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He takes his sweet time answering. His gaze takes me in, staying on my breasts an extra second. He's discreet, but I caught him. I guess Professor Dick has some not-so-ethical issues of his own.

“I'll take a Dos Equis.”

“Lime?”

“Please.”

It's all so polite and aloof, but underneath the surface, in the two feet of space between us, there's a silent war waging.

I slam the beer bottle on the bar top harder than I intend, and, even with the lime on top, some of it slushes over. A few drops fall on the back of my hand, and, on instinct, I lick it. Professor Dick’s eyes track the movement like a heat-seeking missile.

I curl my lip. He’s too big. Too tall. Too beautiful. Too much of an ass. And yet my stomach doesn’t revolt, my throat doesn’t clench. The need to run and hide is not there. I want to dig into this revelation, analyze and understand it, dissect it like a bug under a microscope, cut it down into tiny bits until there’s nothing left. Doesn’t matter … as attractive as he is, he’s still Professor Dick.

I tend to what few customers I have and go around the bar, cleaning tables. The night is winding down. Another thirty minutes and I can leave. Gus always comes back exactly five minutes before midnight and shoos away whatever stragglers are still around. He pays me in cash for the night, plus the tips I have already pocketed. It's not exactly legal, but I prefer it this way. Cash can't be tracked the way paychecks can. He gives me extra when we don't have a busboy to clean the tables. Lucky for me, tonight is one of those nights. Every dollar counts.

I make my way back to the brothers as Tommy gets up and walks toward the restroom.

I look at the nearly empty bottle sitting in front of Dylan. “Last call. Want another one? If so, you gotta get it now, we're closing soon.”

He shakes his head. “I'm driving. One is enough.”

I'm sure he can handle more than one beer, but who am I to question him?

“What are you doing with my brother?” His fingers play with the etched label on the bottle. If it were a paper label, it would clearly be in shreds by now.

“Nothing, he's a friend.” For once, I can say that about a guy I picked up at a party and be truthful. It's been a few weeks since that night, and nothing has happened between Tommy and me.

“I know all too well how friendly you can get.” His voice is disdainful. Sharp.

Jesus! Asshole much? He saw me kissing one guy. How dare he make a judgment about me like that?

Heat flares in my chest. “You're a dick.” The words are out before I can stop myself. I don't care if he's a professor and can get me in trouble. It's the truth. He's being a dick. I call it like I see it.

“That shouldn't be a problem for you, then.”

I tilt my head, still staring at him. Did he imply I like dick? For real? The urge to throw something at him is so overwhelming I fist my hands until I feel my nails dig painfully into my palms.

His fingers tap the scarred wood top. “I want you to leave my brother alone. Do I make myself clear?”

“You talk like I'm some kind of predator.”

“Aren't you?”

The question is a spear through my heart. I’m not a predator. I'm not a pervert. I have never been with anyone under eighteen. Not even when I was under eighteen myself. I’m the furthest thing from it. I hate anyone who preys on kids with an intensity that scares me. I don’t prey on kids. I’d kick anyone’s ass who tried the crap that was done to me.

“You don’t know me. We've never even had a conversation before—”

His voice lowers. “I know enough. I've seen enough. I've heard enough. Tommy is a sweet kid. Sweet and naïve.”

I grip the edge of the counter. Fingernails digging into the wood. “We’re both adults, and Tommy can make his own decisions.”

He leans into the bar top, eliminating the space between us to mere inches. “I don't want him to get hurt or catch an STI. Stay away from my brother.”

The fuck? He just about called me a whore. I know Tommy is sweet. That's exactly why I like him. That and the fact that he's one of a few guys who treats me with respect. Who talks to me like he cares. I'm not giving up on him. Not that easily. I ignore the not so veiled insult.

“And if I don’t?”

He stretches to his full height and looms over me, puffing his chest out, causing his shirt to strain over his shoulders. He shoves his barstool aside, and its legs screech across the linoleum. He leans across the bar top, hands holding his weight, and stops like he’s loath to get too close to me.