Chapter 7
Alexis
I step out of the shower and stare at my reflection in the mirror, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the sink.
You can do this, Lexy, I tell myself.
I’m healed. The fever is gone, my throat no longer feels like sandpaper, and today I’m going back to work. I start at noon, covering both the afternoon and night shift. A long day. A normal day.
Dex is already downstairs at the bar with Stephen, and just knowing that makes my stomach flutter with nerves.
I know I’m a good waitress. I know I work hard. But Dex’s constant presence, his watchful eyes, his sharp tone, and the way he seems to take up every inch of space around me makes me jittery in a way I can’t quite explain.
I dry my hair and braid it into two French braids, starting at the crown, practical and out of the way. Then a quick sweep of mascara, a touch of lip gloss. Nothing more. Just enough to look awake. Just enough to feel like myself again.
I pull on a light blue button-up, the only decent one I managed to grab before I ran, and my jeans.
The fabric feels too familiar, like it still carries pieces of a life I didn’t get to leave properly.
I smooth it down anyway, pressing my palms over it like I can force it to belong to this version of me instead.
Dex told me this morning he ordered T-shirts with the Midnight Rodeo logo for me to work in, but for now, I need to make do with what I have.
The first paycheck will have to cover new clothes. And groceries. And gas. And hopefully, eventually, a down payment on a small, decent apartment of my own.
Three months, I remind myself. You can survive anything for three months.
My phone buzzes softly. 11:45.
Almost time.
“You can do this,” I murmur under my breath as I grab my bag. “Just ignore the grumpy biker.”
I take a steadying breath and head downstairs toward the bar.
The place smells like cleaner and old wood when I step inside, the quiet hum before the storm of customers later tonight. Stephen is restocking behind the bar. Dex stands a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw set as he scans inventory.
When his gaze lifts and lands on me, something in his posture shifts, his shoulders pulling tighter, his jaw ticking once.
I feel it like a physical thing.
His eyes flick to my braids, then down my shirt, then back up to my face. Whatever he sees there makes his arms tighten slightly against his chest.
He mutters something under his breath. Low. Rough. Like he’s biting it back.
I straighten instinctively.
“Clock in,” he says, voice clipped, already turning away. “You’re late.”
I glance at the clock behind the bar. 11:58.
“I’m early,” I say quietly.
He stops. Slowly turns back to me. His green eyes are sharp, assessing, like he’s looking for a reason to fire me again.
“Then don’t stand there,” he says. “Apron. Section three. And try not to get in the way.”
My jaw tightens, but I nod, forcing a small, tight smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Yes, boss.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he hates that I didn’t argue.
I turn to grab an apron, but my gaze snags on him before I can look away.
Those tattoos.
They stretch over his arms, dark ink against skin, sharp lines and shadows that shift when he moves, when his hands flex against his biceps.
The faint scent of leather and smoke clings to him, subtle but there, and it hits something deep in my chest before I can stop it.
My stomach drops, and I’m back at the trailer.
Leather. Laughter that’s too loud. Beer bottles clinking in the kitchen. Men leaning back in broken chairs like they own the place. Inked skin. Heavy boots. Eyes that linger too long.
I remember standing in the hallway, barely breathing, hoping if I stayed quiet enough, small enough, they wouldn’t notice me.
Didn’t look at me.
Didn’t touch me.
My fingers curl into the fabric of the apron.
Dex moves, just a step closer, and my body reacts before my mind can catch up.
A small shift back.
Barely there.
But enough.
“You keep looking at me like I’m about to hurt you.”
I freeze.
“I’m not,” he adds, quieter now, like it matters that I hear it. “But if you’re that convinced I will… you should leave.”
My chest pulls tight.
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” I say before I can stop myself.
His jaw shifts slightly, something flickering across his face before it settles again.
“Then stop acting like I already did something I didn’t.”
I grab an apron, heart thudding. I can feel his eyes on me as I tie it around my waist.
I tell myself not to look back.
And still, something in me strains against it, pulling, curious, wanting to see if he’s still watching.
I don’t give in.
? ? ?
Dexter
Fucking shit.
Braids.
Of all the things she could’ve walked in wearing, she chose that.
Neat. Soft. Innocent-looking in a way that feels like a lie, wrapped in denim and calm blue fabric. Like she doesn’t belong behind a bar. Like she’s too untouched for a place like this… or a man like me.
My teeth grind together. I hate that my hands itch to pull those braids while I… nope.
Not going there.
So I do the only thing I can.
I turn cold. Mean. Gruff enough to put distance between us before I do something stupid.
She looks like fucking Tinkerbell, all light and spark, and me?
I’m Peter Pan.
I don’t stay. Don’t fight fair. And I sure as hell don’t belong anywhere outside my own version of Neverland.
Girls like her should stay far the hell away from men like me.
She balances a tray full of beers with easy grace, moving through the bar like she belongs here more than I ever will. I steal a look as she walks past, denim hugging her just right, and something in my jaw locks.
She stops at a table of construction workers I know well.
Max grins at her. She smiles back.
My gaze tracks his, watches it drop, linger, and something dark twists low in my chest, hot and immediate, pressing hard against my ribs. An urge hits fast and sharp. To pull her into the kitchen. To put myself between her and that look. To wipe that damn smile off his face.
What the fuck?
I like Max. He’s a good customer. He’s helped me more than once with renovations around the bar.
This isn’t him.
This is me.
And I need to get away before I cross a line I can’t uncross.
“Take over,” I say, voice rough as I pass Stephen. “I’m in my office.”
I don’t wait for an answer. I just turn and walk away.
? ? ?
Alexis
I step outside for a second, phone pressed to my ear as it rings, my chest tight while I wait for my mom to pick up so I can tell her I won’t be coming home again.
It goes to voicemail. I’ve been calling her for days, and she still doesn’t pick up.
A familiar knot settles in my chest. Part of me wonders if she’s okay, but going back means putting myself in Russel’s path again, and I can’t risk that. I’ll try calling her again tomorrow.
Dex doesn’t come out of his office until evening, right when the bar starts to fill. I’m wiping down the counter when I feel his presence before I hear him.“Tomorrow,” he says flatly, his eyes flicking to my braids, “try not to look like a child.”
I blink. “What?”
“Those damn braids,” he continues, jaw tight, “they make you look like a damned teenager. Last thing I need is people thinking I employ children at my bar.”
I flare up, heat rushing to my face, sharp and immediate, stinging more than it should. “I’m twenty-three!” I snap, trying to keep my voice even but failing just a little.
Dex just stares. Cold. “You look twelve.”
I bite my lip, forcing my anger down. “Yes, boss,” I murmur through clenched teeth. I mentally flip him off. Stupid asshole.
Stephen, hovering with a tray of drinks, smirks at me. “I like your braids, Lexy,” he says, leaning casually on the counter. “They really suit you.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, quick and surprised, the tension loosening just a little.
Before I can respond, Dex’s voice cuts through like a blade.
“No dating the staff, Stephen.”
Stephen shrugs, the smirk never leaving his face, his eyes flicking back to me. “Damned shame about that,” he murmurs.
I shake my head, still half amused, and shoot Dex a glare.
He studies me for a second, like he’s waiting for me to snap. When I don’t, something shifts in his expression, not softer, just… sharper.
“Good girl,” he mutters, almost under his breath, like he knows exactly what it’s going to do.
Then he turns back toward his office.
The second his back is turned, my hand lifts on instinct, my middle finger shooting up behind him.
Stephen chokes on a laugh beside me. “Did you just flip the boss off?”
I shrug, not even bothering to lower my hand right away. “He deserved it.”
I clutch the rag in my hands, jaw tight, fingers curling into the fabric.
Just three months, Lexy, I tell myself. Then you’re out of here.
Another two hours pass, and I start to notice the bar filling up faster than usual.
Tables that were half empty are suddenly occupied, chairs scraping, boots thudding against the floor, the air thickening with the smell of beer, sweat, and something fried drifting from the kitchen.
Laughter rises, louder now, layered over the steady hum of voices.
Strange for a simple Thursday, I think, then shrug.
More people means more tips. I’m not complaining.
I make my way over to the bar and freeze when I notice a DJ setting up on the small stage near the back. Speakers, microphones, a playlist glowing on a laptop.
“Is there some kind of event tonight?” I ask Stephen, setting down my tray.
He looks up from wiping glasses, his brows scrunching together. “Boss didn’t tell you?”
I shake my head slowly.
“Karaoke night,” Stephen says, a grin spreading across his face.
“Oh.” I glance back at the stage, dread curling in my stomach. “So… we have a long night.”
Stephen laughs, loud and unapologetic. “You have no idea. Buckle up, Lex. Karaoke night is wild .”
Before I can ask what that means exactly,
“Lexy, you started!”