Chapter 6
LILA
M onday night at The Old Haunt, and I'm wiping down the same spot for the third time. My eyes drift to the corner—his corner—empty again tonight. Two days since Dane let my carefully caged memories loose.
I shouldn't be looking. Shouldn't be counting the nights. Shouldn't feel this odd twist in my stomach—part relief, part disappointment—when that dark corner stays empty. I don't even know the guy!
"You planning to polish a hole through that wood?" Joey asks, limping past with a crate of Heineken.
"Just thorough," I mutter, moving down the bar.
A lie. I'm distracted, and distracted gets you hurt.
That's the lesson New Orleans taught me.
Mr. Colton started with lingering glances too, with that intensity that made me feel special until it made me feel trapped.
Dane could be the same. And even if he's not, intense men…
they're fire. Beautiful from a distance, devastating up close. Not for me.
"Manhattan, straight up," calls the businessman at the end of the bar.
I mix his drink, present it with a practiced smile that doesn't reach my eyes. My professor would call it performative authenticity—playing a role that feels true enough to pass. It's what I do best now.
The night crawls on. Monday means finance bros and exhausted grad students. It means good tips if I laugh at the right jokes, terrible ones if I don't. And It means watching the door even when I tell myself not to.
What would I even say if he came back? "Thanks for the violence"? "Sorry I ran"?
My hand rises unconsciously to my ear cuff, fingers fidgeting with the metal curve.
"Another round for that table," Joey points to the NYU law students in the corner—Dane's corner.
I grab bottles, pour shots, deliver them with a quiet efficiency that earns a decent tip. They're safe, these boys with their textbooks and trust funds. Predictable. Unlike ex-Marines with storm-gray eyes and secrets etched into their literal and metaphorical scars.
I turn back toward the counter and freeze. He's there—just sitting at the bar like he materialized from my thoughts. Dane, perched on a stool, those eyes locked on me.
My skin flushes hot from neck to hairline, heart doing a ridiculous stutter-step. Great. Just perfect. My body's decided to throw a welcome party while my brain's screaming evacuation orders.
"Hey," he says, voice gravel-rough. Just one syllable, but it lands with weight.
"Hey yourself," I manage, proud when my voice doesn't betray me as I make my way behind the counter. "Whiskey?"
He nods, watching me with that unnerving focus. Like I'm being lined up in crosshairs.
The glass clinks against the bar top as I slide it over. "Didn't think you'd be back."
"Had a case." His fingers brush mine as he takes the drink, sending another unwelcome wave of heat through me.
"A case? You a lawyer?"
"Private detective." He shakes his head once, muscle ticking in his sharp jaw.
So masculine!
Danger, danger, danger —my internal alarm blares while my pulse decides to go joyriding.
This is how it started with Mr. Colton too. That flutter, that electricity. Mistaking predatory focus for genuine interest. The way he made me feel special, seen, until I realized I was just being hunted. Is that what Dane is doing?
"On the house." I nod at his whiskey. "For the other night."
"Not necessary."
"I insist," I say, already moving away to serve other customers, needing breathing room from whatever this magnetic pull is.
I keep in taking orders, mixing drinks, making change—all on autopilot while acutely aware of him watching me. Not leering. Just... observing. Like he's cataloging my movements, filing away information.
When I circle back, he's nursing the same whiskey, barely touched.
"Not up to standards?" I ask, nodding at his glass.
A ghost of a smile. "Taking it slow tonight."
"That's a first for this place."
"I'm not much like this place."
No, he's not. The Old Haunt is predictable, comfortable, safe. Dane is none of those things. He makes me think of a storm wrapped in human skin, promising both destruction and the breathless thrill of standing in open air while lightning strikes too close.
And isn't that just the problem?
Because part of me—the reckless, stupid part I've spent years burying—would love to step right into that kind of storm.
The crowd thins after eleven. A few stragglers nurse their beers, but the usual Monday rush is over. I'm wiping glasses when I feel it—that prickle across my skin that makes me look up.
I lock eyes with Dane. He gives this almost imperceptible nod, like some secret military signal. Come here .
My feet move before my brain catches up. Traitors.
"Need a refill?" I ask, even though his glass is still half-full.
"No." He sets his whiskey down, eyes intent. "I'm heading out soon, but I wanted to ask you something first."
Oh shit. Here we go.
"What's that?" My voice sounds way too breathless. Get it together, Lila.
"Have dinner with me. Tomorrow night."
Not a question. A statement. Like he's already decided and is just informing me of the plan. Classic alpha-male bullshit that shouldn't be attractive but...
Danger, danger, danger —my internal warning system blares again.
"Dinner?" I repeat like an idiot, buying time while my body and brain have an epic showdown. My body's argument is simple: Look at him . My brain's making a PowerPoint presentation titled "Men Who Seem Perfect: A Horror Story by Lila Marks."
"Yes, dinner. Food. Conversation. Maybe even… dessert." His lips curve slightly as he lean forward a bit.
God, those lips. They shouldn't be allowed.
"I know what dinner is," I say, fidgeting with my ear cuff. "I'm just... surprised."
"Why?"
"Because you're… um… you and I'm—" I gesture vaguely at myself. "Working my way through grad school behind a bar."
"I'm me and you're you. Seems simple enough."
My heart does a stupid little flip. This is exactly how it happens, they make you feel special right before they show you that you're nothing.
"I don't even know your last name," I say.
"Wolfe," he says.
But of course!
He asks, "What's yours?"
I shake my head, then blurt out, "Marks."
"So… what's it gonna be Lila Marks?"
I want to say yes. Every cell in my body is screaming for it. But cells are idiots. They also crave sugar and alcohol and other things that destroy you.
"I can't." I force the words out. "Thanks, but no."
Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment maybe, but he doesn't push. Just nods once.
"Offer stands. If you change your mind."
"I won't."
He leaves a twenty for a ten-dollar whiskey and walks out without looking back. I tell myself the hollow feeling in my chest is relief, not regret.
It's almost convincing.