Page 10 of Don't Speak

CHAPTER NINE

The lunch shift is pretty slow today. Our regulars have come and gone, leaving me to tend to their empty tables and clear them for the next customers.

As I’m wiping down the last table, Ben walks through the door, followed by the mystery man from the other night.

Surprise graces my features, but I quickly recover.

“Hey, Nikki. This is Dean. He’s our new bartender and occasional server, and I need you to help train him,” Ben says, sounding grateful to be having some more help around here.

“Hi, Dean. I’m Nikki. Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand, waiting for him to do the same.

“Nice to meet you, Nikki. I look forward to working with you,” he tells me, grabbing my hand and shaking it gently. Oh my. He has those rough, masculine hands I love.

Breaking the connection, I grab a rag and toss it to him. “If you think this is going to be easy, think again. I move pretty fast, so keep up. We should be getting one last lunch rush for the late eaters, and then we move on to the night shift. I hope you’re ready.”

“Oh, I don’t think you know just how ready I am,” he says, taking the rag and wiping every possible surface he can see without me even telling him to.

I see the slightest smirk grace his face before it’s gone, and I’m suddenly even more curious about this man.

There’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on.

Dean did well for his first lunch shift.

I hardly had to give him direction. He took charge, completing tasks I would have asked him to do if he hadn’t already taken the initiative.

It was refreshing, honestly. I hate having to babysit adults.

There’s nothing I hate more than telling grown-ass people how to do their job when they aren’t doing it correctly.

The real test, though, will be the night shift, which starts in thirty minutes.

After the late-lunchers were done, we were behind the bar with me quizzing him on how to make frequently ordered drinks.

He aced it. He hasn’t talked much, so I haven’t gotten the chance to ask him what his experience behind the bar is, but he clearly knows what he’s doing.

It makes my life much easier. I have a good feeling about him.

Cora will also be thrilled to have someone on the team who knows his shit.

“So… Dean. Not your first rodeo, huh?”

Dean chuckles. “I worked at a local pub to pay my way through college. Then, about nine years ago, I went back to help a friend of mine run it while he was receiving chemo treatment. Met a lot of nice people, learned a lot on the job, and I found that I had a knack for getting people drunk,” he replies, cleaning one of the beer mugs we have for draft beer.

“Oh, really? What did you go to college for?” I ask him, hoping that I’m not prying too much.

“I went to study Criminology and Forensic Sciences and graduated at the top of my class. I currently work in the freelance department, taking jobs people need done but can’t do themselves,” he tells me, not making eye contact. He shifts his body, seemingly becoming uncomfortable with my questions.

I can tell he’s holding back on telling me some things, but I don’t want to pry.

As someone who can’t stand when people are nosy and pry for information, I don’t like doing that to other people, so I move on.

“It sounds like the work you do is important, considering no one else wants to do the jobs you do.”

“Yeah, I guess you can say that,” he says, that sly smirk gracing his face again.

Curiosity getting the best of me, I ask one final question. “So how old are you?”

He chuckles. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to ask that question?”

I snort. “That’s with women, smartass.”

He grins. “I’m 39. Your turn.”

“I’m 28.” He stares at me for a moment, and I feel a blush creeping up my neck. Wanting him to avoid seeing it, I change the subject. “Well, are you ready for your first night shift?

“Born ready,” he says confidently, and I can’t help but feel like this is gonna be a good night.

It’s 11pm, and we have been absolutely slammed.

I guess everyone decided to come out all at the same time because the bar has had a consistent line for the last three hours.

My feet hurt, I’m exhausted from yet another double, and I just really want to be home.

On the positive side, Dean has been doing shockingly well for his first night.

He works great under pressure, hasn’t had a single issue with any customer, and has been able to make every drink without having to ask questions.

I think saying it has been refreshing would be an understatement.

The next customer walks up, unable to make eye contact with me, and says, “I’ll ha-have anutherr bee-beer pleaz.

” He sways back and forth, unable to remain still.

He lets out a hiccup. I wince, thoughts of my intoxicated mother flashing in my mind.

I freeze for a minute, and my heart starts thumping fast inside my chest before Dean notices and jumps in.

“I think you’ve had enough for tonight, my guy.

It’s time to close out,” he states, stepping in front of me.

I look up at him from behind, silently thanking him.

Working in a bar when you grew up with alcoholic parents probably isn't the most healthy when it comes to healing, but I’ve been able to manage it for the most part.

“Aww, c’mon, mm-man. Don’t hiccup be l-ike th-at.”

“Thems the rules, Tommy. Here’s your receipt.” I look back up at Dean with wide eyes, impressed that he has already learned some of the regulars’ names.

Tommy huffs, but doesn’t put up a fight.

He knows better. He’s been coming here for years.

However, when Tommy goes to sign the receipt, he misses and ends up signing the bartop instead.

I cover my mouth to stifle a laugh, and Dean slides the receipt underneath his pen to at least get some sort of scribble on the paper.

He turns around, letting out a silent laugh as Tommy finishes.

When Tommy leaves, Dean grabs the receipt and puts it in the register. Just as he turns around, I lose it, busting out in one of the loudest, belly laughs I’ve had in a while. Tears stream down my face, and I wipe them as they fall.

“I can officially say that is a first.” I chuckle.

Dean leans against the bar, smiling at me.

“What?” I question, still wiping the tears from my eyes.

“Nothing. You just have the cutest laugh,” he responds, grinning at me.

I feel my skin heat, and a flush creeps up my neck. I grab the ends of my hair, fiddling with it between my fingers. The moment doesn’t last as we’re quickly brought back to reality when the next customer walks up to the bar.

“I’ll take a draft Miller, and don’t fuck it up.

I’m tired of getting my beer with a ton of head on top,” he snips.

I stand there, shocked for a second at his unprovoked hostility.

Snapping myself back to reality, I tell him, “Maybe if you ask nicely, I’ll consider it.

” The one thing I have loved about working here is that Ben doesn’t make us take shit from anybody.

If a customer is being rude for no reason, he lets us handle it as we see fit.

“Excuse me?” the red-headed man says. I’ve seen him around before. I’ve noticed him talking to Eric a few times, almost as if they were friends, along with another gentleman.

“I said, if you ask nicely, I’ll consider it,” I repeat, slowing my words down and staring him straight in the eyes.

“Listen here, cunt,” he says and grabs my hand, pulling it toward him across the bar and gripping it tighter than I’m comfortable with.

He leans in and whispers, “I know you had something to do with Eric’s disappearance.

” Suddenly, the red-headed man is jerked backward, his grip disappearing, and I see Dean placing him in a position with one arm pulled behind his back, and Dean’s other hand grips him by the back of the neck.

“Listen here, you little shit. In this bar, you don’t put your hands on women.

” Then, I see Dean lean in and whisper something into the man’s ear.

It’s too loud in here for me to hear it, but the red-headed man’s face pales, leaving me with a sense of curiosity I know I’ll never be able to satisfy.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Dean escorts him from the bar, up the staircase, and throws him outside, telling the bouncers that he is not allowed re-entry —permanently.

Suddenly, my panties are drenched . That was unbelievably hot.

He’s not going to want you. You’re tainted.

Damaged. Blinking my thoughts away, I see Dean returning to the bar.

“Umm… thanks for that,” I tell him, unsure of what else to say at this moment.

I’ve never experienced protectiveness like that, even if it's platonic.

“Don’t mention it. Men who put their hands on women aren’t men. He doesn’t deserve to be in a bar surrounded by women if he doesn’t know how to treat them.”

The rage I saw in his eyes earlier has simmered, but his body still seems tense.

His jaw is clenched, and I can tell he’s holding back his anger.

This man has secrets. I don’t know what they are, but boy, would I like to find out.

I sense a darkness in him, and I think maybe his darkness might rival mine.

Closing goes smoothly. Dean stays behind to ensure I’m not alone in an empty bar, ever the gentleman.

The bar has been wiped clean, tables placed out for tomorrow’s lunch shift, and all the glasses have been restocked.

Dean walks me to my car, insisting I not walk alone at night in an empty parking lot. A girl could get used to this.

“Get home safe. I hope you have a good rest of your night.”

“You too,” I tell him, leaning against my car and looking into those mysterious hazel eyes.

I feel a small spark between us, but it’s gone as quickly as it came when a memory of my stepfather caressing my thigh flashes across my mind, and I turn away, breaking the connection.

I can’t get attached. It’s best if I just remain alone.

He opens my car door, waits until I’ve slid all the way into the seat, and then he closes it.

He stands there momentarily before walking to his car parked across the lot.

Starting the engine, I can’t help but watch him walk away, that curiosity coming back to bite me.

As soon as he gets into his own car, I put mine in drive and start pulling out of the lot.

The entire way home, I can’t help but replay the events from tonight in my head.

The way Dean grabbed that guy, the way he protected me, the way he threw him out…

I’m still curious as to what was said to the guy.

He seemed freaked out, his color having drained from his face like that.

I guess I’ll never know since the red-headed man is no longer allowed in the bar.

But that’s not the only thing I can’t stop thinking about. Because what did the red-headed man mean by, “I know you had something to do with Eric’s disappearance?”

Dean

Today would have been the perfect day. I woke up early, went to the interview, got the job, and started my training that afternoon.

I could see the way she relaxed every time she turned around to find me taking care of a task I knew was already on her list. The way her steely eyes softened each time she was about to bark an order at me only to find I'd already taken care of it. Taken care of HER. I wasn’t going to be another reason she needed to stress.

Ben told her that Eric had texted him that he was leaving due to a family emergency.

I sent him that text right before I removed the SIM card from Eric’s phone and tossed it out the window while driving home from my little session .

Good riddance. Watching the life drain from his body was immensely satisfying, and I hope he’s rotting in Hell.

Working with Nikki has been a breeze. I haven’t talked much, but she hasn’t minded.

A few simple conversations here and there, and we’ve been working like a well-oiled machine.

That is until I saw that red-headed shitbag from the other night, the one Eric was talking to.

I knew something was up by the smug grin he had on his face while waiting in line.

I quietly dismissed myself to walk around the bar, waiting to see if he was going to pull a stunt.

He did, unsurprisingly. At first, it was all verbal.

I’m not a fool. Nikki can handle herself, and I love letting her.

However, the second he put his hands on her, I saw red.

He touched what is mine. When I leaned in and whispered, “Count your days, bitch,” I saw the color drain from his face.

He knew I was serious, and he practically cowered in my hands.

He’s lucky he left the bar in one piece, but I didn’t need to cause a scene.

I don’t want witnesses to place me with him during a heated moment, and he ends up missing shortly after.

No. I let him go home, thinking he was simply just thrown out of a bar.

But later? Oh. Later, this motherfucker is mine.