Chapter 9-Sloane
By the time closing rolls around, I've made approximately six hundred mistakes.
Not big ones.
Nothing anyone else would notice.
I ring up a beer twice.
Forget ranch dressing for table seven.
Nearly burn an order of onion rings because I'm too busy staring at the back door every time it opens.
I’m too busy thinking about him.
Micah.
Three days since he'd looked at me with those pale blue eyes full of things he never actually said—and it feels like three months.
Since then, it’s been a whole lot of nothing.
No texts. Which makes sense because how could he text me when we’ve ever exchanged phone numbers?
No visits.
No midnight filter changes.
Just no Micah.
And I don't understand.
Who kisses a woman like that—like she’s the damn air he needs to live—and then, poof, just disappears?
Did I read it wrong?
Did he regret it?
Was it pity?
Sympathy?
A moment of weakness?
God.
Listen to yourself.
You're thirty-three years old, Sloane.
Not sixteen.
Quit acting like some lovesick teenager.
I sigh and wipe down another section of the bar.
I have other things I should be worrying about.
Like my brother and his odd behavior.
Especially, the way he’s been in front of the cash register all night.
I’m going to have to ask him to move so I can get tonight’s deposit bag before it gets too late.
My nerves are frayed, and my stomach is doing flips.
I hate confrontation.
Loathe it, really.
The clock on the wall creeps toward closing.
One more hour.
Then thirty minutes.
Then fifteen.
The regulars head home one by one until only Patrick and four strangers remain.
They came in through the back a few minutes ago—Patrick let them in.
There’s only ten minutes left of the night. Ten minutes before I turn the lights on bright and escort the stragglers to the door.
I don’t know these men.
But I do know I hadn't liked the look of them the second they walked in.
Expensive boots.
Cheap manners.
Eyes that never stopped moving.
They’re the kind of men who looked at people the way wolves looked at livestock.
When they asked for drinks, I'd refused to serve them.
“We’re about to close.”
But Patrick practically shoved me aside.
“Drinks are on the house, boys.”
On the house?
What the hell?
Patrick never gives anything away.
Never.
Not unless he thinks he's getting something in return.
The thought leaves an uneasy knot in my stomach.
I finish locking the front entrance and flip the sign to Closed.
The fry cook I hired to work the kitchen has already gone home.
And the dishwasher finished twenty minutes ago.
It's just me now.
And Patrick.
And those four men.
Something about that realization prickles along the back of my neck.
I start toward the register.
“I think it's time you guys head—”
The crash explodes through the empty bar.
Glass shatters against hardwood.
The sound is deafening in the sudden quiet.
I whirl around.
“Oh, my God!”
Patrick is bent double.
No.
Not bent.
He’s being held upright.
Two enormous men have him by the arms, practically suspending him off the floor while another stands in front of him.
The fourth man blocks the only clear path to the front door.
My heart lurches.
“Patrick!”
He lifts his head.
Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth.
His eyes are glazed.
Drunk.
Or worse.
“S-Sloane...” he slurs.
His voice barely sounds like his.
“Just... go...”
Before he can finish, the biggest of the men drives a fist into his stomach.
Hard.
Patrick folds around the punch with a strangled grunt.
I squeak before I can stop myself.
“Hey!” I shout. “Stop it!”
Four heads turn toward me.
Slowly.
Like predators catching movement in tall grass.
The man in the middle smiles.
It isn't friendly.
It's the kind of smile that makes your stomach drop.
Tall.
Broad.
Black button-down stretched tight over thick shoulders.
Black slacks.
Polished boots.
His dark hair is slicked back away from a face that might've been handsome once.
Then something happened.
A long white scar slices from his cheekbone almost to his jaw.
It twists when he smiles.
Making him look wrong. Deranged.
“Well,” he drawls. “Would you look at that.”
His gaze crawls over me.
Slowly.
Taking his time.
I fight the urge to step backward.
“What do we have here?”
Nobody answers.
He doesn't seem to care.
“You his wife?” he asks, jerking his chin toward Patrick.
“What?”
“I asked if you're married to this deadbeat.”
“No. I’m his sister.”
He chuckles.
“I see.”
Patrick coughs.
“Leave... her...”
Another punch.
Another grunt.
My stomach twists.
“Stop hurting him!”
The scarred man finally starts walking.
Toward me.
Slow.
Unhurried.
He is completely certain of himself.
Instinct screams at me to run.
But my feet? My stupid feet refuse to move.
He stops less than an arm's length away.
Looks me up and down again.
“Sister, huh?”
“What do you want from us?”
His lip curls.
“What do I want? Your brother owes us a lot of cash, little sister,” he says.
My eyes widen as he steps closer, putting his face right in the light.
His scars are jagged, but they’re not accidentally. No, they were done on purpose.
The largest one is a complex zigzag pattern. Like someone took their time doing it.
“What's the matter?” he asks. “Not pretty enough for you. I figure you wouldn’t mind my scars since you’re such a tubby little thing. You’re probably desperate for a man, aren’t you?”
His cruel words hit exactly where he intends them to.
Years ago, maybe they would've broken me.
Tonight, they just make me angry.
“I’m none of your business.”
“No?”
“No.”
For just a second, genuine surprise flashes across his face.
Then it's gone.
His smile returns.
Meaner this time.
“I say you are. And that’s okay, baby. You can sass me all you want. I like 'em with a little fight.”
Every alarm bell in my body starts screaming.
I take one careful step backward.
“I don’t care what you like,” I reply, trying to sound braver than I feel. “Now let go of my brother and get the hell out of my bar.”
“Sloane, don’t,” Patrick groans.
The scarred man's laugh echoes through the empty room.
“You hearing this boss?”
He shakes his head.
“I don't think you understand what's happening here.”
Another step.
Another.
Until my back bumps the edge of the bar.
No farther to go.
His eyes glitter.
“You see,” he says almost conversationally, “your brother owes some very important people a whole lot of money.”
Ice slides into my veins.
“What?”
Patrick squeezes his eyes shut.
“Sloane, I’m sorry—”
Patrick tries to apologize, but the man holding him upright gives him a vicious shake.
I stare at him.
Money?
What money?
“Patrick? What is he talking about?”
Patrick won't look at me.
The silence answers before anyone else can.
The scarred man grins wider.
“Oh. This is rich! You really don't know.”
My pulse pounds in my ears.
Know what?
Before I can ask, he lunges.
Fast.
Far faster than a man his size should move.
His hand clamps around both my wrists, crushing them together.
I gasp.
His grip is iron.
“Got you now. Maybe we can take some off the interest if you give me what I want,” he snarls, then he licks the side of my face.
Panic explodes through me.
I yank backward with everything I've got.
He doesn't budge.
Not even a little.
“Let me go!”
He only laughs.
The sound follows me into the scream building in my throat.