Page 8 of Precious Hazard

“Your drink is on me, DeVille.” I nod toward the bottle on the table, then turn on my heel and walk away.

I feel the weight of his stare as I traverse the full length of the crowded dance floor. It can’t possibly be real because there are so many people between us, but as I reach the bar and slip under the counter flap to get to the back, the feeling of being watched, watched by him, stays with me. It’s like his glare is burning a hole through me while I reach for a bottle of tequila and pour myself a double shot. That scorching sensation persists as I down my drink in one go.

I shift, trying to catch sight of him. There are glimpses as the mob of happy and drunk bikers moves. He’s still in thebooth. Still reclining on the sofa as if he owns the place and everyone in it. Why isn’t he leaving, damn it? Goose bumps race across my exposed skin as if chasing the path of his heated gaze. I’m imagining things, I know it, but I swear his gaze sizzles over my flesh like a physical caress.

It leaves me rattled.

Holy fuck, I have never met a more infuriating man in my life. He carries himself as if he’s the most important person in the room. His tone is always authoritative, like every sentence he speaks is an order he expects to be obeyed. And unless you’re a part of his beloved Cosa Nostra, he seems to view you as if you’re somehow beneath him. Everything, every fucking thing that man does irritates me to no end.

Whatever possessed his boss to think of me for this harebrained marriage idea, expecting me to even consider spending more than a minute in DeVille’s company, is not my problem. It’s Drago’s. He got himself into the scheme with the Italians, so he should be the one to handle this mess. I wish I could call Drago right now to speak with him about it, but my brother doesn’t do phone calls. This, too, will have to wait until he gets back from Chicago. But I have no doubts. Drago will fix this. He always does.

I almost lost him when the Romanians attacked our home, and Drago got shot… My heart nearly stopped beating. My big brother, well, he’s my rock, the glue that holds me together, the most important person in this world to me. He’s taken care of me almost my entire life. No matter how many times I’ve screwed up, he’s been there.

But this… Fuck. This isn’t on me. So I know he’ll make it right. And I just want to go home and put it all behind me. Too bad this night is far from over, though. I need to get backto work, but I’m cemented in place, weighed down by Arturo DeVille’s scalding stare.

It’s a real physical effort on my part to get moving, to make myself focus for the rest of my shift.

For the next three and a half hours, I rush around the club. I double down on getting everyone their orders, keeping busy as I try everything in my power to avoid glancing in the direction of the VIP booth. There’s no actual need for me to look over there to see if Sienna’s brother has left. That searing sensation that dogs my every step is proof enough that he hasn’t.

“Tara!” Jelena howls across a table crammed with four bikers chugging beer as part of some immature game. “Stavros is in the back, asking for you.”

Bloody perfect. Hopefully, no one will mention it to Drago. The last thing I need is for him to find out my ex showed up here tonight.

“Tell the bouncers to throw the jackass out and not let him in again,” I grumble while trying to fit another empty glass on my tray.

“Ah, okay. I was afraid you two were back together.”

“Nope. I don’t make the same mistake twice.” A tiny lie. It usually takes three fuckups before I learn my lesson. But it sounded cool.

She laughs. “Yeah, alright. Hate to sayI told you so, but I knew nothing good would come out of that relationship. You’ve got dreadful taste in men.”

Like I don’t know.

Yet, I still try to underscore that fact with every guy I date.

I knew Stavros was a tool from the moment I met him, but I still agreed to go out with him. The expensive sports car and fancy suits couldn’t hide the truth. The guy is a moron. I’m not sure he has two functioning cells in that brain of his. He constantly flashes the ugly-ass seal ring on his pointer finger and brags about the pricey trinkets he buys with his money. The money he earns by working for his dad. Stavros’s main interest, though, is his workout regimen, which he insists on telling me the details of. Every. Single. Time. So, money and gym, that’s all he ever talks about. He’s the only man I know who’s that full of himself without having an actual reason to be. We dated for the last two months, and I wanted to break up for at least the last month and a half of that. But I didn’t. Maybe I’m a masochist. Or just plain stupid.

Yesterday, though, Stavros took me out to dinner at an exclusive restaurant. Before our appetizers even arrived, he was prattling on about his big dream in life: to find a perfect woman, one who is a match for him in every way, so she could bear him a bunch of perfect little babies who would inherit his spectacular genes. Excuse me, but the world has enough idiots. I made my apologies, saying I needed to use the facilities, and then took my ass as far away from the imbecile as I could.

Okay, so I didn’ttechnically“break up” with him, but I think my message was loud and clear.

Besides, that’s my usual MO. I run away a lot.

Mostly from myself.

Too bad I can’t seem to escape Arturo DeVille’s stare.

Because his eyes are STILL BURNING HOLES THROUGH MY BACK!

Half an hour later, with closing time swiftly approaching and the crowd starting to dissipate, I tell Jelena that I’m takingoff and slip away into the staff room. After grabbing my purse and jacket out of my locker, I leave Naos through the kitchen door, desperately trying to avoid a certain someone and his scorching gaze.

Leaning on the side of the building, with the dumpster shielding me from the view of anyone who might come out into the alley after me, I relax my shoulders for what feels like the first time in hours. “Finally.”

It’s still the dead of night, but as they say, New York never sleeps. The chilly air rejuvenates my tired senses, and breathing becomes much easier without the constant pressure of so many eyes on me.

Especially a particular pair of dark-brown irises searing through my last nerve tonight.

I straighten out, ready to head to my car, just as a wave of profound loss sweeps over me, and for the teeniest instance, I miss that smoldering heat.

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