Page 15 of Never To Suffer

New Unread Message From: Marc

He’s worried about me, but trying to give me space. I always made life more difficult for my big brother, but he always forgave me and never threw pity in my face. It will take another day before I’m at his place, and I’ve sent him the address of the motel I’m staying at, like I’ve done every stop since Edmonton. A road trip on a motorcycle when you’re in no hurry takes time.

“Okay, well,” the raised voice from the man next to me piques my interest. There’s a tone to it he needs to watch. “I don’t understand why you think that. I’m a great guy!”

I raise my head, making eye contact with the bartender. He heard that, too, which means he’s already prepared for the outcomes. None of which ends well for him.

“How’s everyone doing over here?” the bartender asks while drying a spot on the bar that didn’t need it.

“We’re fine. In fact, we’re leaving.” The guy stands and drops a pair of fifties on the bar. He’s an arrogant prick, but he’s banking that the bartender would rather take the cash and avoid the headache. That amount of money tells me he’s got more dangerous ideas planned for the night.

“Hey, let go of me,” his date hisses. “You’re hurting me!”

“Okay, buddy. Let her go,” the bartender says, pushing the money back toward the guy. He doesn’t glance around, meaning he’s on his own unless he calls the cops.

Awesome. The downside of these middle-of-the-road bars rears an ugly head—no bouncers and no security. Not even the threat of a gun under the bar.

“Fuck off and mind your own business. Come on, we’re leaving—” The douchebag spins around fast when I tap him on the shoulder. “The fuck is your problem?”

“They’re not interested in leaving with you.”

He checks me up and down, and the confusion puts a grin on my face. “Mind your own fucking business, weirdo.”

Most nights I would, but I’m likely one of the very few lines of defense this woman has before he pulls her into his car. I let the dark laugh spill out of me before I drain my glass and stand to my full height, unfolding from the safety of the barstool. For extra flare, I even crunch a piece of ice between my molars and watch him try to hide his reaction.

The dickhead rocks his head all the way back to look me in the eye, but I still catch the way his neck bobs as he swallows hard. I don’t like fights, I never have, but I can defend myself against one dipshit with an incel complex.

“You should leave,” I rumbled, cocking my head to the side. “Alone.”

“Fuck you, man.” What he does next will decide both of our fates, and tonight, either option sounds like the right one to me. He scoffs and steps back. Coward. “She’s not worth my time anyhow.”

He rips his cheap coat from the woman’s shoulders and storms toward the door. I’m happy to sit back on my stool and hunch back over my drink. No fight for me tonight, at least not yet. The night’s still young, and the demons in my head are awake again, ready to dance.

“Uhm, hi.” I nod to my drink instead of her, doing what I can to avoid eye contact. “Thanks for that. I didn’t realize he’d turn into such a creep when I agreed to come here with him. Can I buy you a drink?”

I turn to face her, and of course, she’s gorgeous. Long, curly blonde hair, big red lips, and a dress that’s not leaving much to the imagination. My first thought? How much my ex-fiancé, Steve, would like her. Normally, I’d turn away, not wanting to come across as a creep, but she’s not worried about the way I’m watching her. She’s too busy drooling over me like I’ve moved to the top of her hit list.

“You have the prettiest eyes.” She holds out a hand, her wrist bent in anticipation that I’m Prince Charming, ready to kiss her knuckles and take her back to my chariot. “I’m Robin.”

“Skylar,” I nod, but don’t take her hand, hoping she gets the hint that I’m not here to make friends or get my dick wet. That pisses the demons off, which means they’ve noticed something I haven’t picked up on yet.

“Wow, that’s a cool name.” She shifts the stool her date had occupied a few inches closer to me before she climbs onto it. Her hand fumbles with a straw as she sticks it between her teeth and chews. It could be nerves, until I find the deep scratches running up her arm, the bruising, and her blown out eyes.

She’s high.

When she reaches for her purse, she moves like she’s in a dream, knocking it over. “I’d say I’m sorry about Dave, but I’m not wasting apologies on him.”

I roll my eyes as she orders herself another drink before asking what I’m having. She’s too fucking high to notice the whiskey glass. Her lips pucker as she flips open a compact to reapply the bright red lipstick. That’s when she notices my hand. She makes a move to touch me, but stops, hand in the small space between us.

“Wow, that’s…I’m sorry, I should know better.” She laughs it off, and I’m not sure if she’s eyeing the tattoos or the scars. “That’s solid work. Almost creepy. What is it?”

“Death’s-head hawkmoth.” The ink is a few years old now, but it’s one I’ve taken more care of than anything else in my life.

“Did it hurt?” I raise an eyebrow but don’t bother answering, considering I can see the ink she has peeking out from between her pushed up tits. “Why am I asking that? I have tattoos, duh.”

I nod and stare forward, pretending to watch the game on TV, thankful that the person behind the camera gives the audience some fantastic shots of the batter’s ass. I may not follow sports, but I love watching the boys play in those tight, unforgiving pants.

“Does it, like, have a meaning or just a cool picture you wanted to get?”

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