Chapter 8 #2
Knowing Shepherd the way I think I do, he’d probably tell the team he’ll be back in Omaha by morning and then fly home on a private jet to make sure he can deal with the assholes in my bar and be here to walk me home.
The jury is still out on whether I find his protective nature to be endearing or a little creepy.
Ten minutes later, the three guys get up to leave, and I feel my shoulders drop half an inch. But as they pass me, Middle Guy leans in close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath.
“We know where you work now,” he says quietly. “Maybe we’ll see you around.”
I don’t react. I don’t even flinch. But a cold knot forms in my stomach anyway.
Closing time always sounds quieter than it should.
It’s not silent—the Alley Tap is never silent—but softer.
Like the room exhales once the last customer leaves and the door clicks shut behind them.
Dishes and booths settle and the refrigerator hums. Somewhere in the back, the ice machine groans like it’s personally offended by being alive.
I wipe down the bar slowly, dragging the rag in lazy circles across wood that’s seen more confessions than most therapists.
“Don’t look now,” Cal says behind me, “but I think you just cleaned the same spot three times.”
“I’m thorough.”
“You’re obsessive.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
He snorts and stacks chairs onto tables with a practiced rhythm. We’ve done this together enough that neither of us needs to talk much, but he keeps glancing at me like he’s waiting for me to admit something.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
The bar had a good crowd tonight. Steady but not overwhelming—just enough customers to keep my hands busy mixing drinks and my mind from wandering places it shouldn’t go. Except there he was again, slipping into my thoughts between orders.
Shepherd Haynes.
His name appears in my head like an uninvited guest.
Not an unwelcomed one though.
“Sutton.” Cal’s voice breaks through. “Hello?”
I blink. “What?”
“Lost in space again?”
“I’m literally scrubbing gum off a table.”
“You’re staring at it like it just told you to fuck off.”
I shrug and toss the rag into the bucket. “Maybe it did.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you home tonight?”
“I live five blocks away, Cal. I’ll be home in ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Still. I saw the way those assholes were tonight.”
“I’m fine.”
He gives me that look, the one that says he doesn’t quite believe me but knows better than to argue.
“Text me when you get in,” he says casually, like he’s asking me to pass the salt.
“I always do.”
“You didn’t last week.”
I freeze for half a second. “I fell asleep.”
“Uh huh.”
I flip him off affectionately and toss my rag in the bucket behind the bar before grabbing my jacket.
The night air hits differently when you leave work.
Inside the bar, everything feels contained, the noise, the lights, the people.
Outside, though, the world opens up into too much space.
Too many shadows. Too many places for things to go wrong.
I pull my jacket tighter around me and start walking.
The streets are mostly empty, just the distant lull of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from another bar down the block.
Streetlights cast uneven pools of yellow light along the sidewalk, and my boots click against the pavement in a steady rhythm that matches my breathing.
It’s the same path I always take. It’s familiar and safe and if I keep my pace even, not too fast, not too slow, I’m home in ten minutes.
Never look like prey. That’s rule number one.
The sound of footsteps behind me registers a second later, and I instinctively slide my hand into my pocket, my fingers curling around my keys automatically. The metal edges press into my skin, keeping me alert.
The sound behind isn’t close, but it’s not far. I don’t turn around to check because turning around gives them confirmation you’re paying attention. That’s rule number two.
I keep walking, noticing that the footsteps match my pace.
Maybe it’s a coincidence. It’s probably a coincidence, but my shoulders tighten anyway.
I shift slightly toward the edge of the sidewalk where the streetlights are brighter.
My reflection flickers in a storefront window as I pass, my hair pulled back, posture straight, chin lifted like I’m walking toward somewhere important instead of just trying to get home.
And then the footsteps speed up.
Fuck.
They’re definitely closer now.
My pulse ticks faster, and my eyes shift as I look around for other people who might be in the area, but of course, just my luck, I see nobody.
You’re fine.
Just breathe.
And keep walking.
I slide my phone halfway out of my pocket, thumb hovering over the emergency dial without unlocking it. I’m prepared, not scared. This is nothing I haven’t done before.
“Hey,” a voice slices through the air behind me. It’s a male voice, casual in tone. Too casual for my liking. My spine turns to ice and I don’t stop. “Hey. You work at the Alley Tap, right?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I slow enough to turn, calculating the exact distance between us.
The man is maybe mid-thirties, wearing a Portland Rush hoodie.
His hands are shoved in his pockets, a posture that’s supposed to read as harmless but makes my throat constrict.
Where I’ve seen him before clicks into place: third booth from the door, always orders whiskey neat, tips exactly fifteen percent.
“Yes,” I say, my voice steady despite the thunder of my pulse.
He steps closer. The space between us shrinks, and with it, my options.
Run?
Scream?
Fight?
I hold my ground, though every instinct screams retreat.
“You were closing tonight,” he says, like we share secrets.
“I was,” I reply, my keys digging into my palm.
Silence stretches between us like a tripwire.
He smiles, not mean, not threatening, but a little…entitled. Like I owe him this moment. “So, what, you don’t talk outside work?”
My mind races through scenarios.
Be nice, safer option?
Be cold, will that provoke him?
Scream, embarrass yourself if he’s harmless?
“I have somewhere I have to be,” I say, voice controlled while my thoughts fracture.
His smile falters, and for a sickening second I wonder if I’ve made the wrong choice. “Relax,” he says, hands up now. “Just being friendly.”
“Then be friendly from over there.” I nod toward the space he just crossed, hating how my voice nearly trembles
He laughs dismissively, which pisses me off. “Okay, okay,” he says, backing up a step. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I’m sure.”
My words taste like copper. We stare at each other for a beat and then he shrugs and turns away, muttering something under his breath I don’t quite catch but can perfectly imagine.
I wait until he’s halfway down the block before turning around, shame and relief battling for dominance in my chest.
And I keep walking.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
My shoulders stay straight.
My pace stays even.
And I don’t let myself look back again though I feel his eyes like a brand between my shoulder blades.
By the time I reach my building, my hands feel numb.
The key sticks in the lock for half a second before sliding in and then I’m slamming the door closed and locking it behind me.
The deadbolt turned four times just to make sure it actually works, and the chain latched.
And then all the air leaves my lungs in a rush. My hands shake and I drop my keys into the bowl with a loud dramatic clatter.
“Jesus.”
I lean back against the door, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor.
It wasn’t a big deal.
Nothing happened.
He didn’t touch me.
He didn’t threaten me.
He didn’t even raise his voice.
But my body doesn’t care about logic.
My chest rises and falls too fast, adrenaline buzzing under my skin like electricity with nowhere to go.
“You’re fine,” I tell the empty room, but my words sound flat. I press my palms against my thighs, trying to still the trembling. “Everything is fine.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket and when I pull it out and glance down at the screen, my chest constricts all over again.
Shepherd
You make it home okay tonight?
It’s an innocent and simple text but my throat tightens reading it. He doesn’t know. He couldn’t possibly know and yet his timing makes something twist in my chest. I stare at the screen longer than necessary, confused that my first instinct is irritation.
Of course he’d check in.
Of course he’d be protective.
Of course he’d assume I need someone watching out for me.
But then regret washes over me when I realize I never texted him back when he wrote earlier.
He’s not overbearing.
He’s just showing he cares.
My thumbs move over the screen as I text him back.
Me
Yeah. I’m fine.
I type it then delete it because it feels like too much. It feels like an invitation. For what, I don’t know but I start again.
Me
Home.
That’s it. Just one word. It’s safe and neutral and guarded so I hit send before I can overthink it. The reply comes almost immediately.
Shepherd
Good. Sorry I missed the chance to walk you home.
There’s no follow-up. No push for info. No questions about my night or why I didn’t text him back earlier. And something about that makes my insides flutter in a way I don’t want to examine too closely. I set down my phone and exhale slowly, the shaking in my hands subsiding the longer I sit here.
The apartment is quiet now.
I push off the floor and grab a clean mug from the cupboard—another cracked one from Mari’s shop—and fill it with tea. Steam curls upward as I carry it to the couch and sit, tucking my feet underneath me.
Nothing happened.
I handled it.
Just like always.
But as I sit here, trailing my finger along the cracked ceramic, one thought lingers stubbornly in the back of my mind.
I didn’t like being alone out there tonight.
And I hate that I noticed.