Chapter Twenty-Three
Yet again another week slips through our fingers. Days blur into nights faster than they should, but every night ends with my bare skin against Gareth’s, his body curved around mine. It feels natural—right.
The scent of him—clean soap, sandalwood, and something uniquely him—clings to his T-shirt as he kisses me goodbye. Resting his forehead against mine, his fingers linger at my waist, warm and possessive, holding me like he’s having a hard time letting me go.
“I could just tell them I’m not coming,” he breathes, teeth grazing my bottom lip.
I smile against him, chest straining with longing. “Just go, I have to work anyway.”
“It’s just a barbecue, the guys will understand.” His hands slide lower, wrapping around to my ass. He uses his grip to pull me closer, nose nuzzling my ear. “I could go to work with you.”
Heat coils low in my belly. “No, sir—it’s not just a barbecue, it’s a barbecue at your coach's house.” I push against his chest, forcing space between us. “Go.”
“Text me as soon as you’re off,” he commands, his voice low and growly. The promise of what’s to come later sends another current of electricity through me, landing straight in my core.
“I will. I promise. Now go. You’re going to be late.”
He leans in for one last kiss, letting it linger, then flashes that boyish grin that makes my heart leap. Walking backward, his hand stays connected with mine until the last possible second. Still, he doesn’t turn away—just keeps walking backward until his back bumps into his truck.
“I love you, Indy Archer!” he yells as he opens the driver’s door, eyes never leaving mine.
Laughter spills out of me. I fold my arms over my chest, shaking my head slowly as I work to mask how he’s completely unraveling me. I can tell he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Love you too, Golden Boy.”
An hour later I step into the empty bar, ready to get things prepped for another busy Friday night.
Light pours through the open office door—Rosie’s already here, another day buried in paperwork.
She’s good at masking her stress, but the tightness in her shoulders tells another story. I don’t envy her.
Busying myself behind the counter, my thoughts drift back to Gareth as I dry glasses and make sure the top shelf is stocked.
Memories of his hands on my body, warm and commanding, as he traces his fingers over my skin.
The faint marks hidden beneath my clothes, proof of his claiming and possessiveness.
A soft sigh leaves me as I move from task to task, as the memories of this week slide into my thoughts.
How on Monday night—or was it Tuesday?—we drove aimlessly until we found the most delicious taco truck on the outskirts of town.
Plastic tables and chairs set up, simple and inviting.
We ordered way too much, yet still went back for more.
Gareth spilled salsa down his shirt, only to make the mess much worse when he tried to wipe it.
I laughed so hard, soda burned all the way down, stinging my sinuses as I choked on it.
Then there was last night. My kitchen, Gareth cooking in his black sweatpants hanging so low a stiff wind could have blown them clean down his legs.
Lucky for him, he sported a hard-on that tented them, keeping them securely in place.
I guess only wearing one of his threadbare Bears T-shirts and lacy boy shorts didn’t help his case, but man, the spontaneous sex on my counter was worth it.
A bottle of Patron nearly slips from my hand.
My heart leaps as I catch it, shoving it back onto the shelf where it belongs.
Pull yourself together, Indy.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket.
I pull it out, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip as I suppress a smile.
Golden Boy
Already miss you. Should have followed you to work like a sad puppy dog instead.
Before I can reply, the door to the bar slams shut.
I groan, irritated. It’s barely four. “We’re clo—”
The words die in my throat, heart sinking as a man in a black balaclava rushes toward me, handgun aimed at my chest.
I freeze.
“Put the cash in the bag,” he snaps, pushing a dirty black backpack in my face.
The crack of gunshots explode in my mind.
The drive-by. The shooting that happened here, in this same bar, not that long ago. Preston, The Sinners’ prospect who died that day. My friend.
Preston.
My body begins to quake.
“I said, put the fucking cash in the bag!” he snarls, shoving the gun closer. I flinch, mind hardly processing.
“I…there isn’t any,” I stammer. The fear in my voice is evident—there’s no way to hide it. “We’re not open yet.”
Screams ring in my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes the visions of the shooting worse.
Not again. Please not again.
“Don’t fucking lie to me, bitch. Empty the goddamn till.”
“There isn’t money in there.”
Rosie’s voice comes out of nowhere. I hadn’t heard her leave her office.
My heart lurches.
No.
The gun swings toward her and she raises her hands slowly. “We don’t open for another hour. There’s no cash—it’s already been taken to the bank.”
Time stretches between the three of us, the gun swinging between us as he decides if we’re lying.
He cocks the gun at Rosie. “Open the fucking safe then.”
“There is no safe,” Rosie replies calmly. It’s too calm. Rosie was at the barbecue that day—she was almost shot. Yet she doesn’t show an ounce of fear.
Not like I am.
“Look, like I said—we seriously don’t have cash. It’s the era of credit cards, my guy. Also, cops are on their way.”
The man steps closer to her.
A broken sound presses past my lips. My hand lifts uselessly, as if I’m going to reach out and stop him.
“Take another fucking step toward my wife and I’ll blow your goddamn brains out,” Cain’s voice booms from the top of the stairs.
I should feel relief, but Cain’s presence does the opposite, and the man with the gun becomes instantly more agitated.
The barrel jerks toward Cain’s direction.
He laughs, clipped and sardonic, unbothered as he starts down the stairs. Slowly, he reaches behind his back and draws his own gun.
Cain raises it, hands steady. His jaw locks and his focus narrows on the man standing far too close to his wife.
“I’m giving you ten seconds to get the hell out of my bar,” he tells him calmly, his eyes darkening. “Ten.”
Cain takes another step, posture lethal.
My eyes meet Rosie’s. I swallow hard, trying not to break down in tears.
“Nine.”
Cain reaches the bottom.
Realizing he’s in a losing battle, the man curses, his words sharp and frantic, before he turns and bolts out the door.
None of us move. The room is heavy, silence wrapping us around in an unwanted embrace.
Then my knees give out.
My back slams into the open shelves behind me as I slide down the bar, the concrete floor cold through my fishnets. The room tilts, chest seizing in short, desperate gasps as I try to breathe. Seconds later, the dam breaks, and tears stream down my face as a sob rips through me.
Paralyzing fear and pain crash over me all at once, flashbacks of the shooting melding with the attempted robbery just now, and I can’t fucking breathe.
“Indy—it’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe.” Cain is suddenly kneeling in front of me, hands heavy on my shoulders.
Beside me, Rosie trembles.
When did she sit next to me?
She grabs my hand, lacing her fingers with mine, gripping me tight.
“The cops are on their way,” Cain assures, rising to his feet. He lifts his phone to his ear, his voice booming. “Whitlock, I swear to fucking God if you don’t get here—no, don’t tell me to relax. My fucking bar just got held up. My wife had a gun in her face!”
“Gareth.” I breathe his name like a plea. I need Gareth.
My hand shakes violently as I fumble for my phone in my pocket, barely able to tap his name.
It rings twice, then his calm voice sails through the phone. “Hello?”
“Gareth, I need you.” My words slur together incoherently.
“What?” Instantly, his tone sharpens. “Indy, slow down. What’s wrong?”
Another sob rips through my chest. Then I blow out a breath, forcing myself to speak clearly. “We just got robbed. He had a gun. Please come.”
“What? I’m on my way.”
“I can—”
I can what? I can’t drive like this.
“No, just stay where you are. I’ll be there soon.”
The phone goes dead.
I stare at the blank screen and continue to shake.
I’m okay.
I’m okay.