The Problem with Peace: Greenstone Security #3

by Malcom, Anne

  I’d call a cab. Figure it out. My friend Allie dropped out of school and got a job on some sitcom here, I’d crash with her. Things tended to work themselves out.

  But first I had to escape Harry’s sweaty hands that had tightened around my upper arms when I’d screamed that I was leaving.

  “But baby, why?” he yelled, trying to yank me closer to him.

  I yanked back. “How about ‘cause I’m not your baby?”

  He furrowed his brows in a confusion only an arrogant drunk boy can have when presented with a girl that didn’t want to worship at their feet.

  Or even go to first base with them.

  He let me go.

  Which I was thankful for.

  He shrugged. “Your loss!”

  And then he turned and stumbled slightly toward the restrooms. I worried about leaving him here when he was obviously drunk and so not as mature as he pretended to be. But he all but tripped over one of his friends, they fist-bumped and I lost my sense of worry.

  I took a last pull of my beer, set it down on the bar and turned toward the exit. I’d call Allie when I got onto the street and she might actually be able to hear me. She’d already texted me her address anyway, I’d just catch a cab if I couldn’t reach her.

  Or maybe she was at some fabulous Hollywood party and I could salvage my night, get discovered and become a sitcom star too. But I had a crappy memory and was terrible at pretending to be something I wasn’t, so I didn’t think I’d make a good actress.

  At least I’d have a story to tell.

  I collected stories. My own, of course. I tried to make them as exciting and vibrant as possible, because that’s how I wanted to remember my life.

  I also liked to collect other people’s stories. Hear what they’d done, where life had taken them, how they got to where they were, if they thought about where they were going.

  L.A. was bound to have some great stories.

  Hence why I loved the city. And because it was so diverse. It was a city of angels and demons at the same time. Made dreams come true for some people by crushing the dreams of others. It was glossy and gritty.

  I’d decided I’d move here once I got done with college. Not that I wanted to go. But my parents wanted me to go and they very rarely tried to nudge me toward a particular decision, because they knew me, but I knew they worried about my future. They worried about my “lack of direction”—my guidance counselor’s words, not mine.

  And I loved my parents, adored them. Something that a lot of kids my age didn’t understand. Then again, kids my age were treated like kids. My parents treated me like an adult and let me grow into whatever one I wanted to be.

  So I wanted to make them happy.

  And college would be fun.

  Full of stories.

  I was toying with what my major might be when someone snatched my arm in a sweaty and rough grip that was not at all like Harry’s.

  “Woah, where you goin’, pretty lady?” the man who had his arm on me without my permission asked, slurring his words.

  Yes, it was that cliché. Need I even say more? His grip was confident, firm. Stifled with that male entitlement that certain men had buried within them. They thought any woman walking past must secretly find them irresistible and no really meant, ‘violently yank aforementioned woman between my thick legs so she can smell the beer and stale sweat on my clothes’. The man in question did just that, and slurred what he thought were sweet nothings but were really just a string of offensive, sexist and vulgar words.

  “Sir, you’re drunk, and I’m so not interested, so how about you let me go and we forget this happened?” I asked through gritted teeth. I wasn’t one to get angry, even when people manhandled me, but my usually non-existent temper seemed frayed and uneven.

  Not that it was making a difference.

  Like at all.

  The man did not let me go. He didn’t even betray he’d heard me speak, or felt my meager struggles. He was drunk and sloppy, but he was a large full-grown man. I was moderately tipsy and not large or fully grown. If you wanted to believe the science, I wouldn’t be fully grown until twenty-five and I was stunting my growth with things like alcohol. I idly wondered how much booze this man had imbibed in his youth. It hadn’t stunted his physical growth, but I was guessing it did a lot of damage to his mental health if he thought this was correct behavior.

  I was still struggling as I pondered this, but he was stubbornly yanking at me, murmuring nonsense about me playing ‘hard to get.’

  “You get her hands off her now or the only thing hard to get is gonna be your teeth off the floor of this place,” a voice thundered from behind me.

  Yes, thundered.

  Kismet had timed the band to pause shouting into the microphone to let the deep masculine and threatening tone filter not only to my ears but through the drunken haze of the man holding me.

  He let me go immediately and I stumbled back, I would’ve fallen right on my ass and into whatever substances lived on the floor had two strong arms not caught me.

  “Steady, Sunshine,” that masculine and throaty voice murmured in my ear.

  My entire body rebelled against the command. Because those hands, that warmth, that voice, made me feel anything but steady.

  Yes, it was the ultimate cliché, the man saving the young girl from the sweaty paws of some pig.

  I did manage to steady myself, right about the time the man tried to round me, with an air about him that was palpable with violence. It sounded like a silly thing to distinguish from the unpleasant mix of scents and sounds inside the bar, but it was louder than the man who had resumed screaming into the microphone.

  I had my hands flat on my savior’s chest in a restraining gesture before I completely knew what I was doing. It felt natural—the touch. And hard—his chest. His pecs could’ve doubled as a marble countertop.

  He didn’t have to pause with my hands on his chest. He was bigger than the man who had held me before, bigger in every way and he was all muscle. I was no match for him, should he decide to use his strength against me.

  He didn’t.

  He paused and let me pretend my small hands on his large chest were effective in restraining him.

  “I’m assuming you’re going to divest that man of his teeth,” I half yelled since the music had started up again. “But remember you promised to do so only if he didn’t let me go. And he did. So the violence would be unnecessary at this point.” I paused, looking from where my hands had unwittingly fisted the fabric of his tee to blink upward at him. “Are you a man to keep promises?”

  His eyes roved over me in surprise. And in something else. “I’m a man who doesn’t stand by when some sleazebag fucking assaults a girl in a bar,” he replied, voice still a low and thundering rumble.

  I increased the pressure on his chest, mostly to get his attention, but also because I needed more from him. I wanted my hands to explore every single inch of him. Preferably without the tee in the way.

  I’d never had such a reaction to a man in my life. Instant, visceral and almost unbearable attraction.

  It was distracting, to say the least.

  “Well you are not a man to stand by while that was being done,” I said. “Because you didn’t. Now I’m standing in front of you asking you not to respond to violence, ignorance, a misplaced ego and entitlement with more violence. Because I’ve got a feeling you’re better than that.”

  I swallowed roughly before I spoke again.

  “And you’re a man to keep his promises, are you not?” I repeated my previous question, my voice as uneven as my heartbeat.

  He gave me a long intense look that did not belong between two strangers. Something tugged at the bottom of my stomach with that stare, with my hands pressed into his chest, with the nearness of his body, and the energy around it.

  I was in tune with energy. I studied it. And I’d always believed that people gave off certain vibrations when two souls recognized each other, for good or fo
r bad, those vibrations became more intense.

  Of course, every single member of my family thought this was “new age bullshit”— it was just Lucy that said that, but the sentiment was echoed by everyone else.

  But I believed in it. Because it happened with people. People who would become important to me in the future sparked something.

  This was different than that.

  This was an inferno.

  Not entirely unpleasant. But not as nice as any kind of ‘love at first sight’ was communicated in any movie.

  “Yeah, Sunshine,” he murmured, somehow getting himself heard above the music. “I’m a man who keeps promises.”

  Something about that sentence was so final. So ominous.

  And I wanted more.

  “You want to make a promise to buy me a beer?” I asked, deciding that I could not possibly leave this bar now.

  I would stay in this place, for as long as this man was going to be in it.

  And I was going to be leaving with him, I decided.

  He glanced down to my hands, which were still fisting his tee. I probably should’ve let go, it wasn’t exactly socially acceptable to be fondling a man’s pecs when you didn’t even know his last name. Or first name for that matter.

  I should’ve let go.

  I did not.

  “I shouldn’t,” he said, moving his gaze upward at the same time my heart sank.

  Another intense look.

  “But I will,” he added.

  I exhaled a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

  * * *

  “You know, I don’t even know your name,” I said after taking the beer he handed me.

  He had first directed us to a miraculously quiet corner of the bar that did not need yelling or require the dodging of drunk teenagers.

  “And what does a name change about this situation?”

  “Well, not much,” I pondered. “But it does mean I can stop calling you ‘that guy who almost punched another guy’s teeth out for me.’” I paused, arching my brow. “It’s a little long.”

  His smirk widened, though his eyes hardened at the mention of the circumstances of our meeting. He was that guy. The protective, alpha guy. Usually I didn’t go for instincts left around from a bygone era where women were encouraged—no, forced to be helpless and men were the ‘protectors.’

  But I was going for him.

  In a big way.

  “Heath,” he said, watching me drink my beer.

  I swallowed the liquid self-consciously. Another abnormal thing.

  Nerves.

  I was not a girl that got nervous, in any situation, but especially in front of guys. Maybe I hadn’t cared enough in order to be nervous? Because wasn’t that what nerves were? A fear that you’re not going to live up to someone’s expectations?

  I didn’t want to live up to anyone’s expectations because I didn’t believe in them.

  Of course until about ten minutes ago.

  “Heath,” I repeated, tasting the name and mixing it in with the beer. “It suits you.”

  “Do names really suit people?”

  I shrugged. “Well, if it was Chester then I don’t think it would.”

  He smirked and took a long pull of his beer while he watched me. He didn’t rush to fill the silence between us.

  It was an unusual thing to do with someone you just met. Usually long and comfortable silences were reserved for the most intimate of relationships. Girlfriends you’ve known forever and who could say everything with a raised brow. In my case, it was my older sister who blew up cars for fun.

  And Rosie.

  She also blew up cars for fun.

  Normally those cars belonged to guys I’d dated.

  But I didn’t do silence with anyone else. Mostly because everyone I spent time with was loud. And I was loud when I was with them. Always searching for a new adventure, a new experience.

  Now I was learning that silence with an attractive stranger staring at you was the best kind of adventure.

  “You got a name?” he asked finally. “I can keep callin’ you ‘that girl that lights up a piece of shit bar and makes me make promises that I shouldn’t be makin’, and not breaking ones I itch to make’...but it’s a little long too.”

  My breath left me in a whoosh.

  He thought I lit up a bar?

  Not exactly poetry, but I thought poetry was pretentious and I didn’t get it anyway.

  “Polly,” I said on little more than a whisper.

  His eyes flared, something passed over his face.

  “Does it suit me?” I asked, finding my normal flirty persona from where his stare had made me fumble and drop it on the sticky floor.

  “Nah,” he said after a long pause. “I don’t think anything as simple as a name can suit you, especially not one word. But it does the best it can.”

  Holy. Shit.

  That was poetry.

  “I totally wouldn’t have flunked English if you were around,” I said.

  He was taking a pull of his beer when I spoke, and he made a choking sound as he tried to laugh while swallowing.

  I smirked.

  It was strange to see a man like him, a man who looked like he could conquer anything with his muscles and general air of alpha, be taken down by a smart comment and a badly timed sip of beer.

  He made a throat clearing sound that I felt right in between my legs.

  How a throat clearing could turn me on I had no idea.

  But it did.

  “You okay?” I asked innocently.

  He glared at me in response. But a friendly glare. One that I definitely felt in between my legs.

  “I would ask what you do, little girl, but I’d say you’re barely in college,” he said, his voice smoother than whisky.

  Wait, whisky wasn’t smooth, I’d tried it once and it was horrible and unpleasant. There was nothing unpleasant about his voice. It was like the way you imagined whisky would taste. Sharp. Deep. Filling.

  “What do you do?” I said instead of acknowledging the question. Because if I did that, then I’d have to correct him to say that I wasn’t even in college yet.

  You had to graduate high school for that.

  College was a big farce invented by the powers that be to put parents in debt and children on Adderall while they got rich and we thought that to succeed in life you somehow needed a hundred-thousand-dollar piece of paper. But I’d go. Because of my parents.

  “I’m a Marine,” he said, voice losing that teasing glint in a matter of seconds.

  I regarded him, unsure of how I didn’t see it before. Well, I totally knew why I didn’t see it before because I was totally distracted about how effing hot he was. I’d never seen a guy that hot up close.

  But he looked military. His hair was close cut, his muscles bulged out of his olive tee—that was expertly pressed—and oh, there were dog tags dangling from his fricking neck.

  But still, I screwed up my nose.

  He grinned at me while taking a pull of his beer.

  I watched the column of his throat in fascination.

  “That bother you?” he asked. He didn’t seem offended. He seemed intrigued by my response. I guessed it wasn’t one he was used to getting. Men serving our country were treated with the utmost respect and were almost immediately thanked for their service whenever it became known what their profession was. And I admired them greatly.

  It was not their courage that I had a problem with.

  It was the fact it was necessary.

  “No,” I whispered honestly. “It’s rather beautiful,” I continued, talking about the act of him drinking and not his profession. “You have a great neck.”

  I slammed my hand over my mouth.

  Holy shit.

  I’d just told the hot and dreamy Marine that he had a great neck.

  If he didn’t think I was an idiot little girl before he surely would now.

  His laugh was throaty, thick, manly and it sent warmth
all the way to my toes. And to...other places.

  Places that had only gotten vaguely lukewarm in all my previous experiences with boys.

  But I guess that was it.

  Because they were boys.

  This was a man. And despite the fact he was calling me ‘little girl’ his gaze, his attention, it made me feel like a woman.

  “I’ll remember that watchin’ me drink beer does not bother you,” he murmured.

  More heat. A fricking inferno.

  “My job, that bothers you,” he clarified, not a question.

  “I’m not really in support of war,” I said, also honestly. It was a problem of mine. I always spoke my truth. Even when it was smarter to omit, or at least stay silent. Omission and silence weren’t exactly my style. So I continued speaking. “In fact, I actively protest it. I’m all about peace.”

  He smiled, obviously not offended by my truth. “Ah, but that’s what starts all wars, Sunshine. People lookin’ for peace.”

  I blinked at him, at an answer that I did not expect from a soldier or a Marine—I knew there was an important distinction between the two. I didn’t know the reason, but I guessed for men who attached their identities to something, who were willing to give their lives for such a thing, titles were important.

  This man was important.

  I knew that already.

  From the first moment I saw him.

  It was so horribly cliché, but I didn’t worry about logic or clichés when it came to my feelings, my heart. I just followed both.

  Blindly.

  Following both had me putting down my beer on the sticky table, then doing the same with his. The brush of our fingers as I did worked to spark an even greater reaction than his words.

  He’d raised his brows slightly when I took his beer, but he stayed silent. He continued watching me put his beer beside mine. Didn’t move. Waited for me to do so.

  And I did.

  Move.

  I placed one of my hands in what I now considered ‘my’ spot on the flat of his pec, the other I fastened around his neck and exerted as much pressure as I could to make my intentions known.

  My strength was laughable compared to his, so if he didn’t want to move then he didn’t have to.