Page 2
“You’re smiling.”
I squint. “I smile.”
He chuckles. “No, you don’t.”
I flip him off, bastard just laughs harder.
* * *
My girl is coming back with drinks, and that’s when a guy at the next table puts his hands on her… Hollywood type. Forty-something pretending to be twenty-five, bleached teeth, gold chain sitting in his chest hair. He’s been loud all night. When she leans over to set down his drink, he grabs her wrist and yanks her toward his lap.
“Come sit with us for a minute, sweetheart. I’ll make it worth your while.”
My girl doesn’t even flinch. Looks like she’s done this a hundred times. She twists her wrist free and keeps her customer-service smile glued on.
“Sir, I’ma need my arm back. I got tables.”
He laughs and reaches for her ass. And I’m out of the booth before his hand gets there.
I grab him by the back of his neck and slam his face down on the table. Glasses explode. Something in his nose cracks. The whole section goes quiet, but the bass keeps thumping like nothing’s happening. I keep his face pinned to the wood with one hand and lean down close to his ear.
“Touch her again and I’ll take your hand. Nod if you understand me.”
He makes a small, wet noise and nods against the table.
“Good.” I let him go and wipe my hand on his linen shirt. “Now get the fuck outta here.”
His friends drag him toward the door. I roll my shoulders, button my jacket, and turn.
Dylan is standing with her empty tray hugged to her chest and her mouth hanging open.
“Did you just…” She looks at the broken glass, then back at me. “Oh, my God. Are you crazy?”
I just stare back at her.
“You can’t just slam people’s faces into tables!”
I hold her gaze.
“In front of everybody!”
“He touched you.”
She opens her mouth to argue. Closes it. Opens it again. Then she shakes her head and lets out a short laugh, like she can’t believe she’s having this conversation, and fuck me, it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.
“I’m gonna have to clean that up, you know,” she says.
“No, you’re not.” I lift two fingers, and a busboy approaches with a rag. “Sit down.”
“I’m working.”
“Your feet hurt.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “How do you…” She cuts herself off and narrows her eyes at me. “Everybody’s feet hurt. It’s the job.”
“I don’t give a fuck about everybody’s feet. I care about yours.”
She stares at me for a long second. Her eyes go over my face, my shoulders, my hands, and back up. And I watch her pulse jump in her pretty little throat. She feels it. Whatever this is, she fucking feels it too.
