Page 29

He’s back.

The bikers in leather jackets with padded shoulders skirt around his table. College students who thought they were good with one more shot until they got to their feet weave and stumble as they take the long way to the exit.

He sits at a small, scarred wooden table in the Hellwood Brewery, a grimy bar in Ellis Wood, Ohio, and no one dares to go near him.

It’s the way he studies the world—and me—from the edge of the dance floor.

His eyes are beautiful, a gray-green mix I’ve never seen before. And his hair. Chin length, dark, and a little wild, just like his penetrating gaze.

For the three nights since I stepped off a bus in search of a job and heard the local drinking spot was hiring, he’s sat at one of my tables.

Watching me.

“You’re new,” says the guy I’m serving, distracting me from the man wearing dark gray flannel and denim. As I change my grip on my small black tray, my customer focuses on my name badge. “Della. I’m Jerry.”

It’s Delilah Stacey. I’ve been Della since I left home at sixteen, which was eight years ago. Now, only my bosses call me Delilah when I fill in the paperwork they need before I start my job.

Truth be told, I kind of miss being Delilah.

Or maybe it’s having a home and a place to belong that I miss the most.

“I’m new,” I echo, placing an ice-cold Bud in front of him. The table rocks because, apparently, that’s all it takes to make a table rock in the Hellwood Brewery. “Enjoy your night.”

But I’m distracted. I’m always distracted.

Because of him .

Malakhi Gabriel, according to the locals.

He lives on a big plot of land with about twenty others at the edge of town. No one is sure what he does there, just that he doesn’t need to work. Neither do all the people he lives with.

They keep to themselves, making the odd trip to town to pick up supplies. They must be doing okay for themselves, or at least Malakhi is. His jeans are clean, and his dark-gray shirt is still new-looking, not like something he’s had for a while and washed over and over.

Jerry’s eyes slide to my hair.

Most nights, I tie it back. I was running late tonight, so stuffing myself into a pair of skinny black jeans, a black t-shirt with the bar’s logo splashed on one boob, and combat boots took priority.

Once I’d done that, all I had time to do was run a brush through my hair, twist an elastic around it to keep it out of my face, and I was out the door. Five minutes late.

I wait for Jerry to comment on my gray-tipped hair. Real or fake? Or how it bears a striking similarity to a skunk. Or a wolf’s tail. Everyone does eventually. I could dye it. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it, but I’ve already changed my name to separate who I was eight years ago from who I am now. I didn’t want to change my hair as well.

“Your hair is unusual.” Jerry doesn’t take the Bud Light he ordered.

I really wish he would. At ten on a Friday night, what else is he in a bar to do if not to drink?

“I saw a wolf with the same color in a documentary once,” Jerry continues. “It was a rabid, mangy thing they had to put down.”

See? People cannot help themselves.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Malakhi’s hand tightening around the long neck of his Corona. I’ve never seen him raise a bottle to his lips, and when I clear his table, the bottle is full, the beer flat.

“Sure is.” I smile and turn to walk back to the other side of the bar, where I’m in no danger of someone grabbing my ass.

“How do you like our town, Della?” Jerry grins.

“It’s nice.” If a little handsy. “If there’s nothing else.” I’m walking away as Jerry stretches a long-fingered hand toward my ass.

My self-regulated clumsiness kicks in.

I bump the corner of his table with my hip. Jerry, who was more focused on grabbing my ass than picking up his bottle, finds himself wearing the contents instead of drinking it.

“Shit! Sorry,” I mutter as he seizes the bottle with a curse before it can keep foaming all over his white t-shirt. “I tripped.”

His thin lips tighten. The corners of his brown eyes pinch as he shoves himself to his feet. “Fucking?—”

“ Leave. ”

Jerry halts, and his mouth gapes open.

We both turn to the small, scarred round table where Malakhi Gabriel always sits.

“ Now. ” His head is lowered, his longish walnut brown hair brushing a square, stubbled jaw with a dimpled chin.

When Malakhi doesn’t move, Jerry steps around the table, fingers clenched in a tight fist as he glares at me.

I inch back as I prepare to defend myself with my small black tray. It’s not the first time I’ve had to do it, and I doubt it’ll be the last.

“Or die,” continues Malakhi in a deep baritone so authoritative I believe him. “Your choice.”

Conversation dies. The rock music playing overhead continues as everyone turns to stare at the man who hasn’t spoken one word until now. And only to threaten to kill a man who tried to touch me.

Jerry takes one look into his gray-green eyes that promise death, slams his bottle down on the table, and stalks out.

I watch him go and release a quiet sigh of relief, even if I’ll be spending the next several minutes cleaning foaming beer from the table and floor.

I’m still watching Jerry when footsteps rush toward me. Turning, I observe Clint, my blond and bearded bar manager, hurrying over. He must have been in the back for him not to have intervened.

Clint glances at the door Jerry slammed shut on his way out and, frowning, turns back to me. “Are you okay?”

I shrug, grabbing the now-empty bottle since most of its contents are all over the floor. “Fine.”

“You should be more careful. Jerry can be trouble,” he warns me.

“I will.” For the short time I’ll be here.

After what just happened, I’m thinking tonight will be my last shift.

“Get back to serving, and I’ll deal with this mess.” He nods at the spill.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “It’s my mess.”

“I’ve got it, and I’d say it was Jerry’s mess. Not to worry. I’ll stick that beer on his tab,” he says with a smile as he holds his hand for the bottle. “You have tables waiting on you.”

I pass him the bottle gratefully.

As Clint heads to the bar to grab cleaning supplies, I glance over at the man who only comes to this bar to watch me.

His table is empty.

When did he leave?

And why does he order a beer from the bar, sit at one of the tables that offers waitress service, and not drink or say one word to me?

Unlike the times he’s come before, he’s left a napkin on his table. A folded one.

I wipe my damp palm on my jeans and cross the floor to investigate, my boots sticking from the night’s spilled drinks. On the way, I flash a smile at a man who waves an empty bottle at me. “I’m coming!”

I get to Malakhi’s table, set my tray on it, and pick up the folded napkin.

The word scrawled in pitch-black ink makes me forget to breathe.

Mine.

What is that supposed to mean? The table is his? The beer?

My stomach tightens.

Me?

I chew my lip as I frown at the exit. Clint told me Malakhi used to come to the bar once a month before I started working here. Now he’s here on a nightly basis.

Who the hell are you, Malakhi Gabriel? And why do I think the thing you’re trying to claim is me and not this table?