Chapter 8
Closed for Business
It’s a good thing I got some relaxation time in before work, because this is one of those shifts where I can’t catch a break.
It’s loud and rowdy, and everyone needs me all at once, and I have to keep track of a million drink orders and open tabs and it feels like chaos.
By midnight, I’m running ragged and things show no signs of slowing down.
“Yo, Maddie!” A voice calls out.
I turn. It’s one of my obnoxious former high school classmates. Probably the worst part about working in a bar is having to serve people you’d just as soon punch in the face.
As I deliver drinks to the next table, I tell him, “Be there in a sec, Kevin.”
When I bend over, I catch him leering at my ass. I try not to roll my eyes as I come over to his table. They’re all a bunch of ex-football players, and they’re all drunk and brimming with that troublemaker energy.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
His eyes travel up and down my body, lingering at my breasts. “Is pussy on the menu tonight?”
“Maybe,” I say. “We’ll have to double check with your mom. She might be worn out already, though.”
There’s a chorus of oooohs at the table. Kevin scowls at me, his face already flushed from too many beers. “Bring me a Bud Light.”
“Sure thing,” I say with fake sweetness, already turning on my heel.
As I take my first step away, a hand lands on my ass in a firm slap.
I whirl around, anger and surprise spiking through me, my tray nearly sliding from my grip.
It’s not the first time I’ve been groped—not by a long shot, sadly—but every time I feel the same spike of rage coursing hot through my veins.
I never tell Dad, because his version of rage would end in broken bones and him behind bars again, but I can channel my own anger.
I welcome that anger.
Kevin’s sitting back in his chair with a smug grin, arms spread wide like he’s waiting for applause.
My jaw clenches. I’m about to retaliate by “accidentally” spilling a full glass of ice water down his chest, when a hand closes around the back of Kevin’s shirt.
It’s Luke.
Everything happens fast after that.
He hauls the giant former defensive lineman up like it’s nothing to him, like Kevin’s not the size and weight of a refrigerator.
Kevin’s beer tips over, foaming across the table as his buddies scramble back.
There’s a beat of shocked silence, and then Luke is dragging him—actually dragging him, Kevin’s boots scrambling for purchase on the worn floorboards—across the entire length of the bar.
The front door bangs open.
And then Luke tosses him like a piece of garbage onto the snow-covered parking lot.
Kevin lands hard, arms windmilling. He sputters, snow clinging to his jacket as he struggles to his hands and knees.
The entire bar has gone silent. Even the jukebox seems to have paused between songs.
Then Kevin sees it: the crowd forming in the doorway, on the porch, people pressing forward with their phones out. His expression darkens, face going from red to nearly purple.
Uh oh. Bullies don’t do well with public humiliation. This is about to get messy.
He clambers to his feet, brushing snow off his jeans with sharp, angry movements.
“You fucker,” he spits at Luke.
Luke just stands on the porch, arms folded, looking almost bored.
Then Kevin charges.
My hand flies to my mouth as I cringe preemptively, my heart lurching into my throat. I’m terrified Luke is about to get flattened, because Kevin played D-line for State and he’s built like a brick wall and when he gets momentum going—
But Luke, arms still casually folded, just sidesteps the first wild, drunken punch Kevin throws.
It’s actually kind of graceful.
The crowd erupts. There are whoops and hollers, the energy shifting from shocked to bloodthirsty in seconds.
Chants of “Fight!” and “Kick his ass!” echo through the cold air.
Kevin recovers, spinning back around, and this time he puts his whole weight behind the punch, a haymaker that would take Luke’s head clean off if it connected.
Luke’s arm shoots up. He blocks it, the impact making a meaty thud that I hear even from inside.
Kevin throws another punch. Luke blocks that one too.
Then another. Block.
Kevin’s breathing hard now, his movements getting sloppier, more desperate. The crowd is going wild, but I can barely hear them over the pounding of my own heart.
Kevin winds up for what looks like it’s going to be a tackle, lowering his shoulder like he’s back on the field.
But he doesn’t get the chance.
Luke moves so fast I almost miss it. One second he’s in a defensive stance, the next his palm slams against Kevin’s throat with controlled precision. Kevin’s forward momentum stops dead. His eyes go wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Before he can recover, Luke has him in a headlock.
Kevin’s turning deep red now. His eyes bulge as he claws uselessly at Luke’s arm. His feet scrabble in the snow. But Luke’s hold is ironclad, and he’s not even breathing hard.
Luke leans down and very calmly murmurs something directly into Kevin’s ear. His voice is too low for anyone else to hear, but whatever he says makes Kevin’s entire body go rigid.
The crowd has gotten quieter, sensing something has shifted.
And then Kevin nods.
Luke releases him.
Kevin collapses forward, hands on his knees, gasping in huge, wheezing breaths.
Then, without a word, without even looking at Luke or anyone else, he turns and slinks toward his truck, shoulders hunched.
If he was a dog, his tail would be between his legs.
The crowd parts for him, some people snickering, others just staring.
His truck door slams. The engine roars to life. Gravel sprays as he peels out of the parking lot way too fast.
The crowd starts to disperse, people heading back inside, their excited chatter filling the air.
My dad saunters over, a toothpick between his teeth, and the remaining crowd parts for him like he’s Moses and they’re the Red Sea. He stops in front of Luke, looking him up and down.
“Problem?” he asks.
“Not anymore, sir,” Luke says.
Dad gives him a long, assessing look. Then, finally: “Good.”
It’s high praise from him. Practically a medal of honor.
Dad catches my eye as he wanders back inside and gives me a look that seems to say, not too pretty to be a bouncer after all, eh?
I shake my head, my heart still racing, and rush over to Luke.
I put my hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”
“Are you?”
“Of course. I’m not the one who just got in an altercation with a three-hundred-pound human refrigerator.”
His eyes darken, something fierce flickering behind them. “He touched you.”
The way he says it—low, controlled, still angry—sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold.
“I have my ways of dealing with that,” I say.
“Do you, now?"
“I was about to dump a drink down his shirt,” I explain. “Accidentally, of course.”
“Of course,” he repeats, and there’s the ghost of a smile now. He’s examining my face closely, like he’s checking for injuries, for signs of distress.
Seeing that I’m okay clearly relaxes him. His shoulders drop slightly. His jaw unclenches.
“But I don’t mind your way, either,” I add, reaching up and brushing a lock of hair away from his eyes.
Every muscle in his body seems to go still.
The air between us shifts. Like it’s humming now.
“What did you say to him?” I ask softly.
He hesitates, his jaw working like he’s debating whether to tell me. Then his eyes meet mine. There’s something dark and protective in them that makes my stomach flip.
“I told him if he ever touches you again, I’ll break his fingers one by one.”
My breath catches. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” No apology in his tone. “And I meant every word.”
The fierce certainty in his voice sends heat rushing through me.
“Well.” I swallow. “He believed you.”
“Good.” Luke’s eyes haven’t left mine. “He should.”
We stand there in the cold for another beat, the moment stretching between us.
Then I remember we’re still being watched.
I glance around. A lot of guys are looking at Luke with newfound admiration or unease, like they’re just realizing how much they underestimated him. About half the girls are staring adoringly at him, whispering to each other behind their hands. The other half are glaring daggers at me.
Great.
I drop my hand.
“Show’s over,” I announce, forcing my voice back into waitress-mode. “And Kevin’s tab is still open, so he’s buying everyone a round!”
A cheer goes through the bar, and just like that, the tension breaks. People start filing back inside, already arguing about what they saw, embellishing details, making Luke into either a hero or a maniac depending on who’s telling the story.
But Luke doesn’t move. He’s still looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too warm despite the freezing air.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, just for him.
All he says is, “It’s my job to protect you.”
And somehow, I believe him.
Luke and I are closing up as usual when I notice something unusual.
A trickle of blood is running down his arm.
“Luke!” I gasp. “You’re bleeding.”
He glances down and shrugs. “It’s nothing,” he says, grabbing a napkin to dab it away. “Just scraped the door hinge dodging the human refrigerator.”
“You’ll be lucky if you don’t get tetanus,” I scold him. “Sit down and let me clean you up properly.”
There’s a tolerant look on his face as he obliges. I run to the storage room to grab a first aid kit, wash my hands in the bathroom, and pull up a chair next to him.
Pushing up his sleeve reveals a nasty scratch. Not deep enough for stitches, but it looks painful. “How come you didn’t say anything?” I ask him.
“Didn’t even feel it, honestly.”
I roll my eyes. “Men.”
“Judging by the look in your eyes, I have a lot of things to make up for, on behalf of the male species.”
“I like some of the male species. I love my dad. I love Buster.”
He doesn’t even flinch as I disinfect his wound. His gaze is deep and serious as it rests on me. “Who else do you love, Madison?”
“My best friend Emily. And that’s it. That’s my list of who I love.”
“That’s a very low acceptance rate, to be admitted onto that list.”
“Yeah, well, the candidates haven’t exactly been stellar.
” I sigh. “Look, I’m not some man-hater.
I’ve just been hurt and disappointed a lot, and I know it’s my own damn fault.
I’m always building up someone in my mind.
Always wanting something to be more than it is.
” I smooth the medical glue across his scratch.
“But all that’s in the past. I’m done with it. ”
“With giving your love to men who don’t deserve it?”
“More than that. I’m done giving my love away to anyone, period.”
He studies me. “What’s that mean, exactly? Gonna commit yourself to a nunnery?”
“Doesn’t sound so bad, if you ask me. Free health care. No married men leering at you day in, day out. Do they let you be a nun if you have a tattoo?”
His eyes dip down my body. “You have a tattoo?”
“Mmhmm.”
I hike up my top to display the delicately inked butterflies across my ribcage.
His eyes trace them as if he’s memorizing them.
“Why butterflies?” he asks, voice a little rough.
“It’s one of the only things I know about my mom—that she loved butterflies. And yeah, she left me—left us—but I like to think there was some part of her that loved me. At least for a little while.”
Luke’s eyes have been riveted to my abdomen, but at my words, his gaze snaps up to meet mine.
“You said she wasn’t around. She left you?”
“When I was three. Ran off with her drug dealer. I spent years being angry at her. Then being really sad for her.” My fingers trace the edges of the butterfly wings. “Now I’ve finally forgiven her. The tattoo is part of that.”
“She missed out on a lot,” Luke says, holding my gaze.
“Exactly. Good health, a roof over her head—”
“You, Madison. She missed out on you.”
My throat feels tight. “Yeah, well.” I pull my shirt back down. “In any case, if the nuns won’t have me on account of the tattoos and the swearing and all the rest of it, then so be it. No matter what, my heart is closed for business.”