Chapter 2 Sierra
SIERRA
The Happy High Roller is already filling up when I push through the staff entrance, and I’m grateful for that. A busy bar means less time inside my own head.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
I clench them into fists at my sides as I walk toward the manager’s office, forcing a smile onto my face.
Fake it till you make it. Isn’t that what all the self-help podcasts say?
Smile until you believe it. Smile until you forget the feeling of fingers digging into your arm hard enough to leave marks.
I peek my head into the office. Marcus is leaned back in his chair, eyes on the security monitors like always. The man hasn’t left that chair during a shift in probably six months.
“You’re almost late, Dixon.”
The use of my last name is supposed to be intimidating. It’s not. Marcus talks tough, but he’s about as threatening as a sleepy golden retriever.
“Talk to me when I am late,” The sass comes easy because this is what I do. I make jokes. I smile. I pretend everything is fine.
He chuckles, waving me off, and I head up to the rooftop bar.
The city sprawls out beyond the glass railings, all neon and noise. Viktor’s out there somewhere. The thought makes my skin prickle. Vegas never sleeps. Neither do my anxieties, apparently, but at least here I can drown them in work.
I tie my apron, check my station, start slicing limes. The familiar rhythm should help. It usually does.
Tonight, it doesn’t.
My brain is stuck on repeat, rewinding to the parts I’d rather skip. Viktor’s face when he grabbed me. The way his voice dropped, all that false sweetness curdling into something ugly. You think you can just walk away from me?
And then the other one. The stranger. Huge and armed and staring at me like he could see right through my skin.
I slice a lime too hard, and the knife skids toward my knuckles. I jerk my hand back just in time, heart hammering.
Get it together, Sierra.
I used to trust people. I used to look at strangers and assume the best, give everyone the benefit of the doubt. My mom always says I have a generous heart.
Turns out a generous heart is just another way of saying easy target.
The knife slips again, and I have to set it down before I hurt myself.
“Earth to Sierra.”
I blink. Nell is standing at the bar with her serving tray, giving me that look. The one that says where’d you go just now?
“Sorry.” I shake it off, reaching for a smile. “What can I get you?”
“Shot of Beginner’s Luck and a Bankroll Bramble.” She tilts her head, studying me. “You okay?”
“Peachy. Just tired.”
It’s not a lie. I’m exhausted. I’ve been exhausted for weeks, ever since I realized that the man I thought I loved was actually a monster wearing a nice-guy mask.
Ever since I started checking over my shoulder every time I leave my apartment.
Ever since sleep became something that happened in two-hour bursts between nightmares.
But I don’t say any of that. I pour gin, add elderflower liqueur, and shake it like I mean it.
“I wanted to tell you,” Nell says while I work, “Ashlynn loved the flowers.”
Satisfaction hums through me at the compliment. Ashlynn is Nell’s sister. I did the arrangement for her baby shower two days ago.
“Yeah?”
“Are you kidding? She cried. Like, ugly cried. Said it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.”
I slide her drinks across the bar, and I can’t help the real smile that tugs at my lips. This is the part of my life that still makes sense. Flowers. Colors. The way you can take something living and arrange it into beauty that makes people feel things.
“I’ll miss you when you open that shop,” Nell smiles. “But I know it’s going to be amazing.”
The warmth in my chest flickers. Dies.
“Still a ways off,” I keep my voice light. “Six more months, at least. I need more savings before I can do it right.”
What I don’t say is that I could probably open it sooner if I drained my entire account. What I don’t say is that I’m terrified to take that leap because what if I fail? What if I reach for it and fall flat on my face?
Viktor used to tell me I was bad at making decisions. I hate that sometimes I’m still wondering if he was right.
Nell takes her drinks and disappears into the crowd, and I throw myself into work. Mixing cocktails. Smiling at customers. Flirting just enough to guarantee good tips while keeping the bar between me and anyone who might want more than small talk.
I’m good at this. I know how to read people. Lean in when they want to chat. Back off when they want to brood. Keep things light, keep things easy, keep things safe.
“Can I get you anything else?” I ask two guys at the middle of the bar.
One of them is glued to his phone. The other grins at me with too many teeth. “Yeah, I’d like your phone number.”
Here we go.
I fold my arms on the bar, matching his grin with one of my own. “That’s not on the menu, but I’m here five nights a week. Come back tomorrow and I’ll consider it.”
I won’t give him my number. I won’t give anyone my number. The last man who had it used it to send me forty-seven texts in one night after I told him we were done.
The customer doesn’t know that, though. He just sees a cute bartender playing hard to get, and that’s fine. Let him think whatever he wants.
His eyes drop to my cleavage, and my skin prickles with familiar unease, but I keep smiling. The bar is between us. The bouncers are watching. This is controlled. This is safe.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I turn away to grab a bottle of whiskey, and that’s when I see him.
The man from the street. The one I spilled my coffee on. He’s sitting at the far end of the bar, alone, watching me with eyes the color of winter ice.
My stomach drops.
No. No way. There’s no way he followed me here. That would be insane. That would be stalker behavior, and I’ve already got one of those, thank you very much.
But he’s here. He’s definitely, unmistakably here, all six-foot-something of him, broad as a brick wall and about as approachable.
Under different circumstances—circumstances where he wasn’t armed and staring at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve—I might actually find him attractive.
Which is a horrifying thought to have right now.
I can’t breathe.
It’s a coincidence, I tell myself. Vegas is full of bars. Maybe he just stumbled in.
But the way he’s watching me doesn’t feel like a coincidence. It feels deliberate. It feels like a hunter tracking prey.
Viktor would follow me. Viktor has followed me. He showed up at my gym three weeks ago, just stood there watching me on the treadmill until I fled to the locker room and called my brother to come get me.
Not every man is Viktor.
Logically, I know that. But logic doesn’t stop the cold sweat breaking out on my palms. Logic doesn’t stop my heart from beating against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Close your eyes. Breathe. You’re at work. You’re safe.
When I open my eyes again, he’s still staring.
But not at my face.
He’s looking at my arm.
I follow his gaze and my blood goes cold. The bruises are visible, just barely, peeking out from beneath my shirt sleeve. Already darkening from where Viktor grabbed me earlier. Finger-shaped shadows pressed into my skin like a brand.
Damn it.
I tug at my sleeve, but the damage is done. He saw. He knows someone hurt me.
My throat tightens, and for a second, I consider pretending I didn’t notice him. I could stay down here, serve the other customers, wait for him to get bored and leave.
But he’s sitting at my bar. He’s technically a customer. And Marcus is watching those cameras, which means I can’t ignore anyone for too long without getting written up.
So I walk over.
Every step feels like wading through wet cement.
“Hi.” I plaster on my best customer-service smile. “Welcome to The Happy High Roller. First time here?”
He nods. Doesn’t smile back. Doesn’t say anything.
Okay, then. Silent type. Fun.
I grab the drink menu and set it in front of him. “Here’s what we’ve got. Cocktails, craft beers, wines, full liquor selection. Pretty much whatever you want.”
“Coke.”
His voice is low. Deep. The kind of voice that probably sounds good saying threatening things.
Jesus, Sierra, stop.
“Getting wild tonight, huh?” I fill a glass with ice, grab the soda gun, pour him his sad little drink.
“Not exactly.”
He takes the glass. Dark tattoos and pale scars fight for space across his knuckles
I should walk away. I should smile, tell him to flag me down if he needs anything, and go busy myself at the other end of the bar.
Instead, I hear myself ask, “Not a big drinker?”
He takes a sip. Sets the glass down. “I’ve seen what it does to other men.”
There’s something heavy in his voice. Worn-in, like old damage.
I recognize that tone. It lives in my head at 2 a.m., when I’m staring at the ceiling and wondering where everything went wrong.
But I don’t push. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and honestly, I’m not sure I want to hear it. I’ve got enough ghosts of my own without borrowing someone else’s.
I turn to check on my other customers, and his voice stops me.
“Where did you get the bruises?”
My hand flies to my sleeve again before I can stop it. Tugging. Hiding. Like that’s going to help.
“I’m clumsy.”
“Bullshit.”
No heat in it. Just flat, factual certainty. Like he’s commenting on the weather.
It’s bullshit, and it’s going to rain tomorrow.
I should be offended. I should get defensive, tell him to mind his own business, walk away and refuse to serve him.
Instead, the tight band around my ribs loosens. Just a little. Just enough to be dangerous.
Because he’s right. It is bullshit. And there’s something almost comforting about someone calling me on it instead of politely pretending not to notice.
“Who did that?” he asks.
I fold my arms on the bar, leaning in like we’re sharing a secret. “What are you, some kind of hero looking for damsels in distress?”
“No.” His jaw tightens. “I’m no hero.”
The way he says it makes something cold slither down my spine. He means it. Whatever this man is, hero isn’t on the list.
“But I could teach the asshole that hurt you a lesson.”
I see it again. Viktor’s hand closing around my arm. Viktor’s face twisted with rage. Viktor shoving me against the wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.
You don’t get to leave me. You don’t get to decide when this is over.
I flinch. I can’t help it.
The stranger notices. His eyes narrow, and something shifts in his expression. Something almost like concern.
And that is insane. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t owe me anything. And I definitely don’t want to be another man’s project, another broken thing for someone to fix.
“Thanks for the offer,” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “But I’m fine.”
I walk away before he can argue.
I’m okay. I’m fine. I just need to get through this shift, go home, lock my door, and try not to think about the fact that I’m apparently collecting dangerous men like some kind of messed-up trading card game.
I can feel his eyes on me as I work. It should make me uncomfortable. It does make me uncomfortable. But there’s something else too, something I don’t want to examine too closely.
He’s not looking at me the way Viktor does. Viktor looks at me like I’m something to own. Something to break.
This man looks at me like... I don’t know. Like he’s trying to figure something out.
I don’t know which is worse.
“Incoming, Sierra.”
Nell’s voice snaps me back to reality, and I glance toward the entrance just in time to see my cousin Audrey weaving through the crowd. She’s got some preppy-looking college guy in tow, his hand in hers like a dog on a leash.
I sigh.
I love Audrey. I do. But she’s never met a free drink she didn’t want, and I know exactly why she’s here.
“Hey, Si!” She slides onto a barstool, pulling her latest victim down beside her. “This is Devon. My new man.”
I smile at Devon. Don’t bother memorizing the name. He’ll be gone by next week.
“Nice to meet you.”
“We were wondering... ” Audrey gives me her best puppy-dog eyes. “Could you hook us up?”
There it is.
“One free drink each,” I say. “That’s the best I can do.”
She pouts, but she orders anyway. I turn to grab the vodka, and my eyes drift automatically to the end of the bar.
Empty.
The stranger is gone. A pile of cash sits where his glass used to be, way more than he owed for a single Coke.
Relief washes through me, so strong my knees almost buckle.
He’s gone. Whatever that was, it’s over. I can go back to pretending everything is normal, that I’m just a bartender with a dream of opening a flower shop someday, that my life isn’t slowly imploding around me.
I make Audrey’s drinks. I smile. I joke. I turn on the sparkle for the tips.
But I can’t shake the feeling of those ice-blue eyes on my skin.
Or the memory of his voice, rough and certain, telling me he could teach the asshole a lesson.
I’m no hero.
Good. I’ve had enough of men who think they’re saving me.
What I need is to save myself.
I just haven’t figured out how yet.