I watch as she recoils from the man’s lust-filled gaze, and something inside me snaps. Once more, I’m back in Afghanistan, hiding behind some boxes as the young woman is terrorized. This time is different, though; this time, I can stop it.
I straighten up and take three steps toward the men. They never see me coming, never see my fist until it connects with the first jaw.
From there, it’s an all-out brawl. I need to save her… have to save her. I throw punch after punch. Someone is grabbing me, but I fight them off. A fist connects with my throat and I drop to my knees, clutching at my neck as my lungs burn and threaten to explode. I can’t breathe, the dusty room fading into red as the blood pours down my face. I manage to wipe a hand across my eyes and I’m once again in the bar, lying on my side as a small crowd gathers around me. The bar is deathly quiet; even the band has stopped playing.
“Stone,” I hear Keets call out as he kneels beside me. “Stone, can you hear me?”
The pain in my chest is so severe, I can’t answer him. It feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer and hit me across the ribs a few dozen times.
The pain intensifies until I see white spots in front of my eyes, and I close them for a moment of relief. There’s a ringing in my ears and the voices around me become fainter and fainter, until they finally disappear altogether.
The ringing in my ears is so much more intense this morning, and I groan as I open my eyes, wincing at the light. My left eye is swollen almost shut and my mouth is as dry as cotton. There’s no denying it: this is the mother of all hangovers. I slowly lift my head, groaning again when the first wave of nausea washes over me. Christ, how much did I drink last night?
With great effort, I get to my knees, frowning as I realize I’m still in the bar.
What the fuck am I doing here?
The place looks as though a tornado hit it. Chairs are upturned, broken bottles are strewn everywhere and tables lay in pieces.
The front door opens, and I instinctively turn my head to see a beautiful blonde in tight, black jeans and a white tank top step inside.
Her large eyes round as she stares at the mess.
“What the fuck happened?” she gasps, stepping over a broken chair as she moves behind the bar and begins moving glasses around.
“I don’t know,” I say, still on my knees. I must have startled the woman because she spins around, her mouth opening in shock. “Wh-who are you?” she stammers. “How did you get in here?”
“I woke up here,” I say, getting to my feet as she comes around to the front of the bar.
I make a move toward her, but I’m quickly brought up by the tip of the large knife she pulls out of the back of her jeans.
“Jesus,” I cry, throwing my hands up in surrender. I’ve never been beaten in combat, but this fucking hangover has screwed up my reflexes. “Look, lady, I—”
“I don’t know who you are, or how you got in here,” she seethes, her blue eyes narrowing. “But you fucked up my bar.”
“I know,” I reply, taking a step backwards, tripping over a chair leg, and going down on one knee. Pain rips through my abdomen as my body is jolted by the sudden movement. “Just let me explain.”
“You can explain everything to the cops when they get here,” she hisses. “Don’t you fucking move.”
I watch her warily as she points the knife at me. She’s tiny, only about five-foot, and my hands could easily span her waist. If I really wanted to, I could get myself out of this situation. I’m a trained soldier; it would be child’s play for me to take the knife. Her chest heaves in her tank top and I find my eyes drawn down to her small breasts, probably just big enough to fill my palms.
Just the way I like them.
I’m surprised at the sudden tightening of my pants, and I pray she doesn’t choose this moment to look down. My moment of distraction is clearly all she needs, as I don’t hear her draw closer. I flinch as the tip of the knife touches my throat. I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat, trying to ignore the bite of the blade as I look up at her. She reminds me of a china doll my grandmother used to have on display in a glass case. Her hair, although tied back in a loose bun, is full of golden ringlets, and her big, blue eyes are expressive behind long, dark lashes.
And right now, they’re expressing rage at me.
“I’ll ask you again,” she says in a low voice, pressing the tip of the knife more firmly against my flesh. “Who are you?”
The front door opens and she jumps at the sudden intrusion, the blade of the knife nicking my skin. I feel a small trickle of blood run down the column of my throat, and it’s all I need to spur myself into action. My hand shoots up and wraps itself around her wrist, while the other effortlessly wrenches the knife away from her. I hear it clatter against the tiled floor and throw my foot out, kicking it away.
The barmaid’s eyes open wide as she realizes what’s happened, but before she has a chance to react I grab her other wrist, securing both behind her back with just one of my large hands, holding her against me.
“Having fun, are we?” Keets drawls as he leans against the doorframe at the entrance of the bar.
“Keets,” the woman cries out in relief, struggling against my hands as I continue to hold her. I close my eyes and grit my teeth as she moves against me. It’s been too long since I’ve had a woman pressed against me; if she’s not careful, I’m going to make a damned fool of myself.
“Shan?” Keets says, looking between her and me as though he’s just recognized her. “What the hell is going on?”
“This guy,” she says, finally shoving herself away from me, “broke into the bar last night and destroyed it. Look at this mess!”
“I didn’t break in,” I respond hotly. “I was here last night; I must have passed out.”
“I’ll say.” Keets laughs. “You were knocked the fuck out.”
Parts of last night start coming back. The alcohol, the barmaid getting mauled by a drunken creep… getting my ass handed to me.
“Why the fuck did you leave me here?” I demand, taking an angry step toward him.
“Dude, Ruth said to leave you there to sleep it off. You’re lucky the sheriff realized you weren’t at fault and didn’t haul your ass to jail.”
“I don’t give a shit how it happened!” Shan shouts, glaring at Keets. “I’m calling the cops.”
“Shan, wait,” I say, picking the knife up off the ground and placing it down on the bar for her to see.
She rounds on me, phone in hand. “Don’t call me that,” she hisses. “My name is Shannon. Only my friends call me Shan.”
“Are we not friends?” I ask, smirking at her. “If you’ll remember, you were pressed pretty intimately against me a minute ago.”
“Ohh, you…you…” Shannon’s face turns a dull shade of red and she grips the phone tighter, turning her back on me.
“Shannon,” Keets says quietly, prying the phone out of her death-like grip. “It’s okay. I know him.”
“Y-you do?” she asks, turning her face up to him.
I watch this exchange with interest. Keets and Shannon seem to know each other quite well. They seem close… intimate.
I’m surprised by the sudden surge of jealousy that rips through me.
“This is Stone,” Keets is saying.
Shannon turns to face me, the look on her face now one of curiosity rather than anger. “This is Stone?” she asks disbelievingly. I don’t like the way she says that. What has Keets told her about me?
She looks me up and down, and I’m quietly grateful that my earlier hardness is gone.
“I don’t care,” Shannon finally remarks, turning her pert little nose up at me and glaring once more at Keets.
Fucking snob. I’m getting more and more pissed off. The pain in my head is intensifying, and I just want to go home and go back to sleep.
“You saw what he did to my bar.”
“Your bar?” I question out loud, my eyes practically bulging out of my head. “You mean you own it?
”
“Inherited it from my daddy,” she replies proudly, throwing me a glance that could freeze Hell over.
“Look,” I say, shaking my head in bewilderment. I’m so over it. I just want to go home, drink my body weight in whiskey and go to sleep. “I’ll be happy to reimburse you whatever it costs to fix this place up.”
Shannon glances over at me, pride written all over her face, and I inwardly groan. This woman is too damn stubborn for her own good. “You think you can just pay me off because I’m some helpless female?” she asks indignantly. “I work hard at this bar, and I make damn good money.”
“I’m sure you do,” I say, rubbing my aching temple with my thumb and index finger. “But I would like to make up for my own misdeeds.”
“I may have an idea,” Keets interjects as he stands back with his arms folded, watching us in amusement.
“What?” Shannon asks, looking at my friend adoringly in a way that makes me want to throw up.
“Let him work off his debts in the bar.”
“What!” Shannon and I yell in unison as we glance at each other. He can’t be fucking serious.
Keets grins and pushes back the brown hair that falls across his eyes as he adjusts his small, black rimmed glasses. “Well, why not? Stone, you know you need to do something other than drink.”
“And you think working in a bar will fix that?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up on my forehead.
“Shannon,” Keets says, pointedly ignoring me. “You know you could use the help around the bar.”
“Well, yes,” she responds slowly. “But him?”
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I ask, drawing up to my full six-foot height, towering over her. Just who the hell does she think she is?
“Are you serious?” She laughs, gesturing around the room. “Look what you did to this place in just one night!”
“That was an accident,” I clarify, leaning down until we’re making eye contact. But I’m not prepared for the jolt of awareness that strikes me the moment our eyes meet. Her eyes are a pale blue, with tiny flecks of green. They’re so damned expressive, I feel like I could read her mind just by looking at them. Unfortunately for me, her mind seems to be screaming some pretty obscene things about me right now.
“So, it’s settled,” Keets says brightly. “Stone will work for you until the damages are paid off. I’ll take the ‘help wanted’ sign off the window.” He disappears before either of us can say a word.
Shannon sighs and runs a hand over her head. “I guess you can start tidying up out here,” she mumbles, not looking at me. “The broom’s behind the bar. I’ll be in the back; I have some paperwork to fill out.” She leaves the room without waiting for me to respond.
I watch her go, trying desperately to ignore the gentle sway of her hips in those damn jeans. Finding the broom, I begin to sweep up the broken glass, but my mind is still stuck on Shannon. Who is she? Are she and Keets an item? He’s never said anything, but I know it’s none of my business. So, why am I jealous at the thought of my best friend’s hands touching her?
I shake my head, forcing my resolve to harden. I can’t get involved with a woman. I’m too angry, too bitter … too imperfect.
By the time I get home that afternoon, I’m exhausted. Unlocking the front door, I step inside and kick it closed behind me, dropping the keys in a bowl on the coffee table as I walk by the couch and into the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I let out a slow breath as I pull my t-shirt off and force myself to look at my reflection. I’m still fit, my body rock-hard despite the beating I’ve been giving it the past few months. But it’s the scars that draw my attention the most. They pucker my flesh starting from my neck, disappearing into the waistband of my jeans. Jagged, red and angry, they mar my skin, a constant reminder of all I’ve seen.
My right leg aches from the exertion of the day, a grim memory of the shrapnel that severed nerves below my knee when a grenade nearly took my leg off back in 2003. I was told that I’d never walk again. It’d taken me two years of hard work, but I proved them wrong. I’d been able to go back to Afghanistan and get back on the field with nothing more severe than a horrible scar that runs all the way around my leg below the knee, and a limp that becomes more pronounced when I’m too active. Then came the surprise attack from the Taliban on our small group. We’d been asleep, never stood a chance. When I woke up, I was in the hospital, flown home to Texas with a medical discharge from the United States Army.
To this day, no one seems to be able – or willing – to share how the Taliban found us.
I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at myself any longer. Starting the shower, I quickly strip off the rest of my clothes and stand beneath the water, feeling the heat begin to soothe my tired and aching muscles. Bracing one arm against the shower wall, I lean my head beneath the water and close my eyes.
“What secrets did the United States entrust you with?”
My head is pushed back down under the water, my entire body tensing as I thrash around, trying desperately to hold my breath. My head is pulled back up, and I cough violently as I blink the water away from my eyes. My head is forced back, and I stare wildly into the eyes of one of my captors.
“Last chance,” the man says. “Tell us your secrets, or you will die.”
I stubbornly refuse to answer.
The enemy soldier glances at the man holding my head up, giving him an almost imperceptible nod. This time, I’m not prepared for the rush of water that closes over my head. Instinctively, I open my mouth and immediately my lungs fill with water. I struggle helplessly, but I can feel myself slipping. White lights burn behind my eyelids, and I’m sure my chest might burst.
This is it. I’m going to die . . .
My head shoots up and I cough violently. Gasping for air to rid the sensation of water clogging my lungs. I lean back against the wall, running my hands over my face as I fight to control my breathing. These flashbacks come all too often.
The shower has gone cold and it bites into my skin, leaving goose bumps as I reach through the water to turn the faucet off. I wrap a towel around my waist and leave the bathroom. I grab a pair of black shorts from the dresser and pull them on, not even bothering with briefs. A quick glance at the clock tells me I still have two hours before I have to be dressed and back at the bar.
Plenty of time for a beer . . .
“Why would you tell him to work here? Are you insane?”
I’m standing face-to-face with Keets, my hands on my small hips. I know how tiny I am, and to most people this sight would be ridiculously funny . . . if I weren’t so angry.
“Admit it, Shan.” Keets grins, placing his can of beer down on the bar. “You need the help, and Lord knows Stone needs the distraction.”
“So, you send an alcoholic to work in a bar?” I shout, causing a few girls seated at the bar to turn and stare, giggling into their drinks.
“Shan,” Keets says, his tone suddenly serious. “The guy needs help.”
“So, send him to a shrink. I mean, what am I supposed to do with him?”
“Please,” Keets begs.
It’s the pleading tone in his voice that makes me pause. I drop my head down toward my chest and let out a loud sigh. I love Keets, but sometimes he can be a real pain in the ass. “All right,” I finally say, lifting my head. “But,” I continue, fixing a fierce look at him even as he grins in triumph. “If he fucks up, you can deal with him.”
“Done!” Keets agrees, raising his can to me in a mock salute.
“Now, I just have one question,” I say leaning over the counter conspiratorially.
“What’s that?”
“Where the hell is Stone?” I yell in his face, feeling a smug sense of satisfaction as he flinches.
“I don’t know,” Keets says sheepishly, taking off his glasses to wipe the lenses. His voice is so low I have to strain to hear it over the growing crowd in the bar.
“You don’t know,” I repeat. “His fir
st night of work, and you have no idea where he is.”
“Relax,” Keets snaps, putting his glasses back on as he stands up and slaps a few bills on the counter. “I’ll find him.”
I watch him leave before letting my shoulders slump in defeat. Picking up a rag, I wipe down the bar, pocketing the money he left behind on the counter. It’s just after 9 p.m. on a Saturday in the middle of January, and the bar is rapidly packing with people trying to keep warm.
“Shannon, what are you still doing here?” Effie’s shrill voice echoes across the bar.
I groan and suppress the urge to roll my eyes as the middle-aged woman makes her way through the crowd and parks her large ass down on a bar stool. “Effie,” I greet her with what I hope is a warm smile. I’m really not in the mood for the woman’s snarky attitude tonight.
“I’ll take a cherry Coke,” the older woman says, adjusting herself on the seat. “With two cherries.”
“You got it.”
As I prepare the drink, I can’t help staring at the other woman. She always dresses a little eccentric but tonight, she’s outdone herself. Effie is wearing a pair of bright pink leggings that barely stretch across her rump, a plain pink t-shirt and a ridiculously large white fur coat. Honestly, that damn coat. I’m surprised PETA hasn’t thrown paint on it yet. “Here you go.” I smile, placing the drink on the bar while trying not to look at Effie’s teeth, stained pink with lipstick.
“Thank you,” she replies, lifting the straw to her lips and swallowing a large mouthful, murmuring her appreciation. “That’s good.”
I pick up the empty glass the customer next to Effie left behind and wipe down the counter.
“So, what are you still doing here?” Effie asks, watching me clean with a distasteful purse of her lips. The older woman has probably never touched a rag in her life.
“I work here,” I answer, not looking at her as I place the money in the register and start stacking glasses.
“I know that,” Effie snaps. “But what about your new bartender? Wasn’t he meant to be starting tonight?”
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