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6

EMBER

“ W hat made you decide to open a bar in this town?” Rocco asks when the last of the dinner dishes are cleared away.

The food was amazing. Even better was the fact this man made the plans. He messaged me with a time, place, and restaurant. Said he’d collect me from outside the bar. And told me if I didn’t like the arrangements, to let him know so he could book something else.

It was a refreshing change from the usual You up? , What do you want to do? , and Wanna just hang? messages I usually end up with. Men who put in the absolute minimum has become the norm in the dating world, and I hate it.

I run my fingers up and down the narrow stem of the wineglass. “I’m from here. So are my parents and grandparents. I went away to college but missed the wide-open spaces and the way the sun bounces off the snowy peaks in spring. Plus, I have my horse stabled at one of the local ranches.”

Rocco’s dressed nice: a pressed shirt, clean jeans, and dark black cowboy boots. But it’s his warm smile that draws me in.

So different to Atom’s surly pout.

I mentally berate myself. It’s possibly the twentieth time I’ve compared the two, and I really need to stop.

“Makes sense. Why a bar?” he asks.

I spent so much time making the decision about what to invest in. “I did an analysis of what the town needed. Went through every possible kind of business. Hotels and motels. Restaurants. Specific stores. I even looked into getting a grocery store franchise from one of those big retailers. But when I boiled it down, I realized there wasn’t a place for something more like a small concert venue. I’m not talking arena scale, obviously. There were bars where a band could play, but given the venues were so small, the revenue wasn’t enough to attract better-quality bands. Then the bar went up for sale. Well, the building did. It used to be three stores, side by side. An equestrian store, a clothing store, and a cafe. I bought the building and created the bar.”

Rosso nods as I speak. Actively listening. Never once does he pick up his phone or stare off over my shoulder. “That’s clever you saw the real estate potential.”

“That’s a compliment coming from you.”

He shrugs. “Thanks. But working for my dad’s property development firm isn’t half as impressive as building my own business from the ground up.”

“Is that something you would like to do?”

Rocco takes a sip of water. He stopped drinking after one glass because he still has to drive us home. “I don’t know. I think I like brokering big transactions, something new every day.”

I laugh at that. “Oh, there’s something new every day running your own business.”

He leans back in his chair. “I can believe that. I guess what I’m saying is, I have multiple projects on the go at any one time. Some close to fruition; some just starting. It takes me all over the country.”

For a heartbeat, I’m a little disappointed. I see potential in Rocco, but it’ll be hard to let the spark catch fire if he’s not around much. “You like to travel?”

“Who doesn’t love to travel? Seeing the world, experiencing new things. For work, getting on an airplane every week can get a little old, but I’m home more often than not.”

Okay. I can deal with that. After all, I work mainly evenings.

“Can I get you guys anything else?” our server asks.

Rocco looks at me. “You good?”

I nod. “I’m so full, you might need to roll me out of here.”

The bill comes, and I offer to split it, but Rocco refuses before paying it. And as we walk out of the restaurant, he does that palm-on-my-lower-back thing, which I low-key love.

Even as I note his hand isn’t quite as big as Atom’s.

When we step out into the night air, it’s still hot, thanks to the sun baking the sidewalk all day. But his manners continue as he opens my door and offers me his hand when I lower myself into the sporty ride.

I’m relieved the date has turned out this way, but I have shared my location with Quinn, just in case. She’s having a night in, reading. It’s her book club soon. While I have an open-ended invitation to join, I’d rather chew off my own fingernails. Reading bores me. If I have spare time, I’d rather be outside with my horse.

Plus, reading about those men who’d burn down the world for their women, while the man I want won’t even talk with my father, hits a jealousy nerve so strong that I want to throw the book at the wall.

As we pull up outside the rear entrance to my apartment, I have the conflicting emotions of being sad our evening is over but knowing myself well enough that I don’t want to invite him inside…yet.

Not when the kiss in the barn is still playing on repeat in my head.

It’s not fair to Rocco.

And I need to give myself a little grace while I reconcile getting a taste of something I know I’ll never have again.

“Wait there,” he says, bolting out of the car to race around the hood to open my door.

Again, he offers me his hand. It’s smooth. Not calloused and rough like Atom’s.

Jesus, Em! Just stop.

“Thanks for a lovely evening,” I say.

Rocco smiles. “Let me walk you to your door. My mom would never forgive me if I didn’t.”

There are two entrances to my apartment. One is behind the bar, a locked door up to the second floor, but if I go that way, I’ll never get through without questions and raised eyebrows as I lead a man up there behind me. So, we walk around the back to a small yard where I park my truck, and an exterior staircase leads to a small patio on the balcony and a door to the apartment.

He takes my hand, and we walk to the base of the stairs.

“I had a good time tonight,” I admit.

Rocco reaches out and touches a knuckle to my cheek. “Me too. I might be out of town for a few days on business, but I’ll call you when I’m back.”

“That would be nice.”

He leans towards me, slowly enough I have time to say no, but I don’t. I let his lips brush across mine. They’re tender and sweet, not aggressive, not seeking more. Just a gentle first kiss to end a nice evening.

“Ember Deeks?” The call of my name causes me to step back from Rocco as a shaved-headed man steps out of the truck parked on the street. His accent is Eastern European. And he’s the size of a horse. When he gets closer, I see the tattoos that cover his arms, the side of his neck, and up his skull. All religious icons. Jesus wearing the crown of thorns, a cross, and praying hands.

My heart lurches. Men with religious tattoos like his often do the most heinous things. I look up and down the street, and while there is still music and laughter coming from inside Whiskey Fever, it’s quiet around the rear entrance that has just enough space for my truck and the bar dumpsters.

“Who’s asking?” I say.

Rocco nudges me ever-so-slightly behind him. He’s a tall guy, but not as built as the man approaching us. A second man, wearing a leather jacket, climbs out of the driver’s side of the car. Equally big and strong, with a lot more hair.

I reach for my purse to pull the gun I always carry out of it, but the original speaker deliberately reveals his weapon in a chest holster.

“Wouldn’t do that if I was you,” he says, and I stop.

Whatever fleeting, tiny sprig of hope I had that this was a social call disappears in a heartbeat.

“You need to get the fuck out of here,” Rocco says to them, but it’s a weak threat. I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze it gently, hoping he understands that he needs to calm down a touch. I appreciate his defense of me, but not if it leads to both of us being shot.

I try to think through what my dad would tell me to do. I can run up the stairs, but I might get shot. I can scream…still could get shot. But whatever this is, I don’t want Rocco to get hurt because of me.

“I’m Ember Deeks. What do you want?”

The driver smirks, his eyes grazing my body in a way that repulses. “It’s more what you need.”

“Protection,” the first man says.

Rocco looks over his shoulder at me. He shakes his head ever so slightly. A silent warning to not say any more.

I heed his warning and shift a little farther behind him, trying to discretely shift the strap of my purse so the bag slides in front of me. If I could just get to my weapon, this would feel like a more even fight.

“Protection for what?” Rocco asks.

“For us to ensure nothing happens to the bar or any of its employees,” the driver says.

My eyes narrow. “You have no idea who you are messing with.”

“I know everything about you.” The man runs his hand over his bald head. “And your daddy isn’t going to be able to fix this for you. Nor is he going to be able to save this town.” He pulls the gun from his holster. “Or we could just end this, if you prefer.”

I can always agree, for now. All that matters is getting out of this situation unscathed. “What terms are you proposing?”

“A venue like Whiskey Fever could easily pay us ten thousand dollars a month,” the driver says.

The ten thousand, I can manage if that’s what it takes to get rid of them safely. I have that in the company bank account. It’s a price I’m willing to pay to save my life.

Once.

But that’s my limit. If they come back a second time, I’ll be more prepared.

“That’s extortion,” Rocco says.

The bald man grins. “We call it ‘business.’”

Rocco steps forward. “You can’t just?—”

The fist comes so fast, I’m unsure which of the two men threw the punch until I see the bald man nursing his knuckles.

“Rocco,” I gasp, dropping to the floor. “I’ll pay. Just leave us alone.”

Rocco’s lip is busted, blood dripping down his chin. But the look of fury in his eyes has me pressing on his shoulders to hold him down.

“Thought you might see what a good business deal it is for you,” the driver says.

“How do I pay?” I ask.

“Don’t do it,” Rocco pleads. “I’ve seen situations like this before with my father’s real estate business. Once you’re in, you can’t get out.”

I lean closer to his ear. “You have no idea who my family is.” I hadn’t told him my father is president of the Iron Outlaws Motorcycle Club. Men either want to be with me because of him…or don’t want anything to do with me because of him. There never seems to be a middle ground.

But now, for Rocco’s sake when he is seemingly defending me, it’s important he knows I have more capable backup if I end up out of my depth.

“Have the money ready,” the driver says, stepping back to the truck before getting inside and starting the engine. “Cash.”

“Sometime in the next forty-eight hours, you’ll be advised how to deliver,” the bald man says. And I can tell this is their usual business. It’s like they’re finishing each other’s sentences.

He looks down at Rocco, then steps back and kicks him in the gut, before slapping the side of my face. It’s sharp and hard, and I fall backward, landing on my ass as I let out a scream.

While I’m down, he grabs my purse and quickly removes the gun before throwing the purse back to me.

As they drive away, I call 911.

I know my father will need to know eventually. But he’s in Sturgis, too far away and likely too drunk to help me tonight. And I need to call the police and report my gun stolen in the event those men use it to commit a crime in the future. It has my fingerprints on it.

Rocco groans. “Jesus, did it need to be steel-toed boots?”

I place my hand over his as I wait for someone to answer. “I’m so sorry.”

Rocco smiles weakly. “Could have done without the post-restaurant violence, but other than that, I had a good night.”

I shake my head. “Thank you for trying to defend me.”

He shrugs, still struggling to catch his breath. “Does this mean I get a second date?”

The tightness that has been in my gut for the last few minutes eases. “And probably a third.”