Chapter 4 Hudson
Watching Betty work was torture. Pure, exquisite, self-inflicted torture.
She was in her element. Radiant. Alive. And every man in the place was watching her.
I couldn't blame them. Betty had always been magnetic, She was the kind of woman who drew attention without trying, who lit up a room just by existing. She was wearing a fitted black t-shirt with The Flame's logo across the chest, and the way it hugged her curves was making me lose my goddamn mind.
I'd been sitting at the end of the bar for hours, nursing the same beer I'd ordered when we'd opened.
Martinez had come and gone, leaving behind a detailed security plan and a promise to have cameras and motion sensors installed by tomorrow.
The front door now had a better lock, and I'd positioned one of my guys, Santos, in a car outside to watch the alley.
The Flame was as secure as I could make it on short notice.
But that didn't mean I could relax.
Every time someone got too close to Betty, my whole body tensed, ready to move. I was operating on almost no sleep, running on caffeine and adrenaline and the bone-deep need to keep her safe.
And lets face it. Want.
Raw, consuming, desperate want.
Last night in the kitchen had nearly broken me. Standing that close to her, feeling the heat of her body, watching her pulse jump in her throat when I'd touched her face was almost too much. It had taken every ounce of self-control I possessed not to kiss her.
Not to press her against that counter and remind her exactly who she belonged to.
I'd held back. Only because I knew she needed to come to me. She needed to be the one to decide, to choose, to admit that the fire between us was still burning as hot as it ever had.
I just hoped she'd figure it out before I lost my mind.
Around nine o'clock, a guy walked in who immediately set my teeth on edge.
He was tall, good-looking in that generic, preppy way. The kind of guy who peaked in his fraternity days and spent the rest of his life trying to recapture the glory.
He walked straight to the bar, bypassing the empty stools to squeeze into a spot directly in front of where Betty was working.
"Hey there," he said, flashing a grin that probably worked on most women. "What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?"
Betty smiled. Her customer service smile, the one I'd learned to distinguish from her real smile within the first hour of being here. "What can I get you?"
"Whiskey sour. And your name."
"Betty." She was already reaching for the whiskey, her movements efficient and impersonal. "And that line might work better if you tried it on someone who hasn't heard it a thousand times."
The guy laughed like she'd said something hilarious instead of mildly insulting. "Betty. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman."
"Original," she said dryly, sliding his drink across the bar. "That'll be twelve dollars."
He handed her a twenty. "Keep the change. And maybe your number?"
My hand tightened around my beer bottle.
Betty handled it with practiced ease. "Sorry, I don't give out my number to customers. House policy."
"Rules are made to be broken." He leaned forward, invading her space, and I watched her take a subtle step back. "Come on, one drink after you close. I'll show you a good time."
"Not interested." Her voice was firm now, the customer service smile gone. "Enjoy your drink."
She turned to help another customer, clearly dismissing him.
But the asshole didn't take the hint.
He reached across the bar and caught her wrist as she passed.
I was off my stool before I consciously decided to move.
"Hey, I'm talking to you—"
He never finished the sentence.
I grabbed his wrist holding Betty, and twisted, applying just enough pressure to make him release her without actually breaking anything. He yelped and tried to pull away, but I held firm, stepping into his space until we were nose to nose.
"She said she's not interested." My voice was calm. Quiet. The kind of quiet that made smart men back away and stupid men double down.
This guy was stupid.
"Who the hell are you?" He tried to puff up, which was almost funny given that I had four inches and fifty pounds of muscle on him. "Her boyfriend?"
"Something like that." I twisted his wrist a fraction more, and he winced. "Now you're going to pay your tab, walk out that door, and never come back. Understood?"
"Fuck off man."
I leaned in closer, dropping my voice so only he could hear. "I've killed men for less than what you just did. Walk away. Now."
Something in my eyes must have convinced him I wasn't bluffing, because all the fight drained out of him at once.
"Fine. Jesus. Let go."
I released him, and he stumbled back, rubbing his wrist, practically ran for the exit, not looking back.
The whole exchange had taken maybe thirty seconds. Most of the bar hadn't even noticed.
But Betty had.
"I had that handled," she said.
"I know you did."
"Then why did you intervene?"
Because he touched you. Because his hand was on your skin. Because I wanted to rip his arm off for daring to put his fingers where they didn't belong.
"Because I didn't like the way he was looking at you," I said instead.
"A lot of people look at me, Hudson. It comes with the job."
"I don't like that either."
Her eyes narrowed. "That's not your problem. You're here to protect me from dirty cops, not from guys hitting on me at my own bar."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive."
She planted her hands on the bar and leaned toward me, her eyes flashing. "You don't get to be jealous. You don't get to act like some possessive caveman every time someone flirts with me. We're not together. Remember?"
The word yet hung unspoken between us.
"I remember," I said quietly. "But that doesn't change the fact that watching another man touch you makes me want to commit murder."
Her breath caught.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The bar noise faded into background static, and all I could see was her. The flush on her cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers curled against the bar like she was holding herself back.
Then someone called her name from the other end of the bar, and the spell broke.
"We're not doing this here," she said, her voice low and unsteady. "Stay in your corner and let me work."
She turned and walked away, her shoulders rigid with tension.
I went back to my stool and watched her for the rest of the night, my blood still hot with jealousy, my hands still itching to touch her.
She was right. I didn't have the right to be possessive. But that didn't make it any less true.
The bar closed at two.
I helped Marco clear out the last few stragglers while Betty counted the register and Jesse wiped down tables. By two-thirty, the bar was empty except for the two of us.
"You didn't have to help," Betty said, pulling on a light jacket over her t-shirt. "That's not part of your job description."
"I don't have a job description." I checked my phone. Santos reported the alley was clear, and pocketed it. "I just have you."
She went still, her hands frozen on her jacket zipper. "You can't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because." She finished zipping her jacket with sharp, agitated movements. "Because it makes it harder."
"Makes what harder?"
"Hating you." The words came out quiet, almost reluctant. "You're supposed to stay in your lane. Keep your distance. Be the brooding bodyguard who doesn't talk or feel or…" She made a frustrated sound. "You're not supposed to make me feel things."
I moved toward her slowly, giving her time to back away. She didn't.
"What things?" I asked, stopping just in front of her.
"It doesn't matter." She didn't move away. Just stood there, looking up at me with those dark eyes that had haunted my dreams for a decade. "Nothing good can come from this, Hudson. We tried before, and it didn't work."
"It worked," I said quietly. "It worked better than anything else in my life, before or since. I broke it. Not us. Not you. Me."
"And you think you won't break it again?"
"I think I'd rather die than hurt you again."
Betty's breath shuddered out of her. "You can't know that. You can't promise that."
"I'm not promising anything." I reached out, my fingers brushing against her jaw, tilting her face up toward mine.
"I'm just telling you the truth. Leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life.
I've regretted it every single day since.
And if I get another chance. If you give me another chance. I'm not going to waste it."
Her eyes glistened, and I watched her throat move as she swallowed.
"I can't," she whispered. "I can't just forget what you did. I can't just pretend it didn't happen."
"I'm not asking you to forget. I'm not asking you to pretend." I let my thumb trace along her cheekbone, feeling her shiver at the contact. "I'm asking you to let me try. To let me prove that I can be what you need. To give me a chance to earn back what I threw away."
"And if I can't? If I'm too broken, too angry."
"You're not broken." The words came out fierce, almost angry. "You're the strongest person I know. You survived your mother leaving. You survived your father dying. You survived me walking away. You built a business, a life, a future, all on your own. Don't you dare call yourself broken."
A tear slipped down her cheek, and I caught it with my thumb.
"Hudson..." Her voice cracked.
"I know you need time. I know you need to trust me again before anything else can happen. And I'll wait." I forced myself to drop my hand, to step back, to give her space even though every cell in my body was screaming at me to pull her closer. "However long it takes. I'll wait."
She stared at me for a long moment, her expression a war between hope and fear.
"We should go," she said finally, her voice hoarse. "It's late."
"Yeah." I pulled my keys from my pocket. "Let's get you home."
We were halfway to her apartment when I noticed the car.