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"You know who I am."
"Not a clue," she says cheerfully, "but I've been here for the last three nights. It only took five minutes to figure out you own the place."
"Yeah? What gave it away?"
"Everyone walks on eggshells around you." She flips the page. "I wasn't sure if it was because they were afraid of you or because they didn't want to disappoint you, but now that we've met, mystery officially solved."
The way she says it makes it abundantly clear which she thinks it is. She isn't entirely wrong, either. Fear comes naturally to people when you're rich, famous, and have a reputation for not tolerating bullshit.
But I don't treat my people like shit. They enjoy working here and I take care of them. If I'm an asshole at times, it's for their own safety, and they respect that. Between the rabid fans and the bikers, there's a whole fucking lot to worry about around here. But this girl doesn't seem to have a clue who I am or what kind of problems we've got going on here.
Either she's full of it, or she's one of the few people in Nashville who don't give a fuck about music.
"Memphis Hughes."
She lifts her gaze to mine again, staring levelly. Either she really doesn't know me, or she doesn't give a flying fuck. Interesting. Most women who walk through the doors can't wait to throw themselves at me. This one looks like she'd rather I fuck off away from her table and leave her in peace.
"My name. What's yours?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Jesus Christ." I can't help but grin at the suspicion in her tone. "Are you always this difficult?"
"Maybe."
"Your name, princess. Now," I growl. Clearly, looks are deceiving because this girl looks like heaven but she's a pain in the ass. It's intriguing as hell. That's a problem. I don't want to be intrigued. I don't want to get to know her. I just want to fuck her out of my system and move the fuck along. Simple. Convenient.
I know it's a lie as soon as I think it. There's nothing simple or convenient about what I want from her. If I get my hands on her, there will be no one after me. There will just be me.
Jesus.
"Kylie."
"Last name?"
She hesitates for a split second, a flicker of unease drifting through her eyes. "Byers."
If her last name is Byers, I'm a choir boy.
She's lying. Why?
I'm not sure, but I'd very much like to find out.
"Do you read in biker bars often, Kylie Byers?" I ask, letting her believe I believe her lie for now.
"Only for the last three days. Would you believe my reading spot was a toss-up between this place and the Waffle Casa?" She bats her long lashes at me. "Guess which one has fewer fights?"
"Well, goddamn." I crack a smile. She's funny. "I guess we're going to have to try harder, aren't we?"
"Please don't. There aren't any drunks doing karaoke in the corner here. If I have to pack it up and go back down there, I may have to burn this place down on my way out. You know, out of spite and all."
"Tell you what." I slide out of the booth, smirking at her. "You stay and read. For the health of my bar. And I'll let you repay me for it later."
"Repay you how?"
"You'll just have to wait to find out."
"Well, that sounds ominous," she mutters.
