1. LYRA #2
I have to admit, there’s something oddly satisfying about watching somebody fuck up so profoundly that I know his or her life won’t ever be the same the moment they step out of my bar.
Does that make me a monster? I don’t know, but it does make me realize that in that very moment, even though I haven’t got my life figured out, I’m really not doing too bad.
Hell, I’m actually doing pretty well for myself.
I have a bar that I love and a beautiful home.
It may only be a small apartment, but I can’t bring myself to upgrade.
My car is paid off, and at only twenty-two, I’m financially stable—apart from the crippling student debt from my arts degree I insisted on getting, which I’ve never used and likely won’t ever need.
Though we can go ahead and file that under life experiences that don’t ever need to be talked about.
All I’m missing in life is somebody to go home to every night.
Somebody to crawl in bed beside, to hold me while I sleep, and love me despite my flaws.
The perfect guy would likely share those flaws.
He’d be a little wild and could make me laugh.
But not a pathetic little chuckle. I mean a whole belly laugh.
He’d have that alphahole vibe about him, but not be overbearing, and all other men better watch out when he’s in the room, because one wrong glance at me would have them out cold on the ground.
I know I’m not supposed to love a territorial man, but there’s something so wickedly sexy about it.
I’d love to have a guy be like that over me.
To know that just the idea of another man looking at me drives him crazy with jealousy.
He wouldn’t squirm at gore and would happily judge all the idiots who walk into my bar with me.
But most of all, he’s gotta be hot as fuck, and I mean, full on panties dropping left, right, and center.
The kind of guy women want to climb like a tree, and have me watching my back everywhere we go, but I wouldn’t have to worry, because he’d be all mine.
A big dick would also be a bonus. Ginormous even.
Oh, and I suppose, he should probably be a good guy.
Maybe that should have been a little higher on my list.
Shit, my priorities have always been a mess, but it is what it is, and I won’t apologize for that.
My Velvet Slap victim and his friends finally move on from the bar to make space for newcomers. Fresh faces appear before me, and as I’m quickly clearing the dirty shot glasses the men left behind, a shadow falls over me.
My gaze collides with a wide, defined chest that’s straining against the fabric of a black shirt. I trail my stare up over a pair of large shoulders covered by a leather jacket before heading higher to a stubbled jaw that’s sharp enough to cut glass.
The man is huge, and he’s staring at me through a pair of pitch-black eyes as though he’s already picturing every position he wants to bend me into. His gaze heats my skin, and if he keeps looking at me like that, there’s going to be trouble.
“What’ll it be?”
“Water,” he says in a deep, no-nonsense tone that sends shivers coursing over my body. “Hold the ice.”
A smirk settles on my lips as I reach for a glass, all while refusing to take my eyes off him. Now that’s my definition of a snack. Tall, dark, and delicious. Black unruly hair, giving off the don’t-fuck-with-me vibes. I don’t know a thing about this man, but I already know he’s a walking red flag.
Exactly my type.
“Hold the ice?” I tease. “Who orders water without ice? That right there is the power move of a crazed psychopath . . . or a serial killer.”
He grins, those dark eyes lighting up, and damn it, the way they’re eating me alive is doing something wicked to me. If this guy knew how desperately he was making me squirm beneath this bar, we’d already be out in the side alley with my back plastered against the brick wall.
“Why can’t I be both?”
Ding. Ding. Ding. Is that dark humor I detect? It’s almost as prominent as mine. Almost . Either way, he’s a man after my own heart. Ticking all my boxes before I’ve ever learned his name. Now, I swear, if this guy has a girlfriend, it’s going to be the greatest devastation ever to rock my world.
“I suppose you could be both,” I say, pausing to really look him over. “You’ve got the serial-killer vibes down, but I’m not sure you could pull off crazed psychopath. There’s not enough crazy in your eyes.”
A slight grin pulls at the corner of his lips as he presses his palms against the edge of the bar and leans toward me. “Is that so?”
Fuck me. Barely said three words to the guy, and he’s already got me exactly where he wants me, but you won’t see me complaining. “Oh, for sure.”
“What’s your name, Savage?”
“I’m—” A loud chime of the dance bell sounds through my bar, cutting me off, followed by the overwhelming cheer from my regulars, knowing exactly what that means. Then as a wicked smirk stretches across my lips, I place the half-filled glass of no-ice water down on my bar. “Hold that thought.”
His brows furrow, but before I get a chance to explain the nightly table-dance tradition that’s triggered by somebody accusing my bar of being a toxic establishment, “Toxic” by Britney Spears blares through the speakers.
Without skipping a beat, every single one of my employees freezes, no matter where they are, no matter if they’re on the floor collecting dirty glasses, they stop and step up onto the closest bar, their bodies already moving with the practiced choreography.
The dance is just as toxic as the song suggests, and with each roll of my body and twerk of my hips, my customers cheer and throw tips toward the bar for my employees to divide at the end of the night.
Fire pulses through my veins, and as the music blasts through the speakers, I can’t help but notice how I have Mr. Crazed Serial Killer’s undivided attention.
He’s mesmerized by every movement, unable to take his eyes off me, and damn it, I’ve never felt so desired in my life.
At that moment, every other customer in my bar fades away, and I dance only for him.