by Emily Bowie
Like he can sense my thoughts, my phone lights up with “Do Not Answer.” It’s the first time he’s called me in a month.
CHAPTER 9
Relief surges through me when Becca calls a few days later asking if I want a shift. Opening the last can of tuna in my house, I divided it up—half for me, half for my cat.
“Hear that, Pincher? Mommy’s got a job lined up.” Looking back at my window, I debate if I should drive my car in. It will probably be late when I get off work, but I also don’t want to waste my money on buying gas.
I both hate and love that Kellen fixed it for me. But now I don’t have an excuse not to drive the thing. His effects on my body are still felt, reminding me of the explosive chemistry we have.
Pincher rubs his side against my leg, purring loudly, hoping for some more tuna. I can see the way he licks his lips as he intently stares me down while I take my few bites.
Getting ready, I prepare to walk into town with a small backpack, placing my work heels into it, and the resume I finally managed to print off. I saw the veterinarian has a sign in the window for help. Hopefully, they could use an assistant. I could get used to the money from having two jobs. Already, my timeline flashes ahead for me, and I can’t say I won’t be happy about that.
Getting his phone call the other day freaked me out, wondering if he’s found me once again.
It takes me about an hour to fix my hair and try on about three or maybe six outfits, all because I wondered what Kellen would think if he saw me in each one. Gah, why do I always fall into my old habits? It’s like I can’t live without a man. But for some reason, this time, it feels different. I feel different. My body has never been so connected to another human being. I have never thought about big gray eyes so much in my life.
Stepping into Nelly’s, I look the place over once again. Becca gives me a big old wave as soon as I walk in, like she’s been waiting for me all day.
“I’m so happy you’re here.” She brings me in for a hug like we’re already friends. “I have to run. My kid is sick with the flu and the babysitter is ready to walk out of there. Anyway, that is Molly.” She points to a girl my age who looks like a duplicate of herself. “And you already know Chance.” She looks around, seeming to think of what she needs to tell me immediately.
“Oh, and tonight there’s going to be a live auction.” My eyes widen, wondering what that even means. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to do anything but be fast at getting everyone their drinks. Tonight will be busy. If you can keep up, I’ll hire you on.”
I like the idea of a working interview, but then I wonder how she will know, even if I do good.
“If you’re as good as I hope you are, everyone will be telling me. And Molly.” She nods her head toward the blonde. “She’s my younger sister.”
“Okay, sounds great.” Looking between Becca and Molly, I notice they’re both in nice flats and not heels, making me wish I noticed this the first time I came in. I’m also far more dressed up than them, causing me stick out like a tourist.
I look back down at my almost black, worn running shoes, knowing I can’t stay in these all night. Maybe being the new girl in town will cast me some luck.
“Where can I put my bag?” I ask, taking out my three-inch heels.
“Just give it to Chance. He’ll keep it behind the bar for you.”
Later that evening, I realize Becca wasn’t kidding. I thought the place was busy when I first walked in. All the chairs have now been put away and there’s standing room only, except for a few special tables. Molly has been so supportive in helping me get my bearings.
“Hey, pretty lady.” There is a group of about four guys who keep coming up with lame pickup lines. At first, I let it slide, as they thought it was cute. Now it’s just annoying. I force my smile to keep coming through, needing the tip money. But at what point do I put them in their place? Six months ago, I would have never accepted this type of behavior if I was waitressing. Six months ago, I didn’t need the money either.
“Those guys bothering you?” Molly asks with worry etched into her forehead.
I hate being that new girl who can’t handle herself. “Naw, I have it under control.”
“If they get out of hand, let Chance know and he can take care of it.”
We both have a rare lull moment, where our drinks are being made and the first contestants are being paraded out in front of everyone for the charity auction. Looking down the bar, I see it’s packed. Somehow, every head moves up at the same time to strain for a look at the first contestant. Right in my direct line of sight is Kellen. A bill is in his hand as he waits to be served.
My core suddenly begins to throb, knowing what he can do to my body. He must be able to feel my eyes on him, because he looks my way, giving me a two-finger salute from his forehead out toward my direction.
“Stay away from that boy,” Molly whispers into my ear. This isn’t the first time I’ve been told this.
“Classic bad boy reputation?” I ask her, mildly curious, not that I care. I’ve handled a lot of bad boys in my day, nothing I can’t take care of on my own. I think I even like the challenge.
“If it was only that, honey, I would be serving him up on a silver platter for you. Lord knows I pined for that man for years in my teens.”
I eye her curiously. Bitter ex perhaps? It doesn’t seem like they have any history though.
“You two have a history?” I prompt. Molly seems nice, no need for stepping on anyone’s toes.
“Nope.” She turns to put her drinks on her round tray. “Try murderer. He just got out of prison, only to then walk into his sister’s wedding late last week. We all have our suspicions as to why he came barreling in, ready to stop the thing.”
My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. Murderer? And I got a ride from him. I had sex with him on my car! I really don’t have a compass for meeting nice guys.
Molly continues like she didn’t just drop a bomb on me, “Kellen’s face was priceless when he realized that Luke was already standing on the groom side and had kicked that stuck-up Yankee to the curb so he could finally get the girl of his dreams. Their wedding will be the talk of the town for years to come.”
I follow her lead, putting my drinks onto my tray, and practically run to hand them out. For the next hour, I keep a constant view on Kellen in hopes to stay far, far away from him.
A firm hand on my wrist has me losing track of Kellen to look at the man who is holding my arm.
“Have a shot with us.” The glass is lifted up for me, while his hand never leaves my wrist.
“Dry bar, I can’t,” I tell the group that’s been a pain in my rear end all night, when I have no idea what the rules are. At least they’ve been tipping well.
“Becca doesn’t keep a dry bar.” They laugh. I try to move my hand, but he keeps a hold on me.
“Let go of my hand,” I tell him sternly, ready to call Chance over at any moment.
“Maybe she should, and then she wouldn’t have so many kids,” one of them says, and the table laughs harder.
“Let go of my hand or I’m cutting you off.” I feel my lips press together, ready to fight my own battle.
“Honey, you haven’t given me anything to cut me off yet.” He laughs at his horrible joke, which doesn’t really make sense. But I’m able to read into it that he’s trying to say I haven’t put out yet for him.
Fucking pigs.
“So what do you say?”
I roll my eyes, unwilling to give a response, and begin to turn away.
My ass is pinched, and it’s the final straw for me. Just as I turn on my heels, I see Kellen’s fist fly through the air, hitting the guy square in the jaw.
The rest of the group moves behind their leader who is causing the disturbance. I see Chance jump over the bar. “All right, boys. The night’s over,” he announces. “Get your asses out of here.”
Chance pulls the ring leader out through the bar and pushes him out the front door.
“You okay?” A hand rests on my shoulder, causing me to jump. “Didn’t mean to scare you there.” Kellen’s voice rings behind me, and I stiffen.
Turning to see him, I pull him to a dark corner, not wanting to make a scene. “I had it under control. Don’t fight my battles for me.”
“Is that why you’ve been watching me all night?” He leans against the wall, looking far too comfortable.
“I’m sorry. I don’t interact with murderers.”
The words seem to slap him across his face as he flinches. That probably wasn’t the best thing to say to someone who was in jail. What if he decides to make me his next victim, because of my smart mouth?
When his eyes land on me, his expression has turned hard. His six-foot stance is broad, the dim light enhancing his brooding mood I caused.
“Someone got to you.” His voice is gravely. His flared eyes lift and look around Nelly’s. “I should have known someone would give you my life story. I just thought you might be the kind of person to ask about it first.” His mouth is twisted, much like the internal battle that is warring deep in my belly.
My body reels backward, not expecting the harshness of his rumbled words. I watch as he takes one step backward, his jaw ticking, before he pushes his way out the door, leaving me frozen in the same spot, not knowing if what I’d done was the right move.
If I had blinked, I don’t think the night would’ve gone by faster. My feet throb as I test what it feels like with my heels off. My thumbs go to push into my skin, only for them to slip from the evening’s beer spills that constantly found their way to my feet.
“You did good, girl,” Molly compliments, as she and Chance begin to count our tips, as I slip on my flats.
“Not bad for one night of work.” He finishes putting the last bill into the divided-up piles. “Just under five hundred each.”
At the sound of that, my feet hurt a little less. The thought of walking home to unwind from the night doesn’t seem so bad anymore.
Thankful I’m able to leave before Chance and Molly, I make my way out, not wanting them to know I plan to walk.
The walk is peaceful as I start out, the streetlights guiding my way. I keep my backpack tight around my arm, hugging it snug to my body. My eyes don’t have to adjust too much to the limited light, since I’ve been working in it for most of the night.
It only takes me two seconds to spot the lone dark-haired figure leaning against one of the streetlights. His rigid features almost blend into the night.
His face is hidden in the shadows, but his gray eyes look me over, never blinking.
Holding my bag close, the only thing I have control over, I keep walking, trying not to look at him, keeping my head straight.
I should feel violated and scared that he’s out here like a murderer might be, or at least like a creepy stalker, but those feelings don’t rush in. If I were honest with myself, I can’t say I’m shocked either.
Even with keeping my head straight, he stays in my view. I watch as his attention turns to my feet.
“Those look like comfortable shoes.” A reluctant grin lurks at the corner of his mouth.
I’m caught off guard by the natural nature of his odd observation. My head tilts as I think about responding, No shit, but instead, I keep walking, ignoring his presence.
“Mind if I walk you home?”
“I’m perfectly capable of walking home by myself.” I’ve been doing it since I was twelve, I add silently to myself. People don’t care long, if it isn’t in their face.
He moves to match my steps and my feet stop. I take a moment to study his profile.
His hands are in his pockets, looking perfectly innocent. I hate that’s my first assumption. Most murderers fit in well enough, right? He seems more relaxed, with his shoulders lowered, his posture less stiff. I feel like I should be intimidated, but each time I see him, my breath gets caught in my throat. Craning my neck to look him in the eyes, I try to decide if I should go with what my gut is telling me, or use my damn brain.
It’s his eyes that have me going with my gut. They convey what seems to be pain deep within his depths. His sharp-cut jaw looks to have a full day or two of stubble aiding in his dark horseman look.
“Just say what’s on your mind.” Instead of looking annoyed, he looks more amused by me, a complete one-eighty from earlier.
“Don’t you have anything better to do than bother me?”
I see his lips creep upward as he looks to be hiding a smirk. “Naw, it’s only when I get bored I find myself in jail.”
I pause at his words, my head whipping toward him.
“I’m joking.” He laughs it off like it’s one big, horrible way-too-soon type of joke.
“Yes, I just got out of jail. But it was all circumstantial. But by law, I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
He begins to walk, and I feel my mouth open that he expects me to just accept his answer.
“By mere coincidence, you’re much safer out here with me than by yourself. Those guys didn’t stay away once you had them hauled out.”
I scold myself for not considering that.
“Never thought of that, did you?” His smug grin tells me that he thinks he’s won, and maybe he has this round.
I can feel myself scrunching up my face, hating that he seems to be right, and hating that I’m actually letting him walk me home. I’ve officially lost my compass—not that I ever had one in the first place.
“Fine, but only to the end of my driveway.” As I start to walk toward my house, refusing to wait for him, I add in, “This does not make us friends.” I point my finger at him.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He crosses his heart with his fingers, causing me to laugh silently inside, and needing to not look at him. He hasn’t earned my laugh yet. I have to remind myself I’m too trusting and to keep my guard up.
CHAPTER 10
The Past
Motorcycles line the building, which looks like it may fall in on itself. The metal door is heavy and scrapes along the frame, blinding anyone in front of it once opened. An old, stale smoke smell lingers in the air, while a few clusters of people talk quietly, enjoying their beer. McGrath mansion.
Walking up to the bar, I step on discarded peanut shells that were once whole and placed at each table. I take a seat, enjoying the fact that no one looks up and I feel anonymous.
“What will it be today, kid?” the bartender asks me.
“Just a beer.” I hope if I sit here enough, they will start seeing me as one of their own. What they don’t know is that I know everyone here by name.
The door opens, causing me to turn, the light pouring in a contrast to the dimness of the room. A large man walks through, his presence commanding. He’s younger, but definitely older than me. I would put him in his mid-twenties. Drinks are lifted in a salutation, but no words are exchanged. I quickly scan him before I go back to my beer, trying to catalog his face with one of the names I have memorized. I draw a blank, not because I can’t remember, but because his picture doesn’t exist.
I feel someone stand behind me, while I continue to pretend to mind my own business while drinking my beer.
“And who might you be?”
I look to my right, to where he’s moved to sit beside me. He’s slightly shorter than me, but still tall, bordering a six-foot height.
“Kellen.” My voice is confident, when I’m a little shaken on the inside. The whole atmosphere has changed, the idle chatter dissipating into nothing.
A beer is placed in front of him without one being ordered.
“Why have you been in my bar every day this week?” His stare is intense.
My throat closes up momentarily as I try to file each new piece of information in my mind.
“The beer is good.” I refuse to back down, leaning back into the stool and resting my arm along its back as I memorize each of his details. He has tattoos on his knuckles, but other than that, I see no other visible ink. His nose loo
ks crooked, and there is a visible scar in his hairline.
“The beer is stale,” he challenges. I watch his jaw grind while he evaluates me.
Purposely, I take a loud drink of my dark ale. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. I can hear the men in the room getting restless, not knowing how this will play out. “Maybe you don’t drink enough of your own beer.”
It’s not till he lets out a laugh and taps me on the back that I hear lingering chuckles, telling me our interaction is being watched closely. The tension in the air lifts, and clanging of beer and hum of conversation takes over the room once again. I want to let out the air I’ve been holding but can’t get it to leave my lungs. Slowly, it escapes till I can begin to breathe normally.
“Kiptyn.” His hand is pushed forward to meet mine, his strong grasp cutting into my bones as we shake. I refuse to show any pain and shake his hand with just as much force.
The name flashes through my mind. He’s the only unphotographed name I have. He’s also known in these parts for who he becomes “friends” with. He’s a man of many ties, where no one is quite sure who is an enemy, friend, or just on the payroll. He’s the one guy who’s always a suspect but never anything else. There are rumors that he was adopted by the mafia, has laundering businesses, sells exotic cars, is an assassin—no job is off limits.
No one has been able to penetrate his group to learn more, which has become the sole reason why I am here. The only thing the FBI knows is that when something big goes down in this state, Kiptyn is not too far away.
*
Present
“Violating parole already?” I turn out toward the street from looking at Sloan’s house.
“Naw, I called in like a good boy. They think I’m all tucked in now.” I laugh, walking over to Kiptyn, who props his elbow on the window frame of his vehicle as his head leans out the open space. Stepping up to him, we fist bump each other.
“Thanks for helping me out,” he says, straight up with a satisfied grin.
