“What can I get ya?” I ask the man as I wipe down the bar top.
“What do you suggest?” He licks his lips and I’m instantly disgusted. Now I know this guy because I’ve run across him at every single bar I’ve ever worked at. He’s the quintessential bar tool, a douche bag. Jackasses like him think their shit doesn’t stink and that they’re God’s gift to women, yet in all actuality, they’re disgusting and probably horrible in bed. I’ve never been desperate enough to sleep with one, though, I’ve just come to that conclusion.
“Gin and tonic. They’re my favorite.” It’s a lie. I hate gin, but it’s my go-to suggestion to anyone with a major creep factor.
“Sounds good.” He moves to touch my hand that’s resting on the bar top, but I quickly move into action making his drink. I pour in the gin and tonic water and then top it off with a slice of lime. I toss the straw in the glass and slide it across the bar.
Four dollars and seventy-five cents.”
He hands me a five dollar bill and tells me to keep the change. Cheep fucking bastard, only tipping me a quarter. I let it slide. He’s a weird freaking dude and I don’t want him coming around again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the mysterious man sitting at the edge of the bar. Darcie fills a mug of Guinness and passes it to him then she fills a shot glass with Jack Daniels and sits it next to the beer. He has yet to look up from the bar top, and I can’t help but wonder what his story is. His body is very ridged and tense. Every once in a while he will clench his fists hard then relax. My curiosity is peaking as I watch him for several seconds, ignoring my customers. I’m completely captivated.
Drake
Delilah was dying to have some Mia time tonight and offered to watch her overnight at their place. I was happy to oblige, knowing I needed to get drunk. The girl from the bar was still invading my thoughts after causing me to stress out all week. I need to let off some steam that beating the shit out of a punching bag hasn’t been curing.
Delilah and Jake have made their own home above a garage they purchased six months ago. Turns out, Delilah’s father has a passion for muscle cars, and soon after she moved to Sulfur Heights, Mr. St. James and Jake hit it off by talking about their love of cars. He’s made a few trips here without his wife, of course, and six months ago, he helped Jake purchase the shop he now owns and runs.
They converted the second floor of the building to an apartment and have been living there for the last couple of months. Delilah does have a way of warming up a room when she’s around, and in no time, the apartment was transformed into a pretty nice place to live.
She helps Jake with the financials for running the business, similar to how Darcie and Reggie work, and she also volunteers down at the children’s shelter. However, unlike Darcie—who will help down at the bar—Delilah refuses to get dirt under her nails and will never go into the shop. It’s funny how completely different Jake and Delilah are, yet they are perfect for one another.
Who would have known that Jake could possess the skills all along to fix up cars? I was a little shocked when he said he was going to buy a shop and had little faith in my brother’s new adventure. Back in the day, he just refused to do any of the dirty work, knowing Jeremy was there to handle it. But to my surprise, Jake is doing quite well running his garage. He actually does the work, and between him and the other mechanic, they get a lot done. Jake talks about the shop all the time and I can see the pride on his face.
Mrs. Fields was pretty sick most of the week, so I took a few days off to be with Mia. She was feeling much better by Thursday to watch her, but was so worn out by Saturday night that she didn’t offer to watch Mia.
I never have to ask Mrs. Fields if Mia can stay with her on Saturdays; she’s always volunteered to take her. So when Delilah wanted to watch Mia, I jumped on it immediately.
Around nine o’clock I walk into the back of the bar and step into Reggie’s office. Empty. Damn, it’s probably busy as hell again. I make my way into the bar to find the noise is deafening. When it’s really busy, Reggie will work crowd control alongside Mike.
Before I begin to wonder who’s helping behind the bar, I turn to see the girl who’s been the cause of monopolizing all my thoughts, and she’s mixing drinks! Fuck! I don’t need this right now.
Darcie sees me immediately and sets a shot and beer down in front of the end stool where I normally sit. I flop down and choke the poison down instantly.
I can’t believe she’s working here and I didn’t even see it coming. This is a prime example of life fucking with me. She’s all I could think about for the past week, and now, there she is, standing before me.
I take a brief second to look at her. Her brown hair is twisted up and piled on top of her head. That’s when I notice how long and delicate her neck is. I scan my eyes down the length of her entire body, noticing how lean and tight she is. She’s very sexy and my dick reacts at the mere sight of her.
I fix my gaze on Darcie to get another shot when she returns my stare, obviously noticing me looking at her new bartender. My face heats with irritation when Darcie just smiles and passes me my drink. I roll my eyes, more at myself than to her, then chug down the booze. Another glass is set down in front of me and then another. Before I know it, I’m wasted and feeling numb. However, the relief that typically follows my inebriated state never settles over me, only unwanted feelings for a girl who could never be mine along with the guilt over a woman I can never have again.
***
The bar is even more packed as the time hits midnight. I can safely say I’m very drunk but still functional, which is exactly how I need to be. As I’m getting ready to leave, some douche bag strolls up beside me, trying to get Darcie’s attention.
“Hey! Bartender!” the man shouts over the noise of the crowd. “Can I get a fucking drink?” He loudly taps his hand on the bar, getting Darcie’s attention. I can’t help but feel amused knowing Darcie doesn’t take to bossy customers very well.
Darcie walks over to him with a shit eating grin spread across her face. “Hey, fuckstick, I’d be glad to make you a drink just as soon as you get in the line like everyone else.” She moves back to the other customers, quickly filling their drink orders.
“Fucking bitch,” the man mumbles under his breath.
All the anger boiling just under the surface of my skin erupts from inside of me, and I lose it. I snap my murderous glare to the douche bag. “What did you just say?”
He turns his body toward me, looking me straight in the eye. The very sight of his face pisses me off. He’s a young prick with no respect or remorse for insulting my sister when he replies to my question. “I called her a fucking bitch, asshole. What are you going to do about it?”
Before I can stop myself, I’m already on my feet, towering over the guy, who I’m certain, hasn’t been expecting me to be so tall. I wrap my hands around his neck then suddenly my mind flashes back to what I was feeling that night. That very night I wanted to put my hands on my brother. The night Jeremy confessed to being a drug dealer, making the hate I never fathomed surface and become a permanent part of my soul. I picture the satisfaction of killing my brother and this sends me into a blind fury. This man is now Jeremy and I want to choke him.
I pick him up by his neck and swing him back, slamming his body into the wall, then press my body against his. He’s scared and I know he won’t fight back, but all I see is Jeremy in his eyes and I want to kill him. My heart is beating wildly in my ears, drowning out any other noise in the bar. The muscles in my forearm bulge as I squeeze. With just a little more pressure, he’ll be dead. The rage is too much for me to stop and it feels good to take it out on an actual person and not a punching bag.
I draw my fist back, readying myself to crush it into his jaw when Reggie comes to my side, heaving me off the man. I let go of his neck and he falls to the floor, coughing and gagging, crumpling at my feet. The air in my lungs is rapidly filtering through my body when I take deep adrenaline-fille
d breaths. Reggie grabs a hold of my arm, pushing me toward the back then into the back room.
“Goddammit, Drake, what the hell was that for?” His glare is intense as he stares me down.
It takes me a second to answer his question. The rage is suffocating my throat, preventing me from speaking. “He called Darcie a bitch when she refused to serve him,” I say, thinking this will completely satisfy Reggie, but it does the opposite.
He begins to pace the room, runs his hands over his head, then moves back to stand in front of me—on the verge of exploding. “Did you see that guy’s face? You almost killed him, Drake!” Reggie lets out a deep breath to prepare to lecture me again. “That was no excuse to choke a man out. You really need to get a hold of your rage before you really hurt someone.”
I stand there, anger boiling once again. This is Reggie’s way of telling me to get over the past and move on. His way of saying it’s been a damn year and he’s ready for me to get over it. The very thought enrages me further. He has no idea what I’ve been through since Presley died and I found out my brother betrayed me. I can’t stand his condescending tone and I’m ready to kill him now!
“Fuck you!” I shout. I belly up to him, looking to finish what I started with that man.
“I know that look, Drake. Don’t even think about it,” Reggie threatens as he steps in front of me, meeting me eye-to-eye. Granted, he’s a great fighter, but I’ve got betrayal and loss on my side—fueling my fist to hit harder. “Get a handle on yourself, or I won’t allow you to drink down here anymore. Got it?”
Before I can take him down, Reggie leaves the back room. I begin to obliterate the wall, tearing up my hand and my sanity with every punch I give—trying to win the war against my blinding rage and broken heart.
Zoe
When we finally slow down enough to take a breather, Gavin gives me pointers on how to use the credit card machine. It tends to be a pain in the ass, according to him, but I think it’s his inability to use technology.
A loud noise grabs our attention when a fight erupts at the other end of the bar. The mysterious man has another guy in a choke hold, squeezing the life from his body. I am stunned where I stand, wanting to do something to help, yet I’m completely unable to move. The man’s face is turning purple, and he is clearly losing his battle with getting air in when Reggie intercedes, pushing the mystery man out of sight. Darcie runs to the man on the floor, helping him up, before Mike ushers him out the front door.
I turn to Gavin, who looks sick to his stomach. “What’s up with that dude anyway? It’s kind a creepy the way he sits and drinks by himself. Serial killer tendencies if you ask me.”
Gavin turns to me and shakes his head no. Curiosity peaks even more, and now I need to know his story more than I need food to nourish my body. Why would he just freak like that? Is he really a wannabe serial killer? Or is he a recently released psych ward patient?
“Seriously, Gavin, did you see him snap? I’m pretty sure I need to know what’s going on with him so I don’t piss him off.” I think about him pressing me against the wall with his hands wrapped around my neck, but it’s for an entirely different reason. What the fuck is wrong with me? I lust after psychotic mental patients now?
“Look, Zoe, that’s Darcie’s youngest brother and he’s…” Gavin trails off, searching to find the right words. He scratches his head, running his hand over his short, reddish-blonde hair. He’s in a deep debate with himself on how to approach the subject. “He’s had a hard life, okay? So just leave him alone. Just ignore him. Don’t try to talk to him or anything. Darcie and Reggie are the only ones allowed to wait on him since the whole incident…he’s just not right in the head these days.” He lifts his hands, using air quotes when he says the word incident.
Damn, my curiosity is slicing my mind apart. What could that incident be? What would lead a man to be free yet walk a very close line to killing a stranger? He’s got to be a serial killer or something. People only ever use the word incident when someone is killed. Fuck, who’d he kill?
Without another word, Gavin steps to the bar to help a customer, leaving me with my thoughts. That little tidbit of information hasn’t helped me; it makes my mind run wild with scenarios of why he’s so crazy. I want—actually, I need to know more. I’ve never been one to pry because I hate when people are in my business, however the details of this man’s past are killing me. I’ve gotta know! What the hell would cause someone to flip on a stranger for no reason? I mean, he almost killed that man. The very thought really bothers and intrigues me all in one.
Darcie instructs me to take a five minute break and to come back with two fresh bottles of vodka from the backroom. Damn, I could really use a cigarette. I haven’t smoked in a year, but I could really use one right now. Pulling a stick of gum from my pocket, I shake off the desire to pollute my lungs and head to the restroom.
When I come out of the bathroom, I round the corner and walk toward the backroom. The door opens abruptly, hitting the wall behind it as it flies open, and he’s standing right there—the mysterious, mentally unstable guy. He walks out of the back room so fast that he practically collides with me. I freeze mid-step, grabbing the wall to regain my balance. I become frozen where I stand, unsure of what to do or say.
My eyes are connected to his, just like the night we first met. I expel a deep breath in an attempt to get a handle on my feelings. On one hand, I’m scared out of my mind because I just watched him almost choke a man to death, and let’s not forget the infamous incident clouding his past. On the other hand, I’ve never been so turned on. He’s very different and more dangerous from any man I’ve been around, and the combination is intoxicating. There’s an edge about him, and the longer I look at him, the more I feel myself inching closer to that edge.
He stands in front of me for what feels like an eternity, just staring at me. His eyes are black as coal and studying me with a puzzling glance. I notice his skin is slick with sweat, filling the air with his manly scent. That, too, is very intoxicating. I look down over his broad shoulders, trace my eyes down his large biceps, and stop my perusal when I see blood dripping from his knuckles. He has to feel the pain from his torn up knuckles, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. His chest is rapidly caving in and out with his deep breaths, though.
We are close, so close that, if I take a small step forward, we’d be touching. I feel lightheaded—drunk even—yet I haven’t had a single drop of alcohol. Then he speaks, and again I become high off him.
“Who are you?” His voice is a deep baritone, his words quiet yet laced with anger.
“I’m Zoe,” I respond just as quietly, starting to wonder if I will ever be able to break my gaze with his.
He lifts his hand, inching it closer to my face. Now I’m scared and my body starts to tremble. I know what those hands are capable of. He just almost killed a man, but I yearn for him to touch me. Oh, man, do I want him to touch me. My insides heat with desire, a pure lust for this enigmatic man.
He’s pulling me into his black abyss the longer I look into his eyes, and I can’t think of a single reason for stopping him. I’m hypnotized. My heart is pounding and there are butterflies rapidly fluttering inside my chest. I can feel a lump slowly finding its way to the top of my throat.
Then, just as his bloody hand gets dangerously close to my cheek, I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath, preparing to feel either his pleasure or my pain. However, he pulls his hand away quickly then steps back, retreating out the back door and into the night. The mystery man leaves me feeling scared, aching to know more about him.
Chapter 10
Drake
What just happened? Who is this girl? And why do I want to know more about her? Then there’s this fuck at the bar. I’ve never wanted to destroy someone so much in my life. Never mind the fact I almost killed the dude because I thought of my brother. I couldn’t shut off my anger; it’s constantly there just under the surface. This isn’t the only time since Presley’s death th
at I’ve come close to killing someone. The rage is always there—a living, breathing beast ready to escape at a moment’s notice.
Six months after her death, I was coping fairly well, but I still couldn’t talk to anyone. Much like tonight’s situation, a man approached me, trying to make small talk. I ignored him at first, then he started talking about getting into the drag racing scene, and that was all I needed to hear. My sanity snapped and I tackled the man to the ground, punching him as hard as I could. It felt good to hit him. I wanted to hit him more, but before too much damage could be done, Reggie broke up the fight. I was annoyed because he thought he could just talk to me, however the mere mention of drag racing brought me back to why I have so much hatred inside of me—my brother. I lost it and tried to kill the unsuspecting man.
I’m lucky he didn’t press charges, and until today, I’ve kept a pretty good handle on my rage. Anything reminding me of Jeremy, and then this girl—well, it’s all I can do to control myself. All of it is about to kill me. She’s causing feelings in me to surface, but the infuriation that’s always living inside me is the only emotion I want to let out.
I park my Chevelle in the driveway and walk to the garage. I’m not ready to go to bed—my head is too fucked up right now. I pull the shirt off my back and slip my hands into my boxing gloves. Slowly, I start hitting the bag. Controlled punches come from my hands as I land them against the hard leather of the punching bag. I need to come down from the raging high I felt when I was hurting that man, so I continue to hit the bag. Over and over and over—each time my hands strike a little faster and a lot harder. I’m burning through my adrenaline the best way I know how.
Just as the exhaustion starts to take over, I look over to the Challenger parked in the garage. It hasn’t been here in months, but Jake needed room in his garage and has stored it here. I hate this car. I hate everything it represents in my life.
I move forward, standing over the hood. The black paint is shining and flawless, in pristine condition for when Jeremy gets home.
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