by Rye Hart
“I think you should get your ass back behind the bar and leave us alone,” I said, my voice low and menacing. “Got it?”
A voice called out from the crowd, and the people around us parted quickly.
“Tommy!” he bellowed again.
It was Leon, the owner of the club and he looked pissed. Not that he had any real right to be.
“Mr. Crane, let go of my son before I call the police.”
His voice was calm. He knew he had me. I didn't want any public embarrassment for my family – not during such a crucial time. With one last quick twist of his arm and a satisfying grunt of pain from him, I let go of Tommy, pushing him away from me. He turned and started toward me again, because some guys never learn. His dad grabbed his arms and held him back this time.
“You two,” Leon shouted, pointing at me and Casey. “Get the hell out of my club, and don't come back.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “I'm not a fan of places who let their wait staff be abused anyway. And I'll make sure all my friends know what kind of a club you're running here, Leon.”
I turned to walk away and came face-to-face with Casey, who didn't look happy to see me. Her eyes were narrowed, and her jaw clenched. She looked every bit as pissed as Tommy had.
“You didn't have to save me, you know. I can handle myself.” She scowled at me, her eyes filled with utter contempt.
“I know,” I said.
Leon continued shouting. “You're done, Casey. Get out. Now”
Casey looked over my shoulder at Leon, and a panicked expression suddenly replaced the angry one. She stared, wide-eyed at the man and her eyes shimmered with tears. Her face blanched before my eyes and I could see the fear, bright and hot, in her expression.
“Please, Leon, it's not my fault,” she stammered. “Please, give me another chance.”
“No.”
Just one word. One word and it was more than clear that Casey, no matter how much she begged or pleaded, would not be getting her job back. She stood there, tall and defiant, her chin held high, but I noticed the trembling in her hands. I took her hand in mine, and for a second, she let me hold it.
“Come on, let's go,” I said softly to her. I leaned down, smelled the soft coconut scent of her hair and whispered into her ear. “It'll be better if we leave on our own.”
Security was already headed our way, pushing their way through a crowd not as willing to part for them as they had been for Leon. Casey turned her face toward me and yanked her hand from mine. There were tears in her eyes, but she wiped them away, a hard and defiant look on her face.
“Leave me the fuck alone,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
She was right. She could take care of herself. I knew I should leave before the guards got to us, but for some reason, I couldn't leave her there, standing there alone to face the music. I'd jumped into the middle of it. I'd made myself a part of the spectacle. The least I could do was stand there, take the heat, and see it through with her.
She flipped Leon off as the security guards approached. One of them took her by the arm, but she fought back – pulling her arm away from him, practically snarling at him.
“Get the fuck off me,” she hissed.
“Come with me, Casey,” he said, his voice firm. “You're out of here.”
I sighed. “Casey, come on. Let's just go.”
She didn't look at me, she just pushed her way past the two guards. I followed close behind her, with security on our heels. Casey pistoned out her fists, banging open the large double doors with such force that when they swung out, they almost hit the doorman on the other side who was moving to open them at the same time.
Once we were both out on the sidewalk outside the club, she took off down the street without a word or a backward glance at me. Greg's voice called from the doorway.
“Malcolm, what the hell, man?” he said. “I'm sure you can come back inside, now that she’s gone.”
“I'm not worried about it, Greg,” I said.
I kept my eyes on Casey as she stopped about twenty feet from me and slumped against the building. She squatted down and buried her face in her hands. Even from where I was standing, I could hear the loud sobs that came from her tiny body. She was shaking and crying and screaming, banging her fists against the wall.
When I walked over to her, I noticed her hands were bloody, but that didn't seem to faze her.
“What do you want?” she said, not bothering to look up at me. “I told you to leave me the fuck alone and I meant it.”
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Do I look okay?” she said.
Her eyes flashed up at me, an almost wild and crazed expression of near panic on her face. She shook her head, lowered her gaze, and went back to staring at the ground.
“I can't believe I did that,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Greg had joined us on the sidewalk, and was standing there, staring wide-eyed down at Casey. If she even realized he was there, she ignored him completely. “You really went crazy in there,” he said, a smirk on his face.
“Fuck off,” she said, not bothering to look up at him. “I'm not in the mood for your bullshit. You assholes cost me my job. So, walk away and leave me the fuck alone. Got it?”
When I didn't move, she looked at me, pure disgust on her face. She pushed herself up off the wall, turned away from us, and continued walking. I took off and caught up to her, walking alongside her as she sped along the sidewalk.
She side-eyed me, the expression on her face one of open hostility. I had no doubt that if I gave her the chance, she'd throw a couple of punches at me.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I want to help.”
She laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. It was a harsh and brittle noise. It was a mocking, angry laugh. “You? Want to help me?” she sneered. “And I'm supposed to believe it, because – you helped me sneak away to the bathroom once?”
“No, because I'm not a dick like Greg.”
“Hey, man,” Greg said from behind me.
I didn't even realize he was following us. I looked over my shoulder and looked at him.
“Why don't you go back to the club, Greg?”
“Why don't you come with me, wingman?” he said. “There's plenty more hot ass in there.”
“Because – I don't feel much like clubbing anymore,” I said. “I want to make sure Casey gets home okay.”
“I can get home all by myself,” she snapped. “I've done it every single night for years. I don't need a chaperone or a babysitter, thank you very much.”
“Yeah, but you're bleeding and obviously hurt,” I said.
She stopped and looked at her hands, her eyes widening in surprise as if she just now realized they were bleeding. Casey rubbed at her knuckles as if suddenly realizing they were cut and bleeding had made them hurt. It was probably the adrenaline finally wearing off.
“Admit it, you like the crazy chicks,” Greg taunted.
Casey's eyes glazed over as she looked at me. There was so much pain in that one stare. I turned to Greg and shoved him back toward the club. He looked at me with wide eyes and a “what the fuck?” expression on his face.
“Leave. Now,” I told him.
“Why?” he asked, that shitty, condescending grin on his face. “Because you think you got a shot at fucking her?”
I didn't have to answer; my fist did the talking. I drew back and smashed it into his face – much like I'd done to Tommy earlier. Greg stumbled back, and I had to admit – feeling my fist smack into his nose felt good. Really good. Greg and I had been friends, once upon a time. But after seeing the way he'd acted in the club, and the things he said about Casey – I realized that we'd just become way too different to ever be friends again.
His head rocked back from the force of my punch and he staggered back a few steps. With a look of rage on his face, Greg got his bearing back and came at me. Greg was a big guy – bigger than
Tommy – but he was no fighter. As he lumbered at me, I grabbed onto his arm before he could lay into me, stopping his punch before he'd even had a chance to throw it.
“Get lost, man,” I said, shoving him away again. “You don't want to fight me. We both know who wins if this goes down.”
Greg backed up and glared at me with white hot hate in his eyes. He spit a glob of blood out on the ground as he looked back at me, shaking his head.
“Fuck you, man,” he said, pointing his finger at me. “This ain't the end of this shit. Watch your back, Crane.”
He headed back toward the club, and I watched him go. I half expected Casey to be gone when I turned around to face her again. I was surprised though, to find her still there, watching me closely. Her jaw was still clenched, and she still had that look of angry defiance on her face, but at least she was still there.
“Think your macho bullshit is going to impress me?” she spat.
“Not at all. Not why I did it,” I said, running a hand through my hair as I smiled at her. “Impressing you is the last thing I'm trying to do. But, I'm glad to see that you stuck around.”
“I like seeing assholes getting punched in the face, what can I say?” she said. “Hey, something we have in common then,” I said.
Her lips pulled back in a wry, half smile.
“Oh, look, you can smile!” I teased. “I was starting to think you didn't have it in you and that your only expression was one of pure derision.”
“Shut up,” she said and actually laughed, playfully smacking me in the chest.
I pretended it hurt, holding a hand over the spot she'd smacked with a look of exaggerated pain on my face. Her smile widened, and she quickly looked down at the ground.
“I still don't need a chaperone,” she said. “I can get home just fine.”
“I know you can,” I said. “I get that you're a tough, strong woman. But, I thought we could maybe celebrate your newfound freedom.”
I looked around the street, looking for something, anything, that would help me spend a little more time with her. Finally, my eyes landed on a hole in the wall, twenty-four-hour diner. The place was probably a health hazard, but it was about the best I was going to do.
“Let's grab something to eat,” I said.
“Nah, I'll eat when I get home,” she replied.
“It's on me,” I said. “Come on. My treat. Call it my way of saying I'm sorry for everything that happened tonight.”
She hesitated, looking around, as if contemplating whether or not to turn me down. The wheels in her mind were spinning and I was afraid she was crafting some elaborate excuse about a sick mother she needed to get home to or something.
So, I decided not to give her the option. Taking her arm in mine, I started to pull her toward the diner. She hesitated, not walking with me at first, but then she gave in and walked beside me. For once, she didn't fight me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CASEY
Given the current situation at home, I'd be a fool to pass up a free meal. When you're not sure where your next meal is coming from, free food is the one thing you'll never turn down. My stomach growled ferociously as we sat down at a corner booth, and I glanced up at Malcolm, afraid that he'd heard the rumbling.
If he'd had, he ignored it, which won him some points in my book.
The diner was your typical greasy spoon; worse than some in the city, better than others. Here was the thing about Hollywood – parts of it were super nice and fancy like Obelisk was. But, if you went over a few blocks, you’d find crappy diners, tenement buildings, hookers and junkies both looking for their next score, and homeless people begging for anything they could get.
The diner we were sitting in wasn't so bad, but Malcolm looked incredibly out of place there in his designer jeans, dark blue dress shirt and black dinner jacket. His sandy blonde hair was moist with sweat and clung to his naturally tanned face. He looked up from the menu and caught me staring, blue eyes sparkling in the bright fluorescent lights of the diner.
I'd slipped into the restroom before we sat down to clean up the blood on my hands, but my shirt was stained with it. Patrons looked at me as I tried to cover up the mess with my arms, but then quickly looked away, unimpressed. Obviously, seeing a woman covered in blood wasn't anything new or particularly exciting.
“Here, take this,” Malcolm said, slipping his jacket off and passing it to me.
“I can't. I'd get blood all over it,” I muttered. “I'll be fine.”
“I insist,” he said.
When I didn't take the jacket, he stood up and walked around, and stood behind me. I glanced up into his baby blue eyes as he slipped the jacket over my shoulders and felt a warm current of energy gently roll through me.
“It looks expensive,” I said.
“Listen, you look cold and I'm not about to let you freeze,” he said. “Not if I can do something about it. Besides, we need to hide the blood on your shirt, so people don't think we just came from a murder scene. We don't want the cops hauling us in tonight.”
He sat back down across from me and grinned. He could obviously see my hesitance to slip his jacket on completely, fearful I might ruin it, so he added.
“Don't even think about how much it costs, Casey,” he said. “It doesn't matter. I've got a bunch more at home, and I'm sure the dry cleaners can get a little blood out of the material.”
“Have experience with that, do you?”
I'd made a joke. It caught me by surprise too. Malcolm laughed, his full, luscious lips spreading in an adorably crooked smile.
Dammit, Casey. Do not use the words luscious and adorable when talking about some rich guy you never, ever stand a chance with, I mentally scolded myself. He's only taking you to get some food because he feels sorry for you. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. Eat the food, laugh at his jokes, and go the hell home. “You're funny as well as beautiful,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Not that I can recall,” I mumbled.
“Well, they should have,” he replied. “You deserve to hear that more often.”
My heart skipped a beat. He'd said I was beautiful. My cheeks flushed and burned with heat as I stared down at the menu, trying to appear deep in thought about what I was going to order, rather than on the verge of a massive stroke because he'd complimented me.
The waitress came over a second later, glasses of water in hand. She wrote down our orders and before long, it was just me and the millionaire again, all by our lonesome, in an otherwise empty diner. I couldn't help but think that's why Malcolm chose this place. It was somewhere no one would recognize him, since he was slumming it by hanging out with the likes of me. Years of my father's torment and abuses came rushing back to me like a horde of evil ghosts from the past. They riddled me with anxiety and self-loathing as I played with a straw wrapper, doing my best to keep myself composed.
“So, Casey,” he asked, breaking the silence between us, “may I ask what happened back there at the club?”
“Sure, you may ask, but I don't have to answer.”
Malcolm sighed, making me to glance up at him. He studied me closely, as if trying to solve an intricate puzzle. His eyes were soft and thoughtful though, and I couldn't stop staring. Unlike with Greg or Tommy, or the countless other men who'd come into the club, Malcolm didn't look at me like I was a piece of meat. He wasn't undressing me with his eyes, and clearly, wasn't imagining me in some lewd sexual fantasy. It was different and interesting.
“What?” I asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Looking at you how?”
“Like you're trying to read my mind.”
“Would you rather I stare at your cleavage?”
“It'd be more familiar, ” I said, rolling my eyes. “You hide it better, but you're really just like the others, aren't you?”
“The others as in – who?” he asked. “I'm confused.”
“Greg. Tommy,” I said. “The other assholes who freque
nt the club. Rich guys who were born on third base and think they hit a triple. Guys who think they're entitled to whatever they put their hands on.”
He shrugged and reached for his glass of water, sipping it slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I'd like to think I'm not an asshole,” he said. “But, I guess it depends on who you ask. I gotta believe that Greg thinks I'm a pretty big asshole right about now. Tommy and Leon too.”
Our food came out, and I almost squealed with delight. Food, glorious food. I had a heaping plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon in front of me. I was practically salivating as the waitress set the plate down on the table, my stomach growling even louder than before. Malcolm got a massive burger and fries, which seemed rather odd. Then again, it's not like this place served lobster or filet mignon – or whatever rich guys like him were used to eating.
I dug into the food, stuffing heaping fork after heaping fork it into my mouth and relishing every single bite. Malcolm munched on a fry, clearly amused by the pace in which I was eating. When I noticed him watching, I slowed it down, and even forced myself to take a rest between bites. Stuffing my face probably wasn't the best look.
“Sorry,” I said, wiping my mouth with my napkin. “I'm just starving tonight.”
“Don't apologize,” he said. “I like a girl who can eat. Too many women in Hollywood think they have to starve themselves to nothing but skin and bones in order to be attractive. But, when I take someone out to dinner, I want them to enjoy it. I want them to actually eat.”
Considering the fact that Malcolm was in ridiculously good shape, I couldn't imagine he ate very unhealthily all that often. His girlfriend, or rather his ex-girlfriend, was a typical thin model type. Tall and waify – so, I'd just assumed that was his preference. Maybe I'd been wrong.
Or maybe he was just trying to be nice and placate me. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, though.
“So, Malcolm, did you just feel like slumming it tonight or what?” I asked. “Why hang out with me like this?”
“Why not?” he shrugged.
