“Almost.” He snickers. “What are you drinking tonight?”
I throw my pack to the floor and slide onto a swiveling seat, resting my hands on the sticky wood of the bar. “Whiskey, neat. Thanks.”
Brent raises his brows as he reaches for Johnny Walker, then slides me a filled glass.
Yeah, I know, it’s a sick-fuck move picking Dan Roberts’ drink of choice, but I’m in a sick-fuck kind of mood.
“I’m celebrating a job well done,” I clarify.
“What job was it this time?” He eyes me with interest, as if he’s actually invested in my life. Nobody else looks at me like that. No one has in years. I make sure of it.
“The professor had us researching the growing number of assault and rape cases tied to solicitation.”
I sometimes wish I could tell him the truth—that I don’t work as a research assistant for a college professor who specializes in violent crimes. Having one person in this world to confide in could be a game changer. But trust issues are one of my many colorful traits.
“Which means we’re on to a new project by the end of the week.” I raise my glass in a silent toast, then take a sip.
“Well, congratulations on having finished studying that fucked up shit.” He gives me a grim smile. “You know, my sugar daddy offer still stands whenever you want to quit that horrible job and let me take care of you.”
I laugh. “Brent, you’ve only mastered the daddy part. When you get the sugar, let me know.”
The door to the bar opens, and we glance to the guy making his way toward us. His face is turned as he scopes the room, but the black jeans and matching leather jacket tell me he’s got enough self-respect not to be seen in a place like this.
“Think he’s lost?” Brent asks.
“Without a doubt.” I return to my drink, cupping it in both hands. “I’ll bet you five bucks he asks for directions out of this hellhole.”
“You have such little faith in my fine establishment.”
I sip casually, enjoying my salute to Danny boy as the newcomer sits two chairs away, teasing my peripheral vision.
“What can I get you?”
“A Corona.” His voice is low and subtle, barely a whisper of response, yet masculine enough for me to appreciate.
“Comin’ right up.” Brent shoots me a look as he grabs a bottle from the fridge beneath the counter, his eyes wide in exaggerated surprise before he returns his focus to the new guy. “You a local?”
“No.”
“What brings you here?”
There’s a huff, a pause, then a muttered, “Life.”
Brent twists the cap on the bottle, hands it over, and returns to his leaning post against the back counter. “Steph, look at me.”
I frown, because I’m already looking at him.
“This guy is perfect for you. He’s quiet and unresponsive, just how you like ’em.”
I chuckle, roll my eyes, and raise my empty glass. “You need to spend less time focused on my sex life, and more on pouring drinks.”
I chance a glance at my anti-social neighbor and take in his profile. His lips are tight. His jaw, too. There’s a wealth of hostility vibrating from him. Even the dark stubble hugging his cheeks has a rough fuck-off vibe as wisps of hair shadow his eyes.
“Where you stayin’?” Brent asks, ignoring the tension.
“Do you always ask this many questions?” the guy drawls, the words smoothly gliding over his tongue to polish his annoyance.
“Yes,” I answer. “He does.”
Brent laughs. “This pretty little thing,” he jerks his head at me, “came in years ago with the same aversion to conversation. Took me eight months to get a name out of her.”
A name that isn’t even mine.
I ignore the guilt and swivel my chair to face Mr. Reluctant. “You’re better off spilling your guts. Just blurt it out. Divulge it all. It’ll save the monotony of repeating all those monosyllabic answers.”
He glances my way, dissolving my guilt with eyes so clear and hazel I’m caught off guard.
Whoa. Profile view was confronting. Front view? Equally so, with an added hint of panty-melting gorgeous.
Those lips are full and dark. His stare is fierce. The tense features make me want to lick his face, or slap it, just to see how he’d react.
“You know what?” Brent grasps the whiskey bottle and pours me another drink. “You two are perfect for each other. Silent, secretive, and socially awkward.”
I hold in a snort and incline my head. “He’s right. He just nailed my Tinder bio.” Not that I use Tinder—I can get my kicks on my own, thank you very much—but I know at the very least Brent will get a chuckle from my sass.
What I don’t expect is the slight tilt to the stranger’s lips. The tiniest lift revealing a dimple in his left cheek. It’s devious, devilish, and undeniably delicious on such a rough and intense face.
“He’s not going to give up, is he?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not if you plan on staying here.”
His focus doesn’t waver. “Then maybe you could lead the way to another bar that doesn’t pester clientele.”
I’m not usually caught off guard, but this man has claimed that response from me twice in less than a few minutes.
“Hey, now.” Brent raises his voice. “I’m just being welcom—”
“I’m fucking with you.” Hazel eyes hold mine as this stranger gifts me with the slightest hint of a grin.
I stare for longer than I should, trying to come to terms with all the conflicting aspects of the sight before me. There’s something different about him. Something intriguing. Then again, I’m still high on adrenaline, which makes all my responses unreliable.
“So…” Brent clears his throat, breaking my train of thought. “In answer to my question…”
The stranger reverts to his scowl, a blatant sign he’s annoyed at being dragged back into the game of Twenty Questions. “My sister got knocked up by a lowlife with a heavy hand. He ended up leaving her as soon as my nephew was born. To help her out, I quit my job, packed my things, and drove here.”
“That’s…” I want to say unbelievable, because it is. Men like him don’t exist. They aren’t real. Not in my world. “…admirable.”
He shrugs and palms his beer, taking a long pull. “She doesn’t know yet. I only got into town tonight.”
“Well, I hope you find the lowlife piece-of-shit and give him a dose of his own medicine.” I don’t realize what I’ve said until the words are out there, announcing my hunger for vengeance.
He narrows his gaze, looking at me with such intensity I feel his questions sink inside my chest to tinker with my pulse.
“I’m not the violent type,” he murmurs.
My heart flutters.
Clearly, I’m not used to men who don’t think with their fists. My world revolves around violence. My past, my present, and my future all mesh into nothing but bloodshed and suffering.
This man is a breath of fresh, crisp air against my tarnished lungs. If I had any hopes for my life, any maternal or romantic plans, I might have been tempted to sink my hook and reel him in.