Chapter Two
Darby
I felt him before I heard him, with that prickle along the back of my neck that had saved my skin more times than I could count growing up.
The alley behind Throttle stank of piss and stale beer, the dumpster adding its own special funk to the mix.
I didn’t turn around immediately. Let him make the first move.
The red neon sign buzzed and flickered overhead, painting everything in a hellish glow that suited my mood just fine.
I’d stirred up enough chaos inside to keep everyone busy while I slipped away.
I was sure word would get back to Tonio, but I honestly didn’t care.
He’d kick me to the curb before much longer.
Why the fuck he’d tried to take me in and domesticate me was beyond me.
Apparently, not everyone had been distracted by the fireworks.
I heard him approach. Had to be the guy at the bar with the bartender.
The second I made eye contact with him I knew he’d follow me.
Men were predictable like that, but this guy was different.
There was something in his eyes that intrigued me for some reason.
I’d only met his gaze for a couple seconds but knew he’d seek me out.
Didn’t expect him to follow me into the alley, but maybe he was a glutton for punishment.
“You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” I said, finally turning to face him.
“Wasn’t trying to be subtle.” His voice was deep but mellow, almost soothing under the right conditions. Or hot as fuck. “Just curious about the woman who engineered a bar fight for fun.”
I smiled, not bothering to deny it. “What makes you think it was for fun?”
“Because you didn’t take anything. No wallets went missing. No one specific got targeted.” He shrugged, a small movement. “And you smiled the whole time.”
“Maybe I just like to watch the world burn.”
“Maybe.” He studied me like I was an enigma he wanted to unravel. “Or maybe you’re bored.”
I laughed at that, the sound echoing against the brick walls. “Honey, I’m many things, but bored isn’t one of them.”
He didn’t smile back, but something in his eyes shifted. “I’m Sully.”
“Darby.”
The back door of Throttle banged open, letting out angry voices and the smell of spilled whiskey into the night. I tensed, ready to bolt if necessary.
“There’s another place down the street,” Sully said, jerking his head toward the end of the alley. “If you’re not done for the night.”
I weighed my options. I could disappear, find another bar across town.
The smart play would be to call it a night.
Or I could follow this man and see what happened next.
The reckless play. And honestly. I was trying to get Tonio Miles to kick me the fuck out of his house and leave me the fuck alone. That thought sealed my fate.
“Lead the way.” I grinned up at Sully, and he smirked at me. This was going to be fun.
We walked side by side, the sidewalks illuminated by store signs and streetlights, neither of us speaking for half a block.
Nashville hummed around us, country music spilling from bars, drunk tourists laughing too loud.
We heard the occasional whine of a pedal tavern passing by even at this late hour as semi-drunken patrons pedaled the roving bar around the Music District, complete with country music and drinks.
“So, Sully,” I said finally, breaking the silence. “What’s your deal? You don’t seem like the typical Throttle crowd.”
“What’s typical?” He glanced down at me, those sharp eyes missing nothing.
“Louder. Dumber. Less…” I gestured vaguely at him. “Calculating.”
“I could say the same about you. And I hang out there all the time. You’re the newcomer.”
I deliberately brushed against him as we passed under a streetlight, my shoulder making contact with his arm. He didn’t flinch or pull away. Then again, most men wouldn’t. And this one was definitely interested.
“I go where the action is,” I said.
“And leave before the consequences?”
I grinned. “See? You understand me.”
“Prison teaches observation skills.” He said it casually, like mentioning the weather, but I caught the test in it. Seeing if I’d run.
“What were you in for?” I asked, matching his casual tone.
“Technically, assault.” His lips quirked in what might have been a smile. “Sounds cliché, but I really was innocent of what they arrested me for. But the skull fracture I gave the little puke I took the fall for was all me. And I’ll do it a second time if I ever see him again.”
I whistled low. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
“Always is.” His hand found the small of my back as we crossed the street, the touch light but deliberate.
Heat bloomed from that single point of contact, spreading through me like wildfire.
When we reached the curb, he let his hand drop, but the ghost of his touch remained. And I knew I needed more.
“Your turn,” he said. “What’s your story?”
“No story. Just a girl having fun.”
“Bullshit.” He was definitely observant.
I laughed, genuinely amused by his bluntness. “Fine. I’m a professional chaos consultant. I create strategic disorder for corporate clients looking to destabilize their competition.”
He snorted a laugh. “Now you’re just fucking with me.”
“Am I?” I raised an eyebrow, reaching out to brush my fingers against his. “That our destination?” We stopped in front of a nicer bar closer to Music Row. He didn’t pull his hand away.
“Less rowdy. Better whiskey.”
“I like rowdy,” I said.
“Oh, believe me, I noticed. Everyone did.”
The sign read The Bottom Shelf in blue neon. No bouncers, no line outside. Just a plain door with a small window.
“Seems boring,” I observed.
“Seems quiet,” he countered. “For conversation.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Conversing?”
His gaze dropped to my lips for just a moment before returning to mine. “For now.”
The heat that had been building inside me flared higher. This man was dangerous in a completely different way than most of the bikers in Throttle. They were all noise and posturing. Sully was… different. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but his energy intrigued me.
“After you,” he said, opening the door.
I passed close enough to feel his breath on my neck, another deliberate test. His pupils dilated slightly, the only indication that my proximity affected him at all.
The man had control; I’d give him that. But control was just another word for building pressure, and every system had its breaking point.
I couldn’t wait to find his.
The Bottom Shelf lived up to its name. Dark wood dominated the décor, and the absence of Throttle’s neon and chrome felt like a relief.
The low music made actual conversation possible.
Country music, of course. Only a handful of patrons occupied the space, most of them settled into corners with their drink of choice, minding their own business.
I hated it immediately. Or at least, I told myself I did.
Truth was, places like this made me itch because they encouraged lingering, and lingering meant attachment, and attachment meant vulnerability.
But Sully was already heading to the bar, and for some stupid reason I followed him.
He chose two stools at the corner of the bar, positioning himself with his back to the wall. I took the seat beside him, our knees brushing as I settled in.
“So,” I said, leaning my elbows on the polished wood. “Think you can keep up with me?”
His eyebrow raised a fraction. “At what, exactly?”
“Drinking.” I flashed a smile at the bartender, a middle-aged man with short gray hair and forearms corded with muscle. “Six shots of your best whiskey, please.”
“Three each?” Sully asked.
“To start.” I turned back to him. “Unless you’re scared.”
The bartender lined up the shots, amber liquid catching the low light. Sully watched him pour with that same measured attention he seemed to give everything.
“What are the stakes?” he asked.
I considered this, tapping my finger against the bar. “If I win, you tell me what really happened with the guy you went to prison for. Not the sanitized version.”
His eyes darkened slightly. “And if I win?”
“You won’t.” I picked up the first shot glass, holding it up between us. “But you can name your prize anyway.”
“If I win,” he said, lifting his own glass, “you tell me why you’re really in Nashville.”
My smile faltered for just a second before I recovered. “Deal.”
We clinked glasses and threw back the first shot. The whisky was good, smooth fire that warmed my throat all the way down.
By the third shot, our bodies had drifted closer together, his knee now firmly pressed against mine.
I didn’t move away. The whiskey had started its work, softening the edges of my perpetual wariness.
I was still sharp. I never let myself get truly impaired, but the pleasant buzz made everything more immediate.
“Another round,” I called to the bartender, reaching into my bra to pull out the cash I’d won from Butch.
I took my time, watching Sully’s eyes track the movement.
His expression remained controlled, but the slight flare of his nostrils gave him away.
I laid the bills on the bar, letting my fingers linger on them.
“Unconventional wallet,” he commented, voice slightly rougher than before.
“Best anti-theft device there is.” I winked at him. “Most men are too distracted by the packaging to notice what’s inside.”
“Most men aren’t paying attention to the right things.”
The bartender poured another round, and I raised my glass. “What are you paying attention to, Sully?”
“Everything.” He held my gaze as we drank, and I felt that look all the way to my core.
The second round went down easier than the first. Sully matched me shot for shot, his composure slipping only in subtle ways, his voice a touch deeper.
“So, Nashville,” he prompted.
“Not so fast.” I leaned closer, my shoulder pressing against his. “Contest isn’t over yet.”
“Seems like it might end in a draw.”