CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT FIRE AND PAPER UMBRELLAS LUNA
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FIRE AND PAPER UMbrELLAS
LUNA
Even with the bullshit call on Thursday night, I’d assumed my captain would end the investigation.
An easily debunked tip wasn’t exactly a crime that would land someone on the most wanted list. Other than a shooting that might or might not have been related, there wasn’t enough to justify my presence.
But a Friday morning text from my bestie—named so ironically in my contacts since Murdoch was foe not friend—said otherwise.
I was staying in.
Which gave me more time to torture Rhys.
Nothing could happen.
Nothing would happen.
I simply wanted to make him regret being such an overbearing and condescending asshole.
If he wasn’t interested in me, that was fine.
I could handle rejection. What I refused to handle was someone trying to tell me what I wanted.
What was best for me. What I was allowed to have.
For whatever reason, Rhys thought he had the right to make decisions for me when what he actually had was a lot of audacity.
And a lot of karma coming to smack him in the head.
I wasn’t being stupid or anything. My priority was my work.
But part of said work included being his girlfriend. And I decided to really immerse myself as a method actress.
Friday night had been a fun time. Informative, too.
Rhys had made it clear that he liked my legs, so I’d set aside the looser style jeans I usually wore and switched to flares that hugged my hips and thighs.
What I hadn’t known was he would split his time staring at my legs and the hint of cleavage my top showed.
He was a thigh and breasts man.
As were a lot of the customers, if my increased tips were any indication. I would be more skeeved out by it if those funds weren’t going to be split between the other bartenders once I was done. They deserved it.
Saturday was shaping up to be even better for my tips and my torture thanks to a new scooped-neck crop that showed tits and tummy and a different pair of tight jeans.
I wasn’t sure if it was working or if I was just providing some curvy scenery to pass the time.
Or maybe I was being immature and petty—both of which validated his viewpoint that I was too young for him.
That was fine. I was good with being annoying, too.
I wasn’t the only one.
The customer in front of me was a talker—and not the fun kind.
He was good enough looking that he could probably get a better conversation going with a woman he actually had a shot with, but he would have to shut up to make that happen.
He ran his mouth like it was a competition, and he didn’t want there to be any doubt he’d won.
Won at life. Won at his job. Won with his connections. Won at winning.
Fake smile in place, I arched my ass out as I fixed a water he hadn’t asked for.
The ass out was in case Rhys was looking, but also because my back hurt from being on my feet. Stretching it felt glorious, and I barely smothered a groan.
The good thing about moving in tomorrow is that his couch is probably made of something other than milk crates and pain. It’ll feel like a cloud compared to my bed.
“That’s amazing,” I said to the guy, even though I’d barely been paying attention to his story about how he’d invested something. Invented something?
He’d done something, and he was very proud of it.
I split my focus between his chatter and scanning around to make sure everyone else was good. And then I bit back a smile when I saw Rhys bypass multiple tablets to use the one nearest me.
“One second,” I said to the man, though I didn’t know if he heard me over the sound of his own voice.
I left anyway, taking the few steps over to where Rhys stood.
He didn’t glance at me. He didn’t say anything. But I caught the way his shoulders quickly bunched at my approach.
“Need something, barman?” I fluttered my lashes up at him. “Or are you lost?”
“I’ve lost something, all right,” he muttered. He sounded so disgruntled that I almost felt bad.
“Eyes not what they used to be? I can help find whatever you’re missing.”
His glare cut to me. “You can help by knocking this shit off.”
“What shit?”
“You know what.”
“I’m just working.”
“Yeah, working my last damn nerve,” he said without any venom in his voice.
I lifted my shoulder. “Still working.”
I jolted when he suddenly wrapped an arm around me and rested his palm on my ass. Not partially on it like before. Full-on, spanned tattooed hand, on my ass. As if that wasn’t enough, he lowered his face until it was in mine.
My lips parted, and my tongue darted out to slowly lick my bottom lip. Not because it was dry or anything.
I just wanted the up-close view of oceanic eyes tracking the movement.
Which was exactly what happened right before his hand squeezed. Palming my cheek like a basketball.
“Whatever this game of chicken is, hellcat,” he said roughly, “you’re not gonna win it.”
“But you saw how seriously I take gaming. I’m competitive.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“Same thing.”
“And you’re playing with fire,” he whispered, his warning clear.
It sent a shiver down my spine, but I liked it.
As did Rhys if his tightened hold said anything.
“Of course I’m playing with fire.” I worked to keep my voice neutral. “You’re the one who started calling me hellcat. You have no one to blame but yourself.”
He dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling, likely gathering patience.
“Looking the wrong way, buddy.” That time when I moved, it was without thought or scheme.
My hand automatically lifted to weave my fingers into his hair.
His soft-as-hell hair that somehow felt even better than it looked.
At the intimacy of the touch, I froze for half a second, but I was already in it.
I had no choice but to tip his face the other way. “Hell’s down there.”
There was no trace of amusement on his handsome face as he nudged my hand with his head. Leaning into my touch, his gaze seared into mine. “Hell’s right here.”
“Then Hell is self-inflicted,” I shot back before dropping my arm.
The next hour passed in a blur of good vibes that got better when LaQuin clocked in. There was a reason he was Rye’s closing bartender.
Chuck was good. Efficient. A career bartender who seemed to handle rushes with a superhuman amount of chill.
LaQuin was also good. Efficient. A career bartender who smiled and chatted until everyone liked him. He cleaned up with end of the night tips because the stragglers who hung around a bar until last call were either celebrating or sulking, and his infectious mood worked on both.
He paused his sing-along with the music we could barely hear to grab my shoulders and spin me. “You must be a saint. If I asked my wife to work a single shift with me, she would assume I meant for her to come in to drink while I worked.”
“As it should be.”
“Agreed for you and her. You should be perched on a stool with a drink.”
I gestured to our setup. “No blender.”
He put two fingers to his head and closed his eyes like he was using supernatural abilities to form his guess. “Margarita, extra spice?”
“Pina colada, extra umbrellas,” I corrected.
In my real life, people would probably assume I was a whiskey drinker or something else stereotypically tough.
But I’d never been able to even sip it without making a face that was neither tough nor flattering.
“Which raises another issue. This grunge bar is too cool for paper umbrellas. I get that. But why no little dagger thingies? Little dagger thingies are cool.”
“Nothing is cool when you call it a little thingy.”
“You get the point.”
Picking up one of the flavored vodkas that were as equally out of place as the fun umbrellas would be, he shook it. “It’s not a pina colada, but I could make you a pineapple upside-down cocktail while you tell your man you’re done for the night.”
Harlow had made me a mini one to try while she’d explained the random drinks she created that sold well to party girls and biker badasses alike. LaQuin was right, it wasn’t my drink of choice, but it’d still been delicious.
And not something I could have while I was doing either of my jobs.
“What’s the use if there’s no umbrella or dagger?” I asked. “I’ll just work instead.”
“Like I said, a saint.”
There was a clatter from over at the other side of the bar, and my chatty pal was standing. His glass was on its side, and something was splattered on his shirt. “Aw, hell.”
I looked back at LaQuin. “Then that must be my saint’s prayer.”
Chuck was already wiping up from our side of things, but most of the damage was on the other side. I grabbed a wad of rags and hurried around the bar to the mess.
“Sorry. My hand caught the glass. I’ll clean it up,” the guy said, reaching for the bundle with sloppy aim.
I dodged right as his hand was about to touch my boob, avoiding the contact as I forced a smile. “I got it.”
A shiver went down my spine, and unlike earlier, there was nothing pleasant about it. I kept the guy in my line of sight as I cleaned the mess, but all he did was apologize repeatedly.
I still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, and I wasn’t about to convince myself I was overreacting. I’d seen how that could end up.
With me.
In a hospital bed.
With a hole in my shoulder that hadn’t been there before.
I lifted my hand to flag a bouncer, but it was Rhys who spotted me and started moving by literally hopping over the bar like an action star.
It was impressive. It was also too late.
The drunk at my side had one hand full of my boob and the other full of my ass.
And then he was no longer the drunk at my side.
He was the moron whose torso was pinned against the bar by one of my elbows in his back while I hyperextended his arm behind him.
“What the fuck was that?” I asked, sounding more exasperated than angry.
“I lost my balance.” His sentence ended in a cry when I lifted his arm higher.
Most people were already watching, but at his constipated eagle screech, every damn person in the place was silently staring.
Just great.
“Do you want to try that again?” I asked.
He thrashed.
I dug my elbow into his spine.
He tried and failed to dislodge me.
I pushed until his arm was nearly out of the socket.
He froze.
It’s about time he did something smart.
I gave his arm a little wiggle as a prompt, and he blurted, “That guy touched you. Then that other guy did. And you were smiling at me. Figured it was fair game.”
It took me a second to piece together his feeble excuse for being a perv.
“Wait. Because my boyfriend touched me and then my friend spun me by my shoulders, you thought that gave you permission to violate me?” I scowled down at him, and his throat convulsed as he swallowed.
Good. You should be scared.
Channeling the weariness of every harassed woman, I didn’t hold back.
“I bet you throw around crumpled dollar bills at strip clubs and then tell yourself that those women are spending time because they actually like you. That you’re different from all the pathetic sad sacks, and that they love when you proposition them.
They don’t. I don’t. We’re doing our jobs.
That’s it. Learn to keep your hands to yourself.
And while you’re at it, learn to shut your mouth every once in a while. ”
I gave one last rough jab, he gave one last howl, and I stepped away.
Only to immediately be pulled into Rhys’s arms. I didn’t even have to look down at the mix of amazing ink to know it was him.
Three bouncers swooped in. Two grabbed the man and hauled him away. One—Stevie—stayed by my side.
If Rhys is about to give me shit for defending myself, I’m going to pop his arm out of its socket. Or at least threaten to do it.
I didn’t get the chance to issue that threat before I was spun.
He clutched my waist as blue eyes scanned me over.
If he was anyone else, he might’ve asked what I’d done or said to give the wrong impression. He might’ve used the situation as evidence of why my increased flirtation at work was a bad idea. If he was that kind of person, he might’ve said I needed to stop wearing tight or low-cut shirts.
But he wasn’t.
He was Rhys.
Which was why there was nothing but concern for me—and rage, not for me—on his tense face. “You okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
He let out a frustrated rumble and tightened his grip.
“I’m fine. Promise. Go deal with him.” I went up on my toes but still had to grip his shirt to pull him down so I could reach his mouth. I pressed a quick kiss to it and used that cover to whisper, “I need his name.”
I started to sink back, but he didn’t let me. His hold moved to my face before his mouth crashed down on mine, plunging his tongue in to take and taste and dominate.
It was only a few seconds, but those few seconds were enough to leave me off kilter.
Getting groped and restraining a perv? Cool as a cucumber.
Getting kissed by my fake boyfriend? A melty pile of goo.
“You sure you’re okay?” Rhys asked, his face still close to mine. At my nod, he looked over my head. “Take her back to my office.”
“Got it, boss,” Stevie said.
Rhys released me and stormed toward the back hallway that held the bathrooms and the emergency exit.
An exit that led to a darkened alleyway.
Oh shit.
I tore my focus away to see Stevie staring down at me with a shit-eating grin on his face. “I’m usually bummed when people do my job for me, but that was badass. Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Self-defense classes at the Y,” I lied. I had taken classes—starting when I was thirteen—but they weren’t at the Y. They were specialty ones taught by women in law enforcement, the military, or mixed martial arts.
“Damn. I thought that was just for little old ladies.”
“They’re there, too. You never know when a granny will jump out and get you with a knitting needle.”
“I’ll stay alert.” He jerked his chin. “Let’s go.”
“I’m good.” Even if I was shaken, I wouldn’t leave. The commotion must’ve woken everyone up because a crowd was gathering around the bar for refills, and I could see the server orders building up in the printer.
“But the boss—”
“Tell him I threatened to put you in a figure four headlock.”
His brow raised. “I think you’re joking, but I also think you could do it.”
He was correct on both accounts.
I didn’t confirm or deny it, though. “I need to help before they get buried.”
Stevie nodded. “But I’m staying close.”
“Protecting me or protecting everyone else from me?” I asked.
“We’ll see how the rest of the night goes.”