in the size of his shoes. Is that even a normal size? Then up his legs, that even though he was wearing jeans I could tell were huge. Not in an over bulky way like he’d spent his life in the gym. It was like he was made to be strong. Good genes, I guessed. And because I couldn’t stop the crazy train, I looked up even further, pausing at the noticeable bulge between his legs. Fuck me. He wasn’t even hard and it filled up the space that was supposedly made for it and then some. I would have bet that he could fucking rip that zipper completely with his hard-on.
No. No. This was all wrong. He was a sleeping, hot mess and I most definitely didn’t need to think about what he would look like naked. I sure as fuck didn’t need to think how he would feel inside of me, plowing into me with all of his power.
I tried to remember the last time I’d had sex. Getting laid wasn’t high on my to-do list, but it was still a need.
Six months?
Ten?
Oh, no. It was that hipster blonde down in Albuquerque. Eighteen. Fucking. Months. Ago. Shit! That had to be it. I was going to blame it all on the fact that it had been a year and a half since I’d had an undusting, if you would. I would bet I had damn cobwebs growing up in there.
I needed a distraction. I needed Lucy. But then I remembered that she had something going on and that was the reason I hadn’t talked to her much the past week. I got a few texts checking on me, but that was pretty much it. A small part of me hoped everything was alright. I knew there was nothing I could do. For one, I wasn’t anywhere near where she was. And two, I didn’t get that computer shit. She told me that she had it handled, so all I could do was let it go.
So, I ended up watching him until the sun came up. Again. I couldn’t tell if I was pathetic or crazy. Probably both.
Finally, I unfolded myself from the chair. My legs were numb and my feet had the tingles. I made sure to step lightly as I stood up and made my way to the kitchen area. At that moment, I wished I had a coffee maker and some fresh coffee because I was sure he could use some when he woke. But I didn’t. I had juice and milk, so that was just going to have to do.
I pulled out a box of mac and cheese, remembering how pained his face looked as he ate the eggs I had made him. I may have been raised to be the cooking and cleaning woman, but that didn’t mean I did it well. Also, it could have been my subconscious trying to rebel against it all.
A groan came from the far corner of my apartment just as I was opening the thick liquid cheese to mix in. I tried my best not to stiffen as I continued the task at hand. I heard the mattress and floor creek with his movements, and since I didn’t hear his steps, I assumed he was only halfway up. I didn’t dare give him my full gaze. Thoughts of dirty things still clung to the outskirts of my brain, and at that moment my cheeks may have been a bit heated. I could always blame it on the steam from the pasta. Right?
I scooped most of the mix into a bowl. Throwing a fork in the middle of the mound, I opened the fridge and poured a glass of milk. Taking a deep breath, I finally turned around, food in hand, and walked over to the coffee table. I set the food down then took my seat again. It was then that I looked at him.
His eyes were on mine, almost bright. He cleared his throat and I jerked my head to the food. He paused for a moment and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
In one movement, he was sitting on the opposite side of the coffee table from me. He ate, looking like he was having to choke it down. I didn’t understand why—it was fucking box mac and cheese. I couldn’t see how anyone, even me, could screw that up. I didn’t let it bother me, though.
“Thanks,” he said as he downed the large glass of milk like he hadn’t had anything to drink in years.
“Is this going to be a ritual?” I asked
, not sure why. There was a trace of humor under my irritation.
“What?” He cocked his head slightly, pinning me with his fucking intense eyes. “Me showing up at your bar, passing out, then you magically carrying me up here and feeding me something you try to pass off as food when I wake up?”
The corner of his lip twitched. I saw it, even though it was brief and completely covered with hair. I fucking saw it. And it was because of that small almost smile, I lost all anger that I would have had if anyone else had said some shit like that to me.
“Ahh, you think you’re funny,” I found myself saying.
Then I smiled. I fucking smiled. It may not have been a full-on, lips up to the eyes and teeth showing, but it was still an upturn of the corners. This was all wrong. I reminded myself that he was a job, a target, above anything else. Even if I was treating him like anything but.
“Wow,” he said low and gravelly. Then his face fell, becoming a weird, almost cold, mask of stone.
I wanted to know why. I wanted to know what he was thinking and the whole thing was beginning to hurt my brain.
His eyes slowly dragged away from my lips up to my eyes. I stopped breathing for a minute as we sat there in a statically charged deadlock.
“I should get out of your hair,” he said but didn’t make a move to go. My blood pulsed in my ears as I waited for him to get up. I found myself oddly excited that he hadn’t made his exit. His hand came up to push his hair back away from his face. “Did you sleep?”
I couldn’t open my mouth to answer, so I shook my head once and played it off like it was no big deal.
“I’m sorry.” His tone was sincere but there was an underlining that sounded like he was glad. Like he needed it for some reason. Maybe he really didn’t want to be alone. Maybe him coming into the bar was a call for help. But the kind that he didn’t even know he was signaling out for.
“Tell me something,” I whispered over a dry throat.
