I know Devereux has a wicked side. I saw it once before when a bar patron got frisky with me. But never toward me. Even when I threw my glass of wine in his face and called him a cunt in front of fifty people last night.
Now, over a ring, he’s freaking out.
His lips thin. “Why the fuck did you do that?”
Above his head, a blinking neon sign outside the bar flickers. White letters spell out the words Closed, and behind it, everything is black, the darkness blanketing the city. Reality sinks in. I’m alone with a man I don’t trust. I fling my arm from his and step back. My breathing increasing. I fear him, and I know if I scream, I’m close enough Avie might hear me, but I’m not sure. “I did it because you’re a piece of shit.”
“It wasn’t yours to dispose of,” he presses, sharp, uncontrolled words breaking through him.
“You gave it to me,” I snap back, straightening my shoulders. Here’s the thing about embracing yourself and your own needs. There’s a fine line between that and knowing when to stop.
“And you said no,” he yells back, the veins in his neck pulsing. “Just give me the goddamn ring, Journey. It’s not yours anymore.”
“Shouldn’t have asked me then.” And then it hits me. The way he talked about the ring that night. How it’d been in his family for decades, and he’d been saving it. “Oh, I see. It wasn’t your ring, was it?”
His jaw twitches, steam rolling from his mouth when he snaps, “It doesn’t matter. You should have just given it back to me.” He takes another step toward me and backs me against the side of the bar. I look over his shoulder at the docks, then down the street, wishing I knew for sure if Avie could hear me if I screamed.
I shake, unable to control the crazy thump of my heart against my breastbone. I hate the feeling of panic. It reminds me of the way it felt when my heart gave up on me, and even now, I fear it can’t take this. Will it give out on me?
My back makes contact with the building. “Are you lying to me?” he asks, his eyes intent on mine. “Did you sell it to pay for your fucking medical bills?”
Anger vibrates inside me. How dare he bring that up. “What the hell is wrong with you? No, I didn’t sell it.”
He blinks. No answer. I stare at a man I used to know, back when love tasted like champagne, bubbly and sweet. Now it’s like whiskey. Bitter, has a bite to it, and goes down with a burn.
Footsteps distract my thoughts, and then, a man growls darkly, “Leave her alone.” Only it’s not Avie.
I turn my head to see him. Lincoln. Glaring at Devereux, his stance as standoffish as he was in the bar, this time his lips pursed around a cigarette and his shoulder is pressed to the brick wall. Same stance as before, only now, the I-think-I-know-you look has been replaced with I-will-kill-you-if-you-touch-her glare.
Their glower holds one another for a moment longer than I’d expect. “Mind your own business. She’s fine.”
With a rough chuckle, Lincoln flicks his cigarette into a nearby puddle and peels himself from the wall. His eyes lift to mine, then to Devereux, who involuntarily steps back a fraction of an inch when I push against his shoulders. “Looks to me like she wants you to leave.”
Devereux’s expression collapses into a frown.
Lincoln nods toward the street and reaches for my hand. “Come on, Journey. I’ll walk you home.”
He knows my name? And holy crap. He’s holding my hand.
Why yes, hot fisherman, I will follow you anywhere you want.
“She’s fine here,” Devereux adds, stepping between us. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”
Lincoln’s mouth twists into something that resembles a smirk, but way more vicious. “I wasn’t asking for fucking permission.”
Without another word, Devereux closes the distance between them. To my disappointment, Lincoln lets go of my hand. He says something under his breath, and I think Lincoln replies, but his words barely move, and it’s hard to hear them over the sounds of the water slapping against the docks and the ringing of the buoy.
Devereux backs up as if he doesn’t want any part of this conversation, but Lincoln doesn’t. No, nothing seems to faze this guy. He remains calm and uninterested. “Fuck this,” Devereux barks and begins to walk away. He glances over his shoulder at me but keeps walking. “I’ll see you around, Journey.”
Strangely enough, I find it hard not to stick my tongue out at him.
Lincoln shifts his body toward me, purposeful and confident. His touch on my hand catches me off guard. Suddenly, I’m lightheaded. “I’ll walk you home.” Our gazes lock, and I allow myself to get sucked into his sea-green eyes up close. He leans closer to me, and I hold my breath, my lungs burning. His touch penetrates through my entire body like thousands of butterflies fluttering through me at once.
Without words, I begin to walk with him, nervous, unable to comprehend what just happened, and what I want to happen. He stood up for me, but why? He doesn’t even know me. There’s a small voice inside me that screams he wants to chop me up and cram me into his freezer, but I ignore it. My interest in him deepens with every step. I begin to wonder why he’d been hanging around the bar since he left over an hour ago.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him when we’ve reached the end of the pier and round the corner to my street, attempting to draw him into conversation.
Lincoln shrugs one shoulder and drops my hand from his, our breath creating a fog around us. He gives a thoughtful glance at the docks, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
Suffocated by his silence, I try to think of something to say to drown out the noise in my head, but I can’t think of anything. We walk in silence, while everything in town seems quiet and serene, gray and dreary. I look over at him, squinting into the rain. I probably resemble a drowned cat at this point, but it’s part of living in the Northwest.
I regard him curiously. “How’d you know my name?”
He drags a hand through his wet hair, making it stand up in spikes. “Name tag,” he says, his voice laced in smoke and seduction, speaking more to the ground than to me.
“Oh, right.” I feel so stupid now. And here I thought he went out of his way to find it out, but as it turns out, not so much.
His face adopts a sudden sober edge, but his eyes never lift from the path we’re following. “How’d you get wrapped up with Belmont?”
He knows Devereux? Well, I guess he would being a fisherman. Nick works for the Department of Fish and Wildlife. “He came into the bar one night while I was waiting tables, and I just sort of fell. He’s married, and I didn’t know it until last night when I met his wife.”
All he offers is a nod. I want to ask how he knows him and if they have history together.
“Did you know he was married?”
“I don’t know him that well.”
I snort. “Apparently I didn’t either.”
As we turn another corner leading into my driveway, I swallow over my nerves. I fidget with my keys. The orange glow from the porch light shines against his face. “Would you like to come in?” That’s how this works, right? He protected me, I could you know, repay the favor? Crap. I’m so not good at this. Dylan, she can fuck guys in the parking lot and have no regret about it. I could do that too, couldn’t I?