8. Enya
ENYA
I feel him the second I step behind the bar.
I don't have to look, don't have to turn my head. I just know. The way you know when someone's watching you in a crowded room—that prickling awareness that crawls up your spine and settles at the base of your skull.
Tank.
He's here.
My hands shake slightly as I reach for a pint glass. I grip it tighter, willing them to steady. I can't let anyone see, can't let him see.
Last night was a mistake.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra, trying to make it stick, but my body remembers too much—the way his hands felt on my skin, the reverence in his voice when he said my name, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress.
Stop.
I pour the pint with mechanical precision, set it down for the customer, and force a smile. "Anything else, love?"
"No, that's grand. Thanks."
I move down the bar, wiping it down even though it doesn't need it. I just need something to do with my hands, need something to focus on besides the burning awareness of Tank sitting at the far end.
I can feel his eyes on me. Heavy. Constant. Not aggressive, just... there.
Watching.
My chest tightens, heart beating too fast. Every time he shifts in his seat, my body reacts—stomach dropping, breath catching, fingers gripping the towel harder.
This is ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous.
He's just sitting there, having a drink. Not demanding anything, not pushing, not even trying to talk to me.
But his presence alone is enough to make my carefully constructed walls start crumbling.
Because I don't want him here. I can't want him here.
Warren needs me focused. Needs me steady. And Tank... God, Tank is the opposite of steady. He's chaos wrapped in leather and careful hands, and I can't afford chaos right now.
I can't afford to feel what I felt last night.
I can't afford to want what I want.
"Enya?" Ciara's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "You alright?"
I blink. "Yeah. Grand. Why?"
She nods toward the glass I'm holding. "You've been drying that one for two minutes straight."
Fuck. I set it down quickly. "I’m just tired."
"Late night?" There's something knowing in her voice and a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Something like that."
She leans in closer, dropping her voice. "Rush told me Tank had company last night. In his room at the clubhouse."
My stomach drops. "Did he?"
"He didn't say who but..." She glances down the bar toward Tank, then back at me. "Interesting that he's here today, watching you like that."
"He's not watching me."
"Right." She doesn't believe me. I can see it written all over her face. "Look, I know it's none of my business, but Tank's a good guy. A bit intense, bit closed off, but solid. If something's happening between you two—"
"Nothing's happening."
"Okay." She holds up her hands. "Okay. Just—be careful, yeah? With yourself."
She moves away to serve another customer, and I'm left standing there feeling exposed and raw and furious at myself for being so obvious.
I risk a glance down the bar.
Tank's looking right at me.
Our eyes meet for half a second—just long enough for me to see the intensity there, the concern, the want—then I look away.
I can't do this.
I won't do this.
I turn my back to him and focus on reorganizing bottles that don't need organizing. Anything to create distance. Anything to pretend my heart isn't hammering against my ribs.
The lunch rush picks up. I throw myself into work, pulling pints, taking orders, keeping my hands busy and my mind occupied. It helps. Slightly. The noise and movement create a buffer between me and the awareness of Tank sitting there.
But he doesn't leave.
Just sits. Watches. Waits.
For what? An apology? An explanation? Some sign that last night meant something?
It can't mean something. I won't let it.
During a lull I check my phone and see a text.
Unknown sender.
My stomach clenches.
I shouldn't open it. I should delete it without reading. But my thumb moves on its own, tapping the message.
The words hit me like a fist.
Missed you today, baby. You look different. I'll see you soon.
Everything stops.
The room tilts. Sound becomes muffled, distant. My hands start shaking; violent tremors I can't control.
Declan.
It's Declan.
He knows where I am. He's watching. He saw me today. You look different—that means he's close. Close enough to see me. Close enough to…
I can't breathe.
My lungs won't work properly. My chest is too tight, vision narrowing to a tunnel. The phone slips from my fingers and clatters onto the concrete floor.
No, no, no, no, no.
This can't be happening. I left. Three years ago, I packed Warren up in the middle of the night and we left, and Declan wasn't supposed to find us. He wasn't supposed to know where we are.
But he does.
He knows.
And he's coming.
My legs go weak. I press my back against the wall and slide down until I'm sitting on the cold concrete, head between my knees, trying not to pass out.
You look different.
What does that mean? Different how? My hair? My clothes? My face?
Or does he know about Tank?
The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through me. If Declan saw me with Tank—at the clubhouse, leaving together, anything—he'll think... God, I don't even want to imagine what he'll think.
What he'll do.
I grab the phone with shaking hands and, fingers fumbling, delete the message. Get it off my phone. Get it gone. Like deleting it can undo the fact that he found me.
But it doesn't work like that.
He's found me. And messages like that, they're never just messages. They're warnings. Promises. Threats wrapped in familiar endearments that make my skin crawl.
I shove the phone deep into my pocket like it's evidence of a crime. I can't let anyone see, can't let anyone know.
Especially not Tank.
The thought of Tank finding out, of him getting involved, of Declan turning his attention toward him… No. I can't let that happen.
I force myself to stand, legs unsteady but holding, and wipe my face even though I'm not crying. Not yet. I can't cry. Not here. Not now. I have to finish my shift. Have to act normal. Have to pretend everything's fine.
But when I turn to serve customers, everything feels wrong. Too bright. Too loud. Every face in the crowd could be him. Every shadow could be hiding something.
Someone.
Tank's still there.
Still watching.
And for one terrifying second, I want to walk over to him. Want to tell him everything. Want to let him fix it the way he tried to fix things last night, with careful hands and quiet promises.
But I can't.
I can't drag him into this. Can't risk Warren. Can't let myself need him when needing people has only ever ended in pain.
So I turn away. Focus on work. Ignore the way my hands shake when I pour drinks. Ignore the way my heart spikes every time someone walks through the door.
Ignore the burn of Tank's stare on my back.
He doesn't approach, doesn't call me over. He just sits there, solid and steady and too fucking perceptive.
Can he tell something's wrong? Can he see the panic barely contained beneath my skin?
I purposely stay at the far end of the bar, serve customers on the opposite side, and avoid even glancing in his direction.
But I feel him. Every second. Every breath.
And underneath the fear of Declan, underneath the panic and hyper-vigilance, there's something else. Something I don't want to examine too closely.
The memory of Tank's hands. The sound of his voice saying my name. The way he made me feel safe for a few hours before reality crashed back in.
I hate that I want that again. I hate that part of me wants to turn to him right now and say help me.
Because I can't. I won't. Asking for help means admitting I'm not okay. Admitting I'm scared. Admitting that maybe, just maybe, I can't handle this alone.
And I have to handle it alone.
For Warren. For myself. For the life I've spent three years building.
* * *
I finish my shift early after telling Ciara I'm not feeling well—which isn't even a lie. She looks concerned but doesn't push, just tells me to rest and text if I need anything.
I grab my jacket and bag and avoid looking at Tank as I head for the door.
But I feel him watching. Feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch.
And part of me, a small, pathetic part, wants him to follow. Wants him to stop me. Wants him to demand to know what's wrong and refuse to let me handle it alone.
But he doesn't.
He lets me go.
Like he promised he would.
The door closes behind me and the cool Dublin air hits my face. I suck in a breath, trying to steady myself.
The street's busy, with people everywhere. A normal Friday afternoon in the city.
But nothing feels normal.
I start walking. Fast. Head down, shoulders hunched, bag clutched tight against my side. Every sound makes me jump. Every footstep behind me could be him.
Missed you today, baby.
The words echo in my head, over and over.
He was here. Today. Watching me. Close enough to see that I look different.
I scan every face I pass. Every man who's the right height, the right build. Is that him? Or that one?
Stop. You're spiraling.
But I can't stop, can't calm down. My breath comes too fast, too shallow. My hands are shaking so badly I shove them in my pockets.
I should call someone. My mam. A friend. The guards.
But what would I say? That my ex texted me? That I'm scared? They'd ask why I'm scared, what he did before, and I'd have to explain. Have to relive it. Have to admit that I stayed too long, that I let it get too bad, that I—
No.
I can't do that again.
So I just walk. Fast. Checking over my shoulder every few steps. Watching reflections in shop windows to see if anyone's following.
I think I catch a glimpse of a man. Tall. Dark jacket. Too far back to see clearly.
My heart stops.
I walk faster. Turn a corner. Then another. Taking side streets I know, shortcuts that should lose anyone tailing me.