Page 212 of Micah

Shit.

There are at least ten of them.

Maybe more.

Big men.

Hard faces.

The kind of men who don't come into a neighborhood bar looking for wings and beer.

My stomach drops.

Scarface grins.

It isn't a nice grin.

It's the kind that makes every instinct inside me start screaming.

“Looks like your boyfriend isn't around to save you this time, sweetheart.”

His voice crawls over my skin.

Cold.

Mean.

Satisfied.

He points toward my remaining customers.

“You.”

He jerks his thumb toward the door.

“Get the fuck out.”

One of the men looks at me.

Really looks at me.

His expression is apologetic.

Ashamed.

Like he wants to help but already knows he can't.

I give the smallest nod.

Go.

Please.

He stands.

“So much for another beer.”

His buddy mutters something under his breath, and together they head for the door without another word.