Chapter Seventeen #2
There’s a guy next to me nursing a drink. Early thirties, maybe, blond and leering. The kind of man who wears his arrogance like cologne. His eyes sweep over me, lingering just a beat too long, and my stomach turns. This part of going out, of bars and parties and leering men, I don’t miss.
Ugh. I should have picked a spot near the puck bunnies. At least they’d be helpful, fixing my lip gloss or straightening my top instead of whatever the hell this creep is doing.
“Hey there,” he drawls, tipping his beer bottle toward me. “Didn’t see you out on the dance floor.”
I give him a tight-lipped smile. “That’s because I wasn’t on it.”
“Shame.” He leans in slightly. Too close. My instincts fire and I shift back, pressing my hands against the bar. “You look like you could dance.”
I exhale sharply through my nose, fingers drumming against the wood.
Where the hell is my drink? I inch sideways. He follows. “You here with friends?” he presses.
“Something like that.”
His grin widens. “Let me get your drink, then.”
A sharp prickle crawls up my spine. “I’m good, thanks.”
I glance over my shoulder, searching for our booth. Rhodes is laughing at something Beck said, his head tipped back, jaw sharp and strong. So handsome. So confident. And also, so very much not paying attention to me right now.
Blond Guy takes my distraction as an opening, his tone dipping lower.
“Come on, one drink won’t kill you.”
I tense. My stomach clenches. I’ve listened to too many true crime documentaries for that line to land well.
“I said I’m good.”
The bartender places my Diet Coke in front of me, but before I can grab it, Blond Guy scoffs and pulls it out of my reach.
I lean forward to grab it back, and his hand darts out and encircles my wrist. It’s not a hard grip, but it’s entitled.
Like he’s owed my attention and conversation, and he isn’t very good at taking no for an answer.
There is a shuffle of feet behind me, and Blond Guy peers over my shoulder, brows furrowing in annoyance.
“I wouldn’t move another fucking inch if I were you.”
Rhodes’ voice is low. Lethal. Heat floods my chest and my breath comes fast and uneven. His hand immediately releases my wrist, and Rhodes tugs me into his side.
“We were just talking,” Blond Guy says, irritated.
Rhodes’ expression is unreadable, but his posture isn’t. My eyes roam over the squared shoulders, his tight jaw. Predatory in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.
I swear, the entire bar has tilted in his direction.
Or maybe it’s just me.
Beck and Tyler flank his sides, a wall of broad shoulders, sharp glares, and hockey players who have zero patience for this kind of bullshit.
My own personal team of bodyguards. If I was a girl who swooned, I think I’d be swooning.
“Sounds like Monroe here said no,” Beck says, tipping his beer back. “Isn’t that right?” He nods to me.
I swallow, my pulse hammering against my throat. “Yup,” I say, popping the p. Part of me wants to be annoyed at them for not letting me handle this on my own. Letting people help me doesn’t come easily to me.
But I’ve been doing a lot of things that haven’t been easy for me lately, and my dad would be proud of them for stepping in, so I guess I’m letting it happen.
Blond Guy looks between the three of them, realizing too late that he’s made a mistake.
“Jesus, man, relax, she was being kind of a bit—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Tyler’s voice starts but it’s too late. Rhodes is swinging on Blond Guy, and his fist collides with his jaw. His head snaps back at the contact and bar patrons back up around us, gawking at the commotion.
“Ah, shit,” Beck swears behind us. Rhodes grabs the guy’s shirt and pulls him up, speaking low enough for his words to land like an atomic bomb.
“Let me be very clear.” His voice is even. Unshakable. “Your face isn’t the first I’ve broken on my girl’s behalf, and it very likely won’t be the last.”
My stomach drops and something twists in my chest. My girl. Was I clear as mud when I said slow? Did Rhodes hear that and think run full speed ahead?
Still, the words echo in my head, over and over, louder than the bass of the music.
Blond Guy glares at Rhodes, leaning against a chair in support, a bruise already forming on his face. “Didn’t realize she was taken.”
“She is.”
The finality in his voice is like a slam of a door.
The bartender is finally taking notice, too little too late, and the bouncers are dragging Blond Guy toward the front of the bar.
He mutters something about crazy fucking hockey players before disappearing with them into the crowd.
Thank God Rhodes is like royalty in this place.
I can only hope the people here tonight love him enough not to spread another video of Rhodes punching someone in the face.
Over me. Again.
Dad would be thrilled.
Rhodes watches him go, chest rising and falling slowly, measured.
I blink up at him, still half-stunned.
“You all right?” he asks, voice gravelly, deep. I nod, slowly. Because what else is there to say? Rhodes doesn’t move for a second. Then his hand finds my waist, warm and possessive.
His lips brush against my temple, and the touch is brief but deliberate. Claiming, as if his name on my back wasn’t enough. Again with the full speed I haven’t been very good at pumping the brakes on tonight.
“Come on, sweetheart.” His voice is smoother now. “You’re done at the bar.”
Then, with his hand firm on my hip, he steers me back toward the table, and back to his lap, like it’s where I belong.
Rhodes settles me against him, his grip steady, fingers pressing into my thigh like he wants to make sure I stay put. His breath is hot against my ear.
“Did I tell you I’m feeling jealous tonight?” he murmurs, voice low and smug, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.
“You told him I was taken,” I ignore his question and reply quietly, turning my head. Our mouths are a hair’s breadth apart. His breath catches just slightly—so slight that I almost miss it. But I don’t.
“I did,” he agrees. “My name on your jersey is making me crazy right now. It has me thinking all kinds of things that would make you run in the opposite direction.” He takes a deep breath in.
I swallow. “What kind of things?”
“Definitely not the slow thoughts you asked me to have, Monroe.” His words are loosened by the number of beers he’s had tonight, but I have a feeling they’re more than honest. He grimaces at me and continues. “They are very fast, Monroe. Top speed. Bullet train thoughts.”
I let out a slow breath and force my brain to remember all the reasons I should keep him at arm’s length.
None of them seem to be landing right now.
“Okay, big guy,” I say, shifting on his lap, ignoring the way his fingers tighten on my waist like he doesn’t want to let me go. “We should probably get you home.”
I avoid the conversation, because I don’t think I’m ready for it yet.
Because I have a feeling that once I belong to Rhodes McKnight for real, there will be no going back.