Page 45 of Bullet

I leaned forward to peer out the open door. This was the man I imagined on all those nights when I couldn’t sleep because fear plagued my mind. When every noise became a monster in the dark. When the whisper of wind carried the threat of Emerson finding me.

Bullet wouldn’t need to use threats for compliance. Even these men, his Heller brothers, reacted to his presence. He wasn’t a billionaire with power, but his air of danger would keep even the most powerful men from crossing him. Men like Emerson would cower.

For me, there was only Bullet, the intimidating colors of his club, the leather of his cut, the way it hugged his shoulders and carved his chest. The dark hair of his goatee, the windblown curls of his hair, and the sharp angles of his jaw.

I pressed a palm to the flutter in my chest. I had to remind myself again why I had to leave. Why I couldn’t have just a taste of the dark seduction he promised.

Because he’d never be mine. Because it hurt to know sex wouldn’t mean anything to him. I’d already been betrayed by lust once.

Turning away from temptation, I set the book to the side. I needed a distraction other than the man occupying my mind. Going behind the bar, I washed the few dishes in the sink and wiped down the counter.

I checked the time and waited for him to come through the door. Didn’t he eat? I was starving, but he seemed content to hang around the fire in the oil drum.

“Hi.” Steele came into the chapel and sat at the bar.

I smiled. “Can I make you a drink?”

“If I drink a beer, I’ll be asleep in an hour.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few dollars. “Fuck it. I could use the sleep.”

I laughed. “Ah, okay.” I glanced around, looking for the beer fridge.

“Prospects usually work behind the bar.”

“I’m playing the part of bartender, but I’m not looking for a job.”

Steele chuckled and stood on the rungs of the chair, leaned over, and pointed to the stainless-steel fridge. “Bottles are in there. Domestic beers on tap. I’ll take a draft.”

“Okay, so that means out of the tap.” I glanced around for a glass.

Steele jumped from the stool and came around to the back side of the bar. He scooted me out of the way, bent down for a glass, and handed it to me.

“This is my first time.” I tipped the glass under the tap like I’d seen in the movies and on television. Apparently, I was doing it wrong because the glass filled with foam.

Steele stood behind me, reached around, and covered my hands with his. It was close and familiar. But he wasn’t pressing against me or crowding any closer than was necessary to show me how to hold the glass and pour the beer.

“A slow pour. Keep the glass at a forty-five-degree angle. Don’t let the glass touch the faucet. And as it fills, bring the glass upright.”

Two inches of white foam topped the beer. “I think I gave it too much head.”

Steele froze behind me. “Lucky beer.”

I nearly dropped the glass as I spun around. “Oh, god.” My face heated with a blush. “I…I…uh…”

“I’m teasing you,” he said, then glanced around the chapel. “But where’s Bullet?”

I covered my eyes with my hand. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“You’re not wrong.” He chuckled. “You do want a little head on the glass.” He dumped most of the foam then chugged some of the beer as he movedback around the bar to the stool. “I wanted to thank you again for being nice to my kid.”

“She’s feisty.” I straightened the booze bottles on the shelf so that all the labels faced forward. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I was serious when I said I’d help her with her ballet.”

“I get her from her mother on Tuesday night for a visit.”

“It’s a date.” I clamped my teeth into my lip. “Not a date. An appointment.”

He laughed. “About three?”

I smiled. “Yes. She needs new ballet shoes.”