Page 2 of Wicked Ends (Hellions of Hade Harbor #4)

Arianna

A tritone: The devil’s interval

If there were any place I’d never imagined ringing in my twenty-fifth birthday, it was this one.

A run-down dive bar off the highway, bursting at the seams on a Friday night.

The jukebox was loud and rocking, the counter was sticky, and there was a rowdy energy in the air that nearly made me forget that I was eating my self-proclaimed “birthday burger” alone.

Always alone.

A slick pass in the game on the TV above me caught my attention. The star forward of the opposing team scored a goal. Burgers and hockey. If I tried hard, I could pretend I was fifteen years old and at my grandparents’ place. Sinking into my memories was a comfort, until it wasn’t.

I ate and watched the game. All the booths were filled, so I was stuck at the bar. Eating alone had never felt that comfortable, but the noise in The Clutch made me less self-conscious. No one was observing me here; of that, I felt sure.

For one thing, there were more than enough beautiful women around, playing pool in Daisy Dukes and hanging all over their leather-clad lovers.

Women with big hair, red nails, and buckets more self-confidence than me.

Good for them. The last thing I needed was attention.

I’d spent my life without it—no, that wasn’t quite true.

I’d never experienced the good kind of attention, only the kind that got me into trouble, and I was already in enough trouble as it was.

I didn’t need any more.

I finished my burger and sucked the sauce off my fingers one at a time, lamenting the absence of napkins at the bar. I pushed my plate back and finally took a glance around.

There was a new bartender standing a few feet away, and his eyes were fixed on me. Heat suffused my cheeks.

Christ, did he just watch me polish off a huge burger and lick my fingers clean?

My solo status felt like a neon sign over my head. Also, eating in public was something I’d always been a little self-conscious about. When you’d grown up hearing about how big-boned you were, observations that graduated into fat and lazy to boot, it tended to give a girl a few insecurities.

However, I’d promised myself, when I’d stared into my little niece’s eyes one day and she’d asked me why her daddy called her piggy, that I’d get over that particular insecurity and stand the fuck up for myself more often.

That resolution had earned me a black eye later that night, but I still didn’t regret it, and I never would.

“Damn, I swear, I got tired of the goddamn cheeseburger here years ago, but you—you make it look good.” The bartender smirked at me.

I blinked at him. Was that a compliment? I had no idea. Maybe he was only making conversation. Sometimes I forgot people did that.

“It’s good, you should give it another try.” I attempted to imitate his casual confidence but only sounded stern.

His mouth quirked up at the corner. “I’ll do that.”

He reached out to take the plate. I couldn’t help but stare at his inked arms. He had a black T-shirt on and black jeans, and his forearms were corded with muscle.

He was hot. Hotter than I knew what to do with.

He sauntered to the end of the bar and placed the plate on the kitchen pass-through before returning to stand in front of me.

“So, what’s your poison?” he asked after a moment.

I realized I’d been staring. He really was beautiful.

Dark-haired with those floppy casual waves that framed his face, a nineties pop idol.

His slash of eyebrows crowned his big brown eyes.

He had stubble, enough to outline his strong jaw, and tattoos climbed up his neck.

He was tan, like someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, and he flashed me an easy smile with the confidence of someone who knew they looked good.

“Excuse me?”

“What can I get you?”

“Um, I’ll have a drink,” I managed to get out.

He watched me for a second longer and then chuckled.

“I’d think so, this is a bar, after all… unless you’re after something else.”

His gaze dragged down my body, and my cheeks burned even hotter. Did it seem like I was propositioning him? Even if I knew where to start, the idea that I’d hit on the hottest guy I’d ever spoken to was laughable.

“Something fruity?” I suggested. “Not beer.”

I hated beer. The smell of it nauseated me. The Proust Effect in full force, and beer was the scent of a hell of a lot of crappy memories.

“Sure thing, coming up.”

He turned away, and I took a second to enjoy the sight of his back, which was just as impressive as his front.

His shoulders were broad as hell. He was athletically built, and I found myself wondering what sport it was that a big guy like this played.

Another bartender came behind the bar. This girl was small and slender, delicate, which was at odds with the barbed wire choker around her throat and her black fishnets and Docs.

“Marcus, I’m going. You’ve got this handled, right?”

Marcus? His name is Marcus. It was strong and striking, like him.

Mr hot bartender sighed, long and hard. “I don’t work here, Ronnie, for the tenth time, but well done for pushing your fucking luck, like always.”

The girl stopped and smiled winningly at him.

“Yeah, well, Cole says you can cover me, since you’re actually here and not out fucking around with your friends.” Ronnie waved her cell phone at Marcus. “You want to call him and check?”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Marcus tossed at Ronnie.

She smiled victoriously and spun on her heel and walked away.

When he turned around again, I dropped my eyes, embarrassed to be caught listening in.

“Here, one fruity, non-beer drink,” he said and placed something pale pink in front of me.

“Thanks,” I murmured and took a sip. It was tart and juicy, and honestly delicious, but… there was something missing.

“Is this a mocktail?” I wondered.

“Sure is. I don’t know if you’re driving or not, or if you’re even over twenty-one,” he teased.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. It was so preposterous.

“Twenty-one? Try adding another four years on, as of today,” I sighed.

“It’s your birthday?”

I nodded. “Twenty-five.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Now I know you’re just lying to get a drink. I’ll need to see your ID to believe you.”

“Very funny.”

“No, really,” he drawled, and his focus dropped down and fixed on my wrist. “Interesting tattoo.”

Just like that, he reached out and snagged my hand, twisting it to see better. I stilled. He’d touched me. I was so touch-starved, even the impersonal grip of this stranger felt good.

I glanced down at the place where his long, calloused, thick fingers met my skin.

Ah, yes, my one and only tattoo. I’d gotten it when the world felt like a very different place. Now, it was oddly jarring and out of place with the person I’d become. My grandma had let me get it when I was in high school. My grandpa had nearly had a heart attack when we’d come home.

The tattoo wound around my wrist. Musical notes, a scale climbing a bar, each in a vivid, bright color. Marcus moved my wrist this way and that, inspecting the ink.

“Hmm, C is yellow, I get that. E is green, interesting.” He raised an eyebrow at me.

“It’s just a tattoo,” I murmured, trying to stop my lonely heart from beating right out of my chest at the brush of bare skin from this beautiful man. God, I really was pathetic.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think it is… it’s too purposeful. Synesthesia, right?”

I stared at him, shocked. I’d had synesthesia for as long as I could remember. Some of my earliest memories were of seeing color when hearing music. It wasn’t something regular people knew or cared about.

He was still studying my tattoo.

“How do you know about synesthesia? Most people think it’s some kind of myth, like the Loch Ness Monster or the female orgasm.” Why did I say that? I had no idea. I was flustered by his touch and the fact that he was asking me such personal questions. Smooth, Arianna, very smooth.

“Let’s put a pin in that orgasm topic, we’ll circle back to it.”

My heart pounded at his lopsided grin.

He cleared his throat. “Music is a hobby of mine,” he supplied and set my hand back on the bar top. He stepped back and tugged up his black T-shirt.

Jesus Christ on a cracker. I stared.

His lower abdomen was liberally inked, but that didn’t distract one bit from the muscles formed in deep grooves.

They packed his lower belly, and a light dusting of dark hair appeared, leading the eye lower still to where his belt sat, hiding the rest of the masterpiece that was this man from my hungry eyes.

“Eyes up here, beautiful,” he drawled.

Heat rushed to my face. He was grinning at me and tapping a spot beneath his heart.

“ Diabolus in musica ,” I murmured, immediately recognizing the notes C and F-sharp, connected by a jagged line. “A tritone,” I clarified, clearing my throat and hoping to shift attention away from my embarrassment.

“You know music,” he said approvingly.

I shrugged and took a slug of the mocktail, hoping it could keep my head cool. All this attention from a guy like him was making me overheated.

“Yeah. I studied it, back in the day,” I muttered. I didn’t feel like sharing with a stranger that I was just about to start teaching music at the local college. It would trigger too many follow-up questions.

“Back in the day, what, a whole year or two ago?” Marcus chuckled. “So, what’s a woman like you doing in The Clutch? I don’t know if you’ve realized it or not, but a biker bar doesn’t really seem like your scene.”

My eyes widened as I glanced around. “This is a biker bar?”

Marcus laughed. “The cuts didn’t tip you off, or the bikes outside?”

Duh. I was such an idiot.

“A cut is like a jacket, right?” I wondered. I watched TV. I knew the basics. “Are you a biker, then?”

“Not voluntarily. I’m just heir to the shitty throne,” he said and waved a hand carelessly at the bar.

I didn’t have time to dig into that statement because all hell broke loose.