Return of the Bad Boy (16 page)

T
he moment
I walk into Outlaws, I instantly realize how much I stick out. Worse than a sore thumb. More like a sore limb, or a sore whole body. Silly me, I thought my skinny jeans and slim-fitting T-shirt would be appropriate for a bar, but many of the women in here are wearing tiny, skin-hugging skirts and sexy shirts that make me look like a nun in comparison.

My face burns when several burly, greasy-looking men turn and stare my way, their gazes raking me up and down for a moment before visually dismissing me, but I make myself continue walking through the propped-open front door into the bar.

The floor crunches underneath my ballerina flats. I think it’s peanut shells I’m walking on but I can’t say for sure, and I’m kinda too scared to look at what it is. Instead, I find a space at the end of the beat-up wooden slab of a bar and slide onto the rickety bar stool.

Some kind of rock with a heavy thudding beat throbs through the large room, which is dimly lit. I hear the crack of a pool cue hitting a ball, dozens of people laughing and talking. The air in here smells like beer and warm sweat—there’s no air conditioning, but thankfully there’s a fresh breeze wafting in through the open door.

I suck in a deep breath, pressing my hand to my lower belly, and steady myself. Today, I begin again.

This is my new life. My new hometown. The place where I can leave my shitty past behind and start over. Rock Bridge, Michigan, a town chosen completely at random. A town that includes the seediest bar I’ve ever seen in my life. I didn’t think joints like this existed outside of movies.

I was totally wrong.

I study the beer to see what’s on tap. Most are the usual offerings, but there are a couple of brands I don’t recognize. Maybe local? I should try one out to help me acclimate myself even more to my new town, my new state.

I peek down the length of the bar but don’t see a bartender. No one else at the bar seems to care, though. They’re all caught up in talking to each other, waving hands in the air, yelling over the music. Their voices mingle around me.

Minutes pass. Nothing happens—I’m completely ignored by everyone, and behind the bar is still empty.

I shift nervously, second-guessing my impulsive decision to stop in here. Maybe this wasn’t my best idea after all. But I spent all day moving into my cheap but furnished apartment, unpacking my meager belongings and getting settled in. I passed the bar on my way to my new place and saw it’s within walking distance.

For whatever reason, I didn’t want to stay in that apartment by myself. Not tonight. I needed to be around other people. To remind myself that I’m safe.

So here I am, sitting by myself at the dirtiest, grittiest bar I’ve ever seen.
Like a fucking loser,
I think, then correct myself.
No, not like a loser. Like a new girl in town—there’s no shame in that.
I’m not letting
his
voice insinuate itself inside my head anymore. He can’t control me, can’t tell me how I should feel about myself. My chest lightens with the realization that finally, finally, I’m out of his grasp.

I take my first real deep breath in what feels like months, and my shoulders relax of their own volition. So what if I’m alone here? I don’t care. I don’t want anyone talking to me right now anyway. I just want to drink a beer and relax. Be around people, but not necessarily worry about integrating myself.

Besides, how would someone “integrate” herself in a bar like this, anyway? Offer blowjobs in the bathroom? The thought makes me laugh.

“Uh,
hello
,” a deep voice says from behind the bar, clearly irritated.

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring blindly at the nocked bar surface, and peer up into the sky-blue eyes of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my life. His dark blond hair is clipped short on the sides and pushed up in the front, and his black T-shirt barely fits over his well-formed chest. His curvy lips are pressed together in a thin line, surrounded by a red-blond close-clipped mustache and beard, and he has one brow arched at me.

He doesn’t look happy to see me. So much for customer service, I think.

“Um. Sorry. Yeah, hi,” I stumble. Something about the intensity of his gaze makes me clench, unnerves me. He’s raw sexuality personified.

He quirks his brow even higher. “I don’t recognize you.”

“I’m new to town,” I reply. “Just moved in today, actually. I came from upper New York.” Why in the hell am I telling him all of this? Something about him makes me really nervous. And when I’m nervous, I ramble.

“So, did you come from upper New York to just stare at the bar, or do you actually want something to drink?” His voice is flat.

My cheeks burn, and I tilt my chin up. “I would like a beer.”

He just stares at me like I’m a total moron, not speaking.

The heat slides down my throat and over the rest of my face. Dumbass. Of course I want a beer. I’m in a damn bar. He must think I’m a total idiot. I clear my throat. “Something local, please. Not hoppy though. Anything you recommend is fine.”

He doesn’t say a word but saunters away and grabs a thick mug, tucking it under one of the taps. It’s hard to not stare at his ass in those faded, fit jeans. The fabric cups him perfectly; his thighs are strong, too; I can tell that much. My belly throbs in response
to his blatant potency—he’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen in real life. His arms are covered in tattoos, and I can see another tattoo peeking over the top of his T-shirt at the base of his neck.

So not my type.

And how well has your type worked out for you?
I question myself in a stinging inner voice. Because the last guy who was my so-called type, clean-cut with a good job and a polite demeanor that pleased my parents, turned out to be the worst mistake I ever made. The reason I left behind everything and everyone I know to start over in some random town I picked off a map.

After what I went through with my ex, I should know better than to judge a book by its cover again.

At the thought of him, my pulse picks up and my lungs squeeze tight.
He isn’t here,
I remind myself. He has no idea where I am. I’m fine now.

The mug of beer slides across the bar toward me. I grab it before it spills on my lap, cupping the cool glass in my palms. Hot Bartender is quite the charmer, isn’t he? He didn’t even wait to see if I caught the drink before giving me his back in order to flirt with a woman wearing the smallest tank top I’ve ever seen in my life. I think it was made for a toddler.

“Smith,” she coos, leaning over the bar to give him a flash of her perfect cleavage. “I thought you were gonna call me.”

He murmurs something in response that I can’t hear, and she licks her lower lip, sexing him up with her eyes. Clearly she isn’t really that upset that he never called her back.

I fight back the urge to roll my eyes at them and sip my drink. Whatever. I don’t care about him, anyway. Let them flirt. I’m content to just sit here and enjoy my drink. I have to give him credit—he picked something good for me. It’s rich but not too heavy, with slightly sweet undertones. I’ll have to ask him what it is. That is, if I can tear his attention away from the chick.

I close my eyes and let the taste roll around in my mouth. This is my new life, having new experiences, trying new beer. Baby steps. No more having someone tell me what is best for me. I can tell myself.

A small smile slides over my lips. I take another big gulp, then barely keep from spitting it out all over the bar when something hard slams into my back. I spin around to see what’s happening—two men are shoving at each other with a group of people half circled around, yelling at them.

“Fuck you!” the dark-haired man yells to the shaved-headed guy. “You fucking cheated!”

“I didn’t cheat, asswipe,” the other man says in a warning tone, his eyes slit narrow. “You’re just too fucking drunk to be any good. You suck at pool.”

“And
you
suck my dick,” the first guy says, then gasps when the shaved-headed guy slugs him right in the jaw.

I blink and jerk back in shock. What the hell? When I turn to see what Smith, the bartender, will do to handle the brawl, I see him staring at the two men, looking bored. He gives a weary sigh then strolls around the bar and waves at the men.

“Knock it off, assholes,” he grunts. “Take that shit outside.”

The guys ignore him at first, shoving at each other.

I see Smith’s jaw tick, and then he steps up and grabs them at the scruff of their necks. “I said, take it the fuck outside.” His words are low, barely heard over the thudding music, but effective. I even find myself responding to the bold command in his voice, the confident and firm grip of his hands, my spine straightening. What the hell?

The two men stop and while they’re both panting and glaring at him, they do as he asks and pull away from his grasp, shooting nasty glares in each other’s directions. The crowd groans and gripes about the fight breaking up, but they disperse, going back to their regular activities of drinking and playing pool and hitting on each other.

Wow. I’ve never actually seen a bar fight before. I realize I’m clenching my beer mug and loosen my fingers’ death grip on the glass. My heart is fluttering wildly, in fear and…if I’m honest, a little bit of excitement. Just a tiny bit.

Because here I am on a Friday night, in a crazy-ass townie bar, having some random beer and being brave, all by myself. Two weeks ago, I was cooped up hiding in the apartment, popping anxiety pills like candy, desperate to stop feeling the tension and fear that came with almost every encounter I had with Roger. Wishing I could make him happy, knowing that something had to change because I was reaching my breaking point.

Two weeks ago, the big incident happened that pushed my life in this new direction.

“Hey, sweetness,” a voice says right in my ear from out of nowhere. I slide around on my stool and see a short, stocky man with a neck like a football linebacker. His brows are a dark slash on his forehead and he’s eyeing me greedily. I can smell beer on his breath. “You here alone?”

I give him a polite smile and try to find a way to give him a nice brush-off. “Just enjoying a beer before I head back home, thanks.” I start to turn back toward the bar when his hand slides along my lower back and grips my side. The intimacy of the gesture makes my skin crawl.

“My name’s Dan. I haven’t seen you in here before. You’re gorgeous.” Dan moves closer until there’s barely an inch between us.

I lean back. Dan may be short, but he’s built and strong. And after seeing that earlier fight, I’m trying to figure out the best way to blow him off without ending up in a bad situation. I wiggle away from his hand and put my beer mug on the bar. “That’s nice of you. I’m new here and just trying to enjoy some quiet time.”

“What’s your name?” he presses.

My pulse picks up. I’m so not in the mood to deal with a pushy guy. “I really want to be left alone right now.”

Dan’s brow furrows and he frowns. “What are you, some kind of snobby bitch? I’m just being nice.” He moves closer again, and I can see red rimming his bloodshot eyes. He’s really drunk. His gaze is barely focused on me. “I can be real nice, baby. Make you feel right at home.” Those hands reach out again to grab my waist and he yanks me off the stool, tugs me flush against him. I feel his hardness pressing against me, and a rush of panic floods my system.

My heart thrums. I try to pry myself out of his grip, but he’s too strong. “Let me go,” I tell him in the firmest tone I can manage.

“Just relax,” Dan breathes against me, and the warm beer breath puffing on my face makes my stomach turn. “You don’t have to be so uptight. Have some fun with me, huh.”

I’m in full-blown panic mode, about to let out a scream.

Then suddenly, he’s jerked back, his hands releasing me. I stagger in response to the sudden freedom, and see Smith gripping Dan’s shirt at the throat, and then Smith’s fist slams into Dan’s face with a sickening crunch.

Dan’s head whips back, blood gushing out of his nose. His hands fly up to cup the injured part. “What the fuck?” he cries out.

The whole room has gone quiet, so Smith doesn’t have to yell. “Get the fuck out of here and don’t come back to my bar. Ever.”

His bar.
He’s not the bartender—Smith owns Outlaws.

With his face obscured by his hands, blood pouring out between his fingers, Dan staggers his way outside and disappears into the night.

My heart is beating so hard I’m sure Smith can see it when his laser focus turns to me. I open my mouth to thank him for intervening, even if his method was a little…barbaric… but he speaks first, cutting me off.

“You okay?” He looks me over, his hot eyes raking my entire body. I feel myself flush in response.

The excitement of yet another fight peaks and subsides, and the bar goes back to its regular action. All in a day’s work, I suppose.

I nod. “Um. Yes. Thank you.”

“You should leave, too.”

“Wait, what?” I blink in surprise. He’s kicking me out, for real? “What did
I
do? He’s the one who—”

“Sweetheart, this place isn’t for you.” Smith takes a step toward me, and I can smell his rich, spicy scent. My pulse kicks up again, this time in a sheer sexual response. He stares down at me hard. “Outlaws is too rough for someone like you.” I see the moment his eyes fill with dismissal. Just like that, he’s deemed me too soft, too delicate. “Try Foley’s Sports Bar at the other end of town. They’re better suited for you.”

Smith walks away and goes back to his place behind the bar. The girl who was flirting with him eyes me, shakes her head with a little smirk of pity, then turns her attention to Smith, reaching over to stroke the back of his neck.

My entire face burns with anger, with embarrassment. How dare he treat me like that? He doesn’t know what I’ve gone through. He thinks I’m just some scared little girl, but I’m not. I set my jaw, slide back into my stool, and face my beer again.

Fuck that. I’m not leaving here, at least not until I finish my drink. Smith just threw a big, fat challenge my way, and I’ll be damned if I cave. I’m not slinking away with my tail between my legs.