Chapter 5 – Sidney
FIVE
SIDNEY
“Grayson Malone.”
His groan is louder than the chatter of the patrons as I slide into the open spot at the bar beside his stool. “Quit stalking me.” He keeps his head straight ahead and doesn’t glance my way.
“I’m not stalking you at all.” I glance around and smile.
The place is large, dimly lit, and has a good-size crowd.
A line of taps sits to my right, and a shelf full of half-filled glass bottles sits to my left.
Three bartenders are behind the wooden top, joking with customers as they fill one order after another.
“Doesn’t seem that way.”
“Bars are popular places on Friday nights. It’s a Friday night, and lucky for me, I was sitting right over there, minding my own business, when you walked in the door.
” More like saw him striding across the street and then heading into the bar when I was driving home and thought it might be the perfect opportunity to hit him up again about the contest.
“Lucky you.” He lifts his beer and takes a long drink of it. There’s something about the visual that pulls on me. His profile. His lips against the rim of the bottle. The way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
And makes me clench my thighs.
“Mr. Talkative, huh?”
“Not when it comes to you.”
“C’mon, I’m not that bad.” He lifts an eyebrow in question but still keeps his focus straight ahead. Silence stretches between us as the chatter of the after-work crowd buzzes around us.
“Ha. I find that hard to believe.” He turns and stares at me for a beat, his eyes glancing to where my hands are clasped on the bar and then back to me. “What? Is it too blue collar in here for your white-collar hands to touch? You think it will rub off on you?”
His comment throws me for a loop and leaves me sputtering to respond. “No. I’m kind of a freak about germs. I don’t like—I’m not—it doesn’t matter,” I correct and shake my head. “I’m here to talk about—”
“The goddamn contest.”
“Yes. It’s real. I promise. We’ve had over seven hundred thousand votes come in for the first two rounds alone, and we’re hoping to double that for the next one.”
He snorts. “Great. Stellar. I don’t need your magazine or its attention. It seems you ran the contest so far without my knowledge or participation, and it’s done just fine. Keep doing what you’re doing, and we’ll both be happy.”
“You’re going to win, but only if I can get your help.
All I need are a few photos of you and a short bio—anything about yourself, really.
The next round of voting starts at the end of next week, and I need your help to save the magazine.
” I prattle on even though he doesn’t react.
“Your son is adorable. He can be in the photos, too.”
“Absolutely not.”
There’s a bite in his tone that makes the bartender glance our way and leaves me staring at him. “Then your wife. We can include her in the photos, too, if you want.”
He winces. “No wife.” Those two words come out like a curse.
“I’m sorry for assuming—”
He stands abruptly and faces me so that our bodies are inches apart. His eyes bore into mine, a combination of confusion and defiance.
“What is it you want from me, Thorton?” There’s anger in his voice I hadn’t been expecting.
It takes me a minute to find my voice, to remember I’m here to convince him to participate, when all I can concentrate on is the scent of his cologne—clean—and the heat of his body as he stands so very close to me.
Speak, Sid.
“To put water under the bridge.”
Of course, I say nothing about the contest. The reason I’m here. There’s something about him and the unfiltered intensity in his eyes amid the dim bar light that makes this quiet man seem a little edgy and a whole lot dangerous.
I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat as I wait for his response.
“Fine. The hatchet is buried.” He leans closer so that his lips are by my ear, and the warmth of his breath sends chills down my spine.
“Hope it doesn’t hurt your reputation to be seen with me like it did back then.
That would be a travesty.” And with that, he waltzes away from me without saying another word.
I stand there for the briefest of moments, slack-jawed and surprised by his animosity when I shouldn’t be. What I should be doing is trying to make amends, maybe say I’m sorry, secure him for the contest—and I scramble toward the exit after him.
The cool night air is welcome as it washes over me after the stuffy heat of the bar. I take a few steps into the darkened alley and look for Grayson, but I don’t see anyone.
Hugging my arms around myself, I head toward the edge of the building. There’s nothing there but a few dumpsters against a chain link fence.
It’s when I turn to head back into the bar that I startle.
“Hey, there.” The man’s hair is disheveled, his belt buckle shines off what little light is back here, and his eyes are laced with a suggestion that makes my skin crawl.
My hands grab the strap of my purse where it rests against my chest, but I stare him squarely in the eyes and nod a greeting I’d rather not give.
He takes a stumbling step toward me. “You’re a sweet little thang, you know that? I bet you’d feel real good.”
My first thought is that his grammar sucks. My second is, why in the hell am I focusing on his grammar when I’m alone in an alley with a drunk man?
Because I’m nervous.
I shouldn’t be. The door to the bar is right there, and there is probably at least one other person somewhere close. Yet, even knowing that, fear slowly coats my skin.
When I take a step to my right to put more distance between us, he mirrors the movement and emits a soft chuckle.
Get a grip, Sid. You’re fine.
“You’re looking mighty sexy. Love them heels with that skirt.” A deep, guttural groan suggests what he’s thinking about wanting to do to me.
He takes a step toward me.
I take one back.
My pulse thunders in my ears when it shouldn’t.
I’ve dealt with plenty of assholes like this in San Francisco.
Drunk guys who’ve had a few too many beers and let their buzz exacerbate their machismo.
Only, we aren’t in San Francisco where people are constantly milling around.
We’re in Sunnyville in the back alleyway of a bar where the music is so loud inside that even if I scream, I don’t think anyone would be able to hear me.
Another step.
Another one in retreat.
“My friend just ran to his car. He’ll be right back.” The lie comes out effortlessly, but the lopsided smile he gives me and the way his eyes run up and down every inch of my body tells me he doesn’t believe a word of it.
“C’mon, sweetheart, just a little dance in the moonlight with me won’t do you any harm.”
“No thanks. I have other plans,” I say. The only way out of here is to pass him, but I won’t be able to do that without him grabbing me.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
With my head up, I keep my eyes on his, hoping my direct eye contact might deter him from escalating this situation.
My palms are sweaty.
“Can you please step out of my way?”
My throat is dry.
“Now why would I shy away from a pretty little thang like you?” He slurs a few words, and his gait is unsteady as he sways side to side.
I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or worried that he’s drunk. It’s when I try to skirt past him—just when I think I’m free and clear—that he lunges and has a hold of my bicep.
A laugh falls from his mouth at the same time a shriek escapes mine.
“I don’t mean no harm . . . just want a little kiss.” He fumbles over the words as the stench of alcohol on his breath assaults me.
I yank my arm away, but he holds tight. “Get off me.” I grit out between clenched teeth.
He only pulls me closer. The undertone of cologne. The scrape of his denim against my bare legs. The sting of his fingernails digging into my skin.
Panic. Fear. Anger. All three riot around inside me.
“I just wanna dance. Let’s dance.” He tries to sway to some kind of rhythm as he hums.
My stomach roils, and I freeze when every part of me screams to fight him. Kick him in the nuts. Gouge his eyes out.
Seconds pass. My synapses fire.
“Get away from me!” I shout and shove him off me as hard as I can at the same time I hear, “Get your hands off her.”
Grayson?
Grayson.
It’s a split second between the man letting go of my arm and Grayson pinning him to the wall, using his forearm to crush the guy’s windpipe.
“Sorry, man, I was just trying to have a little fun,” the drunk guy slurs.
“Yeah, and she didn’t want any.” Grayson fists his hand in the guy’s shirt and yanks him off the wall.
“I didn’t—I wasn’t . . .” The guy stumbles, almost falling before he rights himself. “God, I’m fucking drunk.”
“Get the hell out of here, before I call the cops so they can help you sober up.” Grayson shoves the man toward the other side of the alleyway. The man looks back, almost as if he’s been shocked sober and isn’t sure what’s going on. “Keep walking.”
I stare at Grayson’s back, my adrenaline fading. My panic shifting to shame. My fear morphing into embarrassment that I couldn’t handle myself.
I was handling myself.
I think.
Then why do my knees feel like rubber and my eyes burn with tears?
Right when I feel like I’m going to give in to my moment of weakness, Grayson turns around and faces me.
For one short moment, I allow myself to feel relief, to feel safe. Then the shock of what just happened—of Grayson being the one to render help—has me straightening my spine.
There’s a look in his eye—controlled rage warring with complete concern—that pins me motionless, allowing me to feel every thump of my heartbeat as the adrenaline races through my body.
A small part of me wonders if it’s because of the man who just ran away or because of the man who’s standing before me, looking just as dangerous to me but in a completely different way.
Vulnerability is not something that suits me, and yet I feel exposed when the threat is no longer near.
Or is it?