Page 3
"You okay?" he asks.
I nod, even though I'm not sure it's true. My hands are still shaking. My chest feels too tight. I don't know if I want to cry, scream or laugh hysterically because I left a fifteen-thousand-dollar wedding to end up in a bar in the middle of nowhere getting harassed by a man named Dusty.
"Yeah," I manage. "I'm okay."
Angel studies me for a moment, and I realize his eyes are the lightest shade of blue I've ever seen, almost gray in the dim bar light. There's a scar cutting through his left eyebrow, and another along his jawline, and I wonder briefly what kind of life leaves a man with scars like that.
"You sure?" he asks.
"Yes." I clear my throat. "Thank you. For… For that."
He shrugs, like it's nothing. Like stepping in to protect a complete stranger from a drunk asshole is just something he does on a Tuesday night.
"You need anything else?" he asks.
I should say no. I should thank him again, let him go and finish my beer alone and figure out what I'm going to do next—find a motel, find a job, find a way to disappear so thoroughly that my family never finds me.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Would you… Would you want to sit down?"
Angel pauses.
"You don't have to," I add quickly. "I just… I don't really know anyone here, and I—" I stop. Take a breath. "I could use the company. If you don't mind."
For a brief moment, he doesn't answer. Then he slides into the booth across from me, and I realize I'm holding my breath.
"I'm Bree," I say.
"Angel," he says.
"Is that really your name?" I ask, and then immediately wince because that's probably rude, but he doesn't look offended.
"Road name," he says. "Real name's Grant."
"Road name?"
"I prospect for a motorcycle club." He says it like it's the most normal thing in the world. "They gave me the name a few weeks ago."
"Why Angel?"
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "Because I talk too much and fight too little, apparently."
I don't believe that for a second. I saw the way he stood between me and Dusty. I saw the way Dusty backed down.
"Thank you," I say again. "For stepping in. You didn't have to do that."
"Yeah, I did."
There's no hesitation in his voice. No false modesty. Just a statement of fact.
I take another sip of beer to give myself something to do with my hands. "Do you do that a lot? Step in when people need help?"
"When I can."
"That's—" I stop. Search for the right word. "That's really good of you."
He shrugs again, uncomfortable. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing," I say. "It's the opposite of nothing."
