Chapter Eleven
EMMA
Two Days Later
Although I’ve been living in his house and sharing his bed, Griffin and I haven’t seen that much of each other. By day, he goes to work, dressed in his usual detective outfit, and comes home just as my shift’s about to start. When I finish at Legends, Griffin’s in bed, snoozing.
I don’t know what he gets up to, or what work he’s put into finding my assailant, but I trust him. In the end, it’s all I’ve got. I want people like him punished, the same way Griffin does. If this is how we’re going to do it, then so be it.
I stay at the bar later than usual most nights.
After tallying my shift’s take, and the other general admin tasks, I watch and wait.
Griffin told me to come to work, so I have.
But with every passing night, I feel as if my attacker is running further away.
Why would he come back? What good would it do him, apart from repairing a hurt ego?
I’m playing a dangerous game staying at the bar longer than I should.
With Griffin at home, and probably in bed, I’d be helpless to another attack.
But after our conversation, and after learning who Griffin really is, I’m filled with some newfound determination to bring this prick down.
If I want to be a part of the Vigilante’s world, I have to show him that I can hold my own.
I closed the bar an hour ago and sent the last remaining drunks home. Only a handful of regulars were there, men who’d rather be anywhere but home today, as is usual for Mondays. Business tends to dwindle during the week.
I’m standing behind the bar, flicking through my phone and trying to kill time. Ten more minutes, I tell myself. Most of me wants to go home, be in Griffin’s arms, and share another night of exquisite pleasure with him. But the rest wants to be here on a stakeout in hopes I find the bastard.
This is a fool’s errand, right? What would I do if he came in?
I could threaten him with the shotgun under the bar.
It’s worked before and it might work now.
But how long will it take him to realize there aren’t any shells in it?
Will it be enough to scare him away? Then what?
Do I have the courage to follow him from here to wherever he goes?
Probably not.
I might’ve bitten off more than I can chew with this one.
“Little bird, little bird, what have we here?” A smug voice comes from the front door and distracts me from my thoughts.
I look up, only to see the creep walking across the bar.
He’s advancing slowly, running his fingers across every table as he comes.
Oh God, I’ve thought about this for days.
I left the door unlocked on purpose, in the hope that he’d show up and step inside.
Seconds after he has, I can feel myself freezing.
I’m locking up in fear, uncertainty, and doubt about what I’ve done.
There’s no Griffin to save me this time. I’m alone with the man who beat my father senseless.
“You don’t mind I let myself in, right?” he says, stopping a few feet away from the bar. His emerald eyes scan our surroundings, while he tucks his hand into his coat pocket for a cigarette. “I’m not too late for a drink, am I?”
He lights up a smoke.
“Wh… what are you doing here?” I ask. My throat squeezes shut, and it hurts to swallow.
“I thought I’d say hi, check in on you and make sure you’re doing alright,” he puts on a fake voice of someone who’s caring. “What the fuck do you think I’m doing here?” His voice changes into a snarl.
I reach for the shotgun and point it in his direction. His eyes widen, as he puffs on his cigarette. “Go on then. Do it. Shoot me.”
I try swallowing again, but my mouth’s a desert. Dark thoughts swirl in my head and instant regret washes over me. He approaches me, staring at the shotgun in my hands.
“You don’t have the balls,” he says.
“Take another step and I’ll—” I scream.
“You’ll what?” He crooks a brow.
It’s too late now. I’ve fucked up and this is my penance.
Griffin was right. I’m not cut out for this shit. As much as I want to see this fucker burn, I shouldn’t have gotten involved. I’m just a girl from Whitefish who’s lost her mind.
He takes another step forward, and then a few more, until we’ve only got the bar counter separating us.
“How’s your old man doing?” he asks, ashing his cigarette.
With his free hand, he reaches across the bar and grabs me by the shirt. With a single downward motion, he tears the topmost buttons and they ping onto the wood. I scream and squeeze the trigger, but there’s no bang. There’s only a dissatisfying click.
“No ammo, huh?” he asks, grabbing at the shotgun. He pulls it away from me and stares down the barrel to make sure.
Then he laughs, the most horrible laugh I’ve ever heard. It sends a shiver down my spine and my belly’s in knots. I’m fucked and there’s nothing I can do about it. What sick thoughts are running through this bastard’s head?
He drops the cigarette and shotgun, and presses his flat palms against the counter. “We’re going to have some fun, you and me. And there’s no one here to help you this time.” He gives Legends one final scan. “Take your tits out.”
I shake my head. Declining pisses him off. He reaches out to grab me again, but I recoil backward, smashing into the display case holding all our booze. Two bottles fall from the top shelf, and hit me on top of the head. I crumble to the ground, dazed by the double blow.
Again, the monster laughs.
“Did someone get a booboo?” A wicked grin stretches across his face. He launches himself over the bar and lands on his feet. From my position, my head’s right in line with his groin.
“Let me make it better for you.” He grabs my head in the palms of both his hands. Without warning, he thrusts my face against his dick. I start to scream, unable to hold it in. Tears stream from my eyes and I claw at any part of him I can touch in hopes it will break his grip.
My entire body tenses up. Everything hurts.
What have I done?