Chapter 4 #2
“I think it’s by design. If you’ve noticed, he doesn’t have a backrest or rear pegs. The guy doesn’t want a passenger.” Another woman with warm skin and dark eyes responds. Her gorgeous wavy hair is pulled up into a perfect messy bun.
I have no idea what Sarge means when he says this place doesn’t see women “like me”. These women are neck-breaking beautiful.
I quickly wash my hands as they fix their hair and makeup in the bathroom’s small mirror. One sink and mirror in a woman’s bathroom is criminal.
Between the crowd and the fact that women tend to travel in pairs, it's not a great setup.
By the time I push my way out of the bathroom, the bar is in full swing. The bass pounds hard enough to shake my ribs, bodies swaying and colliding on the dance floor. I throw myself into the crowd. Dancing, and laughing while letting nameless new friends spin me in circles until the room blurs.
For a while, I don’t think about Martin. I don’t think about Sarge. I’m simply a part of the commotion, one of the nameless faces. Nothing to prove, no one to answer to.
Panting but filled with energy, I eventually drift back toward the bar. Resting my elbows on the smooth bar top, I hear that velvet voice through the noise.
“I think it’s time for some water, Hannah.”
My head tilts in the direction of his voice. Sarge. Standing there like the guardian I didn’t ask for.
Something low in my core heats. Shut up ovaries.
“I think I can have another, Dad,” I shoot back smugly. “Still dancing fine, aren’t I? You would know, since you’re watching me. Actually, there’s a bathroom full of girls who would love that attention from you. Why don’t you go play with one of them?”
He arches a brow. “Do you have any idea where Martin is?”
I shrug. “Not his keeper. Nor is he mine.”
He studies me with that unreadable face, which only makes me glare harder.
“Water first, Butterfly. Then let’s get you home.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I should have mentioned that you are not my keeper either. I make my own decisions, and I don’t have to answer to you or to anyone.” Planting my palms on the counter, I turn my head back to the bar.
Before I have a chance to order anything, the bartender sets a glass of water in front of me, shooting me a knowing smile. Traitor.
Glaring at Sarge over the rim of my glass, I down the water. In truth, I needed it, but I’m not about to let him know that.
“Okay, come on,” he says, his hand closing gently around mine. “Let’s get you home.”
I yank my hand back. “I’m not ready. I drank your water. Now I get another drink.”
His lips twitch like he’s hiding amusement. “Hannah, it’s last call. They closed your tab and I already signed for you.” He holds out my debit card, the receipt wrapped around it.
My jaw drops. “You what?”
“Signed for you. I tipped in cash. Didn’t feel right adding that to your card without knowing how much you’d be okay with.
I was up here already, so Rose gave me your card to get back to you.
” He throws his head in Rose’s direction.
“She saw me with you, and she knows the club. Trust me, it’s safer with me than anyone else.
” His tone is steady, calm, and frustratingly reasonable.
Taking my card from him, I cross my arms, trying to keep my indignation from melting. “I think my card is safest with me.” I huff out. “You think because you know everyone here you can just do whatever you want?”
He shakes his head. “No. And I don’t know everyone. But enough. I like to know who I’d trust in a crowd—and who I wouldn’t.”
He’s teetering on a fine line between arrogant and sweet. What an odd combination.
“I appreciate you trying to be nice,” I snap, my words slightly blurred by the alcohol.
“But I don’t know you. I would rather you come find me than just..
. sign for me. I was only in the bathroom.
” I step into his space, my voice remaining confident.
“And you certainly don’t need to tip for me.
How much do I owe you? I’m paying you back. ”
He doesn’t move. He stays irritatingly calm. “You’re right, we don’t know each other very well. I’m sorry if I overstepped, but you don’t owe me a cent. It’s the least I can do after your friend left you here.”
“Excuse me, he what?” The shock in my voice stings. Sarge had warned me this would happen, but I’d banked on him being wrong.
“He’s not here, he left.” His response is flat, factual—no room for argument. “But it’s alright, I can get you home.”
Control. Authority. He might mean well, but it feels like I’m an object being moved across a board. Decisions are being made for me before I can even open my mouth to protest.
I fish my phone out of my back pocket and call Martin. It rings and rings before dropping to voicemail.
Shit.
Something stiffens inside me, a quiet rebellion against being seen as some helpless girl. I’ve worked too hard shielding my soft spots to let them be exposed now.
But then there’s that other part—the part that can’t help noticing how his words aren’t forceful. He isn’t barking orders; he’s just... taking care of it.
I square my shoulders, willing my voice to stay firm.
“Look, I’m grateful, really. But I’m not a huge fan of someone deciding for me. I need to do my own thing, on my own terms. I’m a person, not a pawn.”
His eyes meet mine evenly, and I can feel him pausing to assess me. His gaze doesn’t feel like it carries judgment, more like he’s simply seeing me. Somewhere deep in my chest, I realize I’m holding my breath.
“If he did leave me here, I can assure you I know how to get myself home. Thank you,” I add, trying not to be a total bitch.
His hand comes up to gently place my hair behind my ear. He doesn’t push for more. It’s like he can sense how backed into a corner I feel. Fight or flight has taken over, and I’m leaning towards fight.
He speaks low and steady, the gravel in his voice somehow softer now.
“I don’t ever want you feeling like I’m moving you around like a pawn.
If paying me back is important to you, then I won’t stop you.
But please know it’s not necessary.” Lowering his hand, his good thumb rubs across the scars on his palm.
“I’m not trying to take your voice from you.
“I’m sorry if I came off as controlling.
Truth is...” his mouth twists slightly, like the words taste strange, “I’m kinda rusty at this.
I haven’t had anyone catch my eye in a long time, and I’m more or less figuring it out as I go. ”
He shifts his weight, and for the first time, he looks almost nervous. Still, his eyes remain locked on mine.
“If you’ll let me,” he says, his voice equal parts smooth and gravel, “I’d like to make sure you get home safely.”
He extends his hand, steady and open—no demand, no expectation—only an offer.
I stare at it for a long moment, then look back up into his eyes. Damn, those eyes. They’re the kind that look right through the thick walls I’ve built without needing to break them down. They’re the kind that make me want to say yes even as the loudest part of me screams to always stay in control.
But, like the drunk idiot I am, I give my nonverbal yes. Sliding my hand into his, I let him lead me out into the cool night air.