Page 10
“ H on, can I have my beer?”
I wince as Mrs. Reardon’s voice cuts through the noise for the third time in as many minutes.
“Sorry, Mrs. Reardon!” I call back, already reaching for the tap.
She’s one of our Monday night regulars, part of Dry Creek’s rowdy, but lovable Over-Fifty Bowling League.
They bowl.
They drink.
They laugh way too loud.
But they tip well. Very well.
Honestly, they’re the highlight of my week.
Or at least they used to be.
Because tonight?
Tonight’s different.
Because he’s coming.
Kian .
Tall, golden-haired, broody-as-hell Kian O’Malley, with those eyes that see too much and lips that know exactly how to ruin a woman in the best way.
He’s picking me up after my shift.
Just thinking about it now has my damn heartbeat racing like I just ran a mile in heels.
I bite my lip as I pour too fast and create a mountain of foam.
Classic.
With a sigh, I tip the glass and pour it off, trying not to think about how my hands are shaking just imagining him in that cleaner-than-expected truck, waiting at the curb like some smirking, hard-bodied knight in a flannel.
I set the beer in front of Mrs. Reardon with an apologetic smile.
“This one’s on me.”
She beams at me and returns to her table, where her friends are already halfway into their second basket of wings and plotting a rematch next Monday.
I wave, warmth bubbling up in my chest until I turn to the next order.
And feel it all die.
Because the next customer is not a sweet bowling grandma.
He’s one of them.
The rowdy assholes from the other night.
The ones who made my skin crawl and triggered Kian’s unusual defense of me.
Seriously, when I think about how he intervened I swear I get all gooey inside, which is definitely not my normal response to seeing a man’s temper so near to rage.
The cowboy grins when he sees me, all teeth, like he knows just how uncomfortable he makes me.
“There’s my girl,” he says, like I’m some prize steer he tagged for later. “How about you pour me and my boys a round of whiskey shots?”
His voice is oily, too familiar, like we’ve shared more than a transaction.
You wish, fuckface.
I want nothing more than to bleach the words off the air.
I force my spine straight. “So, three shots of whiskey?”
“Four, darlin’. Pour one for yourself too.”
He winks.
Barf.
It’s not the long, frizzy hair. Or the way he leans too far over the bar. It’s the energy. It is way off.
Wrong.
Predatory.
Still, I tell myself I’m overthinking.
Plenty of people flirt with bartenders. It’s part of the gig.
So I nod, keep my eyes down, and pour the shots.
I don’t make eye contact. I just reach for the bill he drops on the bar, but then his hand is on my wrist.
Fast.
Hard.
Possessive.
And completely unfuckinginvited.
“Ouch!” I gasp, eyes going wide.
He leans in, all teeth and menace. “I said pour four. You deaf or something?”
“Let go of me.”
My voice is sharp now. Cold. And loud enough that heads start to turn.
I flick my gaze to Bob, who thank God is here tonight.
He catches my silent plea and lumbers over, frowning.
“Can I help you?”
The cowboy doesn’t even flinch.
He just drops my wrist like he wasn’t squeezing it a second ago and turns to Bob with a greasy smile.
“No sir, just here to drink in your fine establishment. Enjoying the view.”
He leers at me like I’m the Monday night special.
Hot, juicy, and served on a plate.
Gross.
Bob turns to me with his best I’m too old for this shit look.
“Arliss, what did I tell you about being friendly to the customers?”
Oh, hell no.
“Whatever it was,” I snap, “I’m damn well not flirting or drinking with guys like him.”
Because I know the difference between a harmless flirtation and being treated like meat.
And if this jerk doesn't walk away soon, then God help this asshole.
Because I am not the one.
And this cowboy’s about two seconds away from being fertilizer.
“I hope your mood improves fast, girlie. I’ll be back for round two in a second.”
The cowboy winks as he speaks, his voice slick with promise and menace all tangled together like barbed wire dipped in honey.
And for just a second, more like a heartbeat really, his eyes glow.
Not the kind of glow you get from too much whiskey or too little sleep.
Predatory.
Inhuman.
Wrong.
But then he blinks, and it’s gone.
Like I imagined it.
But I didn’t.
I know I didn’t.
My stomach coils as he saunters off, and I barely notice Bob stepping in beside me, muttering under his breath.
“You need to behave better behind the bar, Arliss. I can’t have this kind of attitude in my establishment. If it keeps up, I’ll have to find someone to replace you.”
Replace me?
I whip my head around, eyes narrowing. “Bob, you know I need this job. But you can’t honestly expect me to flirt with customers like that!”
My voice is low and sharp, laced with revulsion. The words scrape my throat, but I don’t hold them back.
“Now, I didn’t say flirt, Arliss,” he hedges, lifting his hands. “But this is my place. And it’s my good reputation you’re tarnishing when you act a certain way to my customers. So if a man wants to buy you a shot?—”
I bark out a laugh.
Not the kind of laugh that says I’m amused.
The kind that says I’m done.
“What did you just say? You know what, Bob, you serve reheated wings and stale beer, for fuck’s sake. And if you think I’m gonna let some creep paw at me just to protect your dusty-ass ‘good reputation’ the answer is hell no!”
I rip the apron from around my waist and toss it at him with all the dramatic flair of a soap opera heroine who’s just hit her limit.
“That’s it. I quit!”
It’s loud.
It echoes.
It feels damn good.
“Arliss!” Bob sputters, like he didn’t just accuse me of bringing down the bar’s nonexistent Michelin star rating.
“ Mo Chroí ? Are you alright?”
That voice. It’s him.
Deep.
Smooth.
Steady.
I spin around and there he is. My Kian.
Shit. I shouldn’t think of him like that.
But there he is, standing in the doorway like he was summoned by the storm brewing in my chest.
His eyes are on me, unwavering.
And even though I know he didn’t hear the whole exchange, I feel like he knows.
Somehow, he knows.
“Yeah,” I say, lifting my chin. “Come on. I’m leaving early.”
“Alright, let’s go,” he says readily.
The dim light in the bar hits his eyes just right. They glitter like good whiskey in a crystal glass, and I swear shivers run through me at the sight.
Sexy man. Dangerous to my heart.
But right now, he’s a risk I am willing to take.
I walk towards him. I don’t wait for Bob’s reaction.
I just head to the tip jar, scoop out the cash, and split it down the middle.
The other server— sweet woman, probably terrified —blinks as I press half the bills into her hand.
“Here. Fair’s fair.”
“Thanks, Ar,” she murmurs.
Then I march right up to Kian.
He tilts his head, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in his universe.
God, I wish that were true.
“You ready, Mo Chroí ?”
His voice is low, a promise wrapped in danger.
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
At least, I hope we’re talking about the same thing.
But I don’t ask.
I just move, right past the point of no return, as he holds the door open for me.
The night air hits like a slap and a kiss all at once.
Inhale sharp.
Exhale slow.
Little jolts of lightning spark under my skin, up my spine, down my legs, across my arms.
I shiver.
“Cold?”
“No.” I shake my head.
Not cold.
Alive.
Buzzing.
Terrified.
But finally free.
Free from the lies I told myself.
From the silence I swallowed.
From the life I settled for.
Tonight, I made a choice.
I chose me.
Because I am important, too.
And Kian O’Malley?
He looks like the kind of man who might just burn the whole damn world down just to make sure I never forget.
I stop in front of his truck and spin to face him, heart pounding like it’s trying to outrun the mess I just made of my life.
“I don’t know what you heard, but um, I just quit my job.”
The words are high and tight, wrapped in a cocktail of adrenaline and panic.
His eyes sharpen immediately.
“Did someone make you mad or hurt you tonight, Arliss?”
The way he says my name makes me almost lose focus on what he’s asking.
How can one man be so damn sexy?
“No, not really,” I breathe, but he’s already looking past me, toward the bar.
His jaw flexes. His body shifts.
I can feel it. He’s two seconds from storming back in, fists first, questions later.
But I don’t want that.
I want, well, truth is, I want him .
Right here.
Right now.
I want Kian to take me home with him.
Even if it’s a terrible idea.
Even if he’s the worst kind of beautiful mistake.
Even if he’ll never truly be mine.
So I do something reckless.
Something bold.
Something so unlike me it feels like a stranger has taken control of my mouth.
“Kian?”
“Yeah?”
But he isn’t looking at me. He is still watching the bar door like he can see or hear something that I don’t.
“Take me home with you?” I ask, voice trembling, hope crackling like a live wire between us.
His gaze snaps to mine, sharp and stunned.
“What?”
And for a second, I falter.
Maybe I misread it all— the heated glances, the protective energy, the way he’s always felt just a little too close when we talk.
Maybe he doesn’t want me.
My throat closes, my heart stutters.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I thought you—shit. Oh, God, I thought you wanted me. But of course you don’t. I’m not?—”
“Hey,” he cuts in, voice rough, low. “No mistake.”
But I’m spiraling now, embarrassment rising like bile.
“You don’t have to lie, Kian.”
“I’m not fucking lying. Not to you, Arliss. Never to you.”
“Yeah, right.”
But then he grabs my hand.
Not gently.
Not cruelly.
Just desperately.
He brings it to the front of his jeans, and oh.
Oh.
That’s not just hard.
That’s steel and sin wrapped in denim.
His cock jumps beneath my palm and my pussy clenches on air in response. Like his dick has some magical direct line to my long neglected libido.
“Feel that?” he growls, teeth clenched.
I nod because yeah, I fucking feel that. I would have to be dead not to.
“That’s for you, Arliss. Always for you.”
My fingers curl, instinctively pressing deeper, and his body shudders.
“This is insane,” I whisper.
“I know. If you don’t want this, you better tell me now.”
“What if I don’t want you to stop?”
“Then get in the truck,” he says, voice like thunderclouds and gasoline. “But know this, I’m not gentle. I’m not careful. And I don’t do halfway.”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
My body is already moving.
Because everything he is describing? All that rough and tumble he is promising me with his words and that flash of whiskey in his eyes?
I want it.
I want it all.
I grab the handle, but before I can even lift a foot, he’s behind me, his hands huge and firm around my hips.
“I got you,” he murmurs, and the way he says it?
Like a promise.
Like a prayer.
Well, it makes something inside me crack wide open.
He lifts me effortlessly, my body sliding against his, and my breath hitches as he presses his lips to my neck, teeth grazing just enough to make me moan.
“You smell so goddamn good,” he growls, kissing the spot he just nipped like he’s claiming it.
Then he sets me gently on the seat, eyes stormy with need, but still waiting for me.
I don’t look away. I need to show him I am ready for this. That I want it.
Want him.
“Buckle up, Mo Chroí ,” he rasps.
And I do.
Because I know. This ride? It’s gonna change everything.