Chapter Fifteen
Walker
My insides twist up and anger overheats me as I watch Isla lean in, laughter on her lips at something he said. The guy at the bar—tall, dark, and too damn close—hangs on every word that leaves Isla's mouth. He’d started the night off sad and broken looking, but under Isla’s attention, he’d perked up like a watered houseplant.
I know I should walk away, cool off, maybe even escape to the open fields of the farm and the comforting presence of my grandparents. But the thought of leaving her side, even for the span of a weekend, has my insides churning and my entire mind refusing.
I’m going to need to explore this obsession and see if I can get her out of my system, because she’s driving me mad.
“Looks like lover boy's about to reel her in,” Vice says, walking up beside me with a knowing expression written across his rugged features. His words scrape my already raw nerves, sparking an unreasonable anger that flares white hot through my veins.
I turn to him, clenching and unclenching my fists at my sides, trying to talk myself down from this unreasonable response. At least, unreasonable to anyone outside my head. My brain thinks I’m behaving in a perfectly reasonable manner.
“I'm glad you finally fired Cara,” he says, planting his hands on the bar and stretching his arms as he scans the place.
“She wasn't a good fit.” The words grind from my throat, my voice more controlled than I feel. Cara's departure sent a ripple through the bar like a cleansing tide—people are lighter, work flows smoother, and the men don't scatter like scared pigeons whenever she swoops into a room to stare at her from a safe distance.
Vice nods, eyes still locked on Isla. “Yeah, everyone's better off, especially since no one needs to dodge her anymore.” His gaze doesn’t waver from the two at the bar, where Isla’s smile seems to have the patron captivated.
I nod, though my attention isn't on Cara's absence or thoughts of the annoying woman. It's held by Isla, to the way her hand gestures punctuate her conversation, how her pretty hair falls in a cascading wave from her ponytail—she’s the drink and all the men here are dying of thirst in a desert.
Taking a deep breath, I push the heat down, trying to push down the possessive beast that rears its head and demands vengeance. I need to get away, get some air. Anything to distance myself from the toxic cocktail of desire and fury brewing inside me.
But I can’t seem to move from this spot. Especially when the man's hand brushes against Isla's arm. It's a simple gesture, but to me, it's a declaration of war. Every muscle in my body is wound up tight, ready to explode. He doesn't know that he's reaching into a lion's den, daring to touch what belongs to the king.
“Beautiful, isn't she?” Vice's voice is like a match tossed onto gasoline-soaked kindling, igniting a firestorm of rage in my gut.
“Shut up.” The words come out as a low growl. I can't look at her anymore—not with another man touching her. It should be my fingers on her silky-smooth skin.
“Whoa there,” Vice says with a chuckle, unbothered by my tone. “Need to step out and get some air?”
“Yeah.” I don’t trust myself to say more without giving away the extent of my desire for Isla. Pushing through the crowd, I head for the back door, seeking a moment to breathe in the cool night air. But before I can get more than a few steps, I hear Vice call out.
“Hey, what do you want to bet he gets her number?”
My fist clenches so tight I feel my nails biting into my palm. Betting on women used to be our thing—a game among predators. But Isla is no one's prey, and this is no game.
“Not interested.” I grit my teeth, my jaw set so hard I could crack teeth.
“Come on, man. Just for old time's sake.” Vice is pressing his luck, either oblivious to the line he's crossing, or well aware that he’s about to start a fight.
“Drop it, Vice.” There’s a warning in every word.
“Fine, fine,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender as I shove open the back door, stepping outside into the cold air that bites at my overheated skin.
But it does nothing to cool the anger boiling in my gut.
Back inside, I can see the look on Vice’s face and know he’s not going to drop it at all. Tension fills the air as Vice starts right back up where he left off. “I mean, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t want her number, but I’ve never seen her give it out.” His voice is casual, taunting—a red flag waving that has my temper ready to charge. He’s trying to get me to confirm his suspicion that I like her. I’d rather die than give up that knowledge.
Still, my vision tunnels and blood rushes in my ears.
“I bet he’s the first one. He really pulled her in with that sad act.” Vice seems to have no idea how much danger he’s in.
I turn, my body coiled with anger and released in one fluid motion. My fist connects with Vice’s face—hard. There's a sharp pain under my knuckle and the impact reverberates up my arm.
I hear Isla scream.
Vice hits the floor with a thud, a hand to his mouth, shock painted across his face before it shifts into something darker. He looks up at me, and our eyes lock. The message is clear: he knows. He knows how deep I'm in over Isla.
“Stop right now!” Isla's voice cuts through the rush of my fury, her tone sharp and commanding. I half-admire and half-resent her for daring to give me an order. No one else has the guts to confront me like that.
“Damn,” Vice mutters, swiping away the blood that trickles from his lip with his thumb and looking at the red smear. In a flash, he's on his feet, his own anger rising as red hot and ready to go as mine. We're locked in combat, throwing punches that miss more often than not. We’re too evenly matched, but the few hits we get are sharp, hard, and so satisfying.
He rushes at me, his shoulder at waist height and takes me down. In a moment he’s on me, his fists ready. Every hit is a release valve for the pressure building inside me. A left hook catches my jaw; I retaliate with a blow to his ribs. It’s savage, it’s primal, and God, it feels good. Pain flares across my skin and adrenaline pumps through my veins like liquid fire.
Eventually, our energy wanes, our movements sluggish. We break apart, both of us panting, sprawled on our backs on the floor. The ceiling spins slightly above us.
“Jesus,” Vice says, his chest heaving.
“Yeah.” I agree with him, the single word scraping out of my throat.
We haven’t fought like that in a long damn time, but I’ve missed it.
Around us, the crowd is a mixture of reactions. Some patrons laugh, others exchange worried glances, while a few deliberately ignore the spectacle. Money exchanges hands quietly, the result of bets placed on our brawl. Who would win—the ex-gang member raging because his woman is being admired by another, or his long time, ex-gang member friend who managed to get a secret out of me before this whole thing started?
I lie there, trying to catch my breath, feeling the sweat that clings to my forehead and dampens my hair. It's moments like these when I wonder if I've really changed at all.
I see the bucket tip and water hits us like an icy shockwave, drenching through the fine fabric of my shirt and Vice's, too, instantly clinging to our heated skin. We spring up, soaked to the bone as gasps and snickers from the onlookers meet our ears.
“We stopped!” Vice roars, swiping water from his eyes.
“Both of you need to cool it!” Isla's tone is both fierce and uncompromising. She’s on her knees, upright on the bar, the empty bucket dangling from her grasp like she’s considering throwing it at us.
I square my shoulders, water dripping from my hair, my gaze locked on hers. Fear flickers in Isla's eyes, a silent recognition of the trouble she's just unleashed. And then she's off, darting away like a startled deer.
The chase is instinctual, predatory. I’m on my feet, my boots pounding against the slick floor, every stride fueled by a fury that demands satisfaction. I catch her scent, that intoxicating sweet floral hint, as I corner her in the break room.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” I growl, pinning her arms to the wall above her head with an iron grip. The fear in her eyes is palpable, yet her lips, those defiant, tempting curves, are fixed in a position of annoyance.
“It got you to stop, didn't it?” she asks, her voice a daring challenge.
“We were already stopped.” But as the words hang between us, I realize our bodies are achingly close. Her breaths are short and ragged against my chest, her pulse thrumming wildly beneath my fingertips.
“Stop fighting and I'll stop getting involved.” Her strained voice only enflames the heat within me.
A shiver bolts through me, sparked by her closeness. Excitement dances in her eyes, mingling with a trace of fear – a cocktail of emotions that sends a jolt of desire straight to my core.
For a moment, neither of us moves, the world reduced to the space where our bodies press together. Then, slowly, reluctantly, I release her, stepping back to put some semblance of distance between us. But the heat remains.
She gasps for air as though I've been holding her breath hostage. Without another word, I turn on my heel, every muscle tight with need and frustration. I walk through the crowded bar, the rowdy laughter and clinking glasses telling me that everyone has already forgotten what they witnessed… or they don’t care.
Barging into my office, I slam the door shut, leaning against the cold wood as I try to compose myself. My heart hammers against my ribcage like it's trying to break free. The image of Isla, defiant and fiery, is burned into my mind, fueling the liquid desire that courses through my veins. Her scent lingers on my skin—something wild and untamed that calls to the most primal part of me.
“Dammit, Isla,” I mutter under my breath, raking a hand through my damp hair. The cool darkness of my office offers no relief. I can still feel her softness pressed against me, the heat of her body leaving me aching to feel more of her without barriers.
My thoughts spiral, images of her sprawled beneath me, legs wrapped around my waist, lips parted in ecstasy. It's too much. I need distance, space to breathe, to think. To not be consumed by the desire to claim her, to mark her as mine.
“Get a grip,” I growl to myself, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides. I can't do this here, not now. Not when every fiber of my being screams to take her, to lose myself in the sweet pleasure I know she’ll give.
With the decision made, I snatch the keys from my desk and storm out of the office, bypassing the curious gazes of my employees. They know better than to ask questions—no one wants to wind up fired like Daniel. I trust Vice will keep things going in my absence.
The crisp night air hits me like a slap as I step outside, but it does little to calm the heat that rages within. I stride across the parking lot, gravel crunching under my boots, the sound harsh and familiar.
Unlocking my car, I slide behind the wheel onto the expensive leather. With a turn of the key, the engine roars to life. I glance once at the neon-lit entrance of the bar, half expecting, half hoping, to see her standing in the doorway.
But there's only a bouncer, the night, and the road ahead.
I throw the car into gear. Tires squeal as I tear away from the curb, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as I drive into the darkness.
The road to the farm stretches out before me, the lanes empty and the freedom inviting. Each mile puts distance between Isla and me, each passing second a chance for me to rebuild some of my control. But it's a false sense of control. She's under my skin, in my blood, an ache that won't be eased by miles or time.
Tonight, I'll find comfort in the countryside with the people I love. But tomorrow, I'll have to face the truth—I'm in too deep, and there's no turning back. Not anymore.