Page 2 of Taking Root
“I think I can handle that.” Mitch grabbed the shaker and set to work.
Danny leaned forward, forearms on the bar as she settled into the stool. The door creaked, and seconds later, a shadow loomed over her from behind. Her momentary state of relaxation vanished, and she reached for the piece tucked at her side.
A musclebound thug of a guy wearing an Under Armour tank and Nike shorts settled into the stool beside her, looking like he’d been plucked from watching a Panthers game at a sports bar. Danny returned her hand to the bar, trying to roll her shoulders to shake off the nerves. Not like it worked. Her heart remained lodged in her throat.
“Coors,” the guy grunted at Mitch without so much as a greeting. Meathead’s eyes flickered her way and held. Danny almost groaned out loud as he did the normal body scan, starting at her tits and stopping at her ass. Two seconds in his proximity and he wasn’t someone she wanted to chat with.
Mitch took painstaking care in making her Aviation, pouring the crème de violette in a slow drip. He drew out the wait time before getting to the asshole’s beer, a quiet protest which Danny silently applauded.
“I’ve got whatever she’s having too,” Meathead said, locking eyes with her like a bull ready to charge.
Danny shook her head. “I’m covering myself.”
Mitch didn’t restrain his smirk as he placed one beaut of an Aviation in front of her. She lifted it to her lips and savored the crispness of the gin. Mitch grabbed a pint glass and began to pour Meathead’s beer, but an undercurrent of tension stretched through the air. She broadcasted no, all while the guy beside her tuned in to another station.
“Independent girl, I like that,” he said, swiveling her way so his knees almost bumped into hers. The unwanted contact shocked her system, making her want to recoil on the spot. “The name’s Eric. What’s your story?” Even as he asked the question, he zeroed in on her curves, making it clear he didn’t care.
Danny smiled sweetly. “I’m an Aquarius who enjoys long walks on the beach and playing in the blood of my enemies.” The bartender didn’t hide his snort as he delivered the Coors, foam sloshing over the rim.
Eric glowered. “You don’t have to be a bitch. I’m just trying to get to know you.”
“This bitch isn’t interested,” she responded, her tone subzero, even as the adrenaline thumped inside her. He leaned in, his thick brows furrowing and thunderstorms in his eyes. Then he grabbed her by the wrist, gripping tight enough to cut off circulation.
Mitch whipped around, his mouth opened to shout, and his hands balled into fists.
Too bad for Eric he’d left one of her hands free.
Her fist sped for his jaw at sixty miles an hour, no brakes.
The thud as her knuckles collided with flesh echoed around the bar. If the folks at their private tables weren’t looking her way before, they were now. Their gazes bored into her, shocked expressions and a cold shower of judgment. His grip on her wrist loosened.
Eric staggered, clutching his jaw as a growl ripped from his throat. Mitch slammed his hands on the bar counter with enough force to demand attention.
“Mierda,” he cursed. “Both of you, sit down, drink your damn drinks, and stop fighting.”
Danny sucked in a deep breath, shook out her hand before lifting both in the air as she inched toward her abandoned barstool.
Eric’s hands balled into fists, the glower not evaporating from his face. Based on the way his shoulders tensed, he prepared to charge. Bring it. She kept her holy trinity on her at all times, a taser, pepper spray, and her last resort pistol.
“Out,” Mitch barked, jabbing a finger at the door as he homed in on Eric, who failed at taking hints, and directions as well.
Eric whipped around toward him, biceps bulging and his fists tensed to spring. Danny inched out her pepper spray, finger slipping near the trigger.
“Need some help, Mitch?” a voice came from further down the bar. A guy who must’ve slipped in stepped behind Eric, same height but slimmer.
“I’d be happy to offer my services,” Danny chimed in with a hesitant grin. When Mitch shook his head, smirking as his flash of temper returned to calm and easy, the bundle inside her unwound. Even an idiot like Eric realized he was outnumbered as he glanced to the guy behind him, to Mitch, and then to the pepper spray she brandished out in the open. Clinging to his masculinity like a flimsy scarf, Eric smacked the bar counter.
“Take your beer back. I didn’t drink it anyway.” He stormed out, his stomps reverberating through the hush that swept across the bar. Folks stared at them from the private candlelit two seaters tucked away in the shadowy corners of this place. Danny heaved a shaky sigh and lifted her Aviation to her lips. Her knuckles stung, but she didn’t regret shaking up the Gin Mill with a little chaos if it meant getting him away from her. She knew what came after the wrist grab.
Mitch tapped a finger on the counter of the bar as he leaned in. “I saw him make the first aggressive move. If you hadn’t punched him in the face, someone else would’ve, either me or one of these layabouts I call regulars.”
Danny swallowed, her chest squeezing tight in a mix of relief, warmth, and confusion. “Thanks.” She lifted her glass in salute.
“I could’ve handled him.” The guy who had been jonesin’ to step in moments before took a seat beside her as she caught her first real look at him. Cedar wafted her way from his aftershave, and his muscled frame filled out his slate button-down too well. He glanced her way, electric blue eyes framed by lashes that had her paying attention. “Though, if I placed bets on who would’ve won the fight, my money was on you. You gave one hell of a right hook.”
“Always be prepared, right?” She lifted her hand, waggling her fingers. “Name’s Danny Reynolds.” Something about this guy seemed too familiar. Maybe the way he hunched forward like he’d launch into action or the low timbre of his voice, a scrape of another lifetime.
He offered a hand to shake, one she accepted with ease. His grin deepened his dimples, accentuating a square jaw. The guy had an oak tree frame, solid and unwavering, like his roots extended deep into this place. His warm, callused palm met hers, and the contact sent a jolt through her, almost as strong as the familiarity of his gaze.
She remembered those eyes.
“Adrian Dukas,” he responded. Except she already knew. The Dukas family was a part of Sam Peterson’s life, one she’d left behind when the marshals pulled her out of high school. And Adrian?
Well, at seventeen years old, he was the closest she’d come to falling head over heels.