Page 3 of A Dance With Devils
He walks away from me without another glance in my direction, purposeful strides dismissing me. I’m part annoyed, and part dumbfounded at his authority over a situation that has nothing to do with him. I don’t even know where he’s come from. He wasn’t here fifteen minutes ago, and believe me I’d know if he was. Tall. Broad. Some kind of swagger that only those that can afford it own.
And yet – those clothes.
My gaze skims over his black jeans and heavy, tan boots, eyes focused on the tight black t-shirt, as he approaches the table. Two men get up to greet him immediately, a champagne flute being passed his way without him asking for it. He doesn’t take it. He talks to one of them lowly, too lowly for me to hear what’s being said, and I watch on as the faces on the other men start turning sour as fuck. Another one gets up, his chest puffed out as if something’s about to kick off. Nothing happens other than more low words coming out of only one mouth, this time directed solely at him.
Heads start dropping, all eight of the guys looking at the table suddenly rather than attempting any kind of retaliation. And then they’re all getting up and picking up their things. The one who slapped my ass looks over at me, a sneer etched into his money bred cheekbones, and nods at the words still being murmured to him. The fact that he’s directed his gaze at me reminds me that I’m still in the same spot as I was, and I turn and head back for the bar rather than watch the show any longer.
Who knows what the hell’s being said, and frankly, who cares? It’s been handled. They’re done, and as I reach the bar I realise – leaving. All their shoes start hitting the wooden floor, as they make their way out. Some scatter in their drunken state. Others hit hard as if they're pissed at whatever’s just been said to them. I don’t care. They’re on their way out of my bar and as far as I’m concerned that’s a godsend for Petra.
“Hey, Ally,” the woman herself says, as I put the last of the glasses on the shelf.
I swing my gaze from the assholes leaving and find her rounding the bar to get her apron. “Hey, Petra.”
“All good?” she asks.
I glance towards the guy who’s just handled the situation, who is now sitting in a quiet booth on the far side of the room. “Yeah, all good.”
“Who were those assholes?”
“Don’t know. No problems, though.”
“Yeah? You sure? You look like you’re about done and ready to kill.”
I chuckle and shake out the frustration. “No, it’s fine. They got rowdy. Seems like I found a saviour to deal with them, though.” My head nods over at whoever the hell this dude is, as I untie my own apron. “He dealt with them for me.”
She looks at him, peering over the top of her glasses. “He did? Who is he?”
“No idea.” I pull the sheath of money out of my pocket and grab my bag to stow it safely. “He just stuffed this cash in my pocket like it was tissues to be tossed and told me to go back to the bar. Said something about me going too far.”
“Well, damn. I could do with one of those kinds of saviours every damn day.”
Couldn’t we all.
A few minutes getting my things together and I give the bar one last sweeping gaze. It’s quiet again, clean, and ready for her seven pm shift to begin. Wyatt will be in by nine, so she’s good to go for the next few hours on her own.
“You gonna be okay?” I ask, pulling on my coat.
“Always the worrier. I’m not one of your brothers, Ally. Get yourself home.”
I smile and nod, my hand reaching for her shoulder to squeeze. “Stay safe, babe. See you tomorrow night for our shift from hell.”
“You got it,” she calls, as I walk out onto the floor for the door.
I’m about to head straight for the exit when I realise I haven’t even said thank you to the guy. Should really. I glance back at him, watching as he reels off what seems like either the text or email to end all texts or emails. Jesus, they’re some dexterous thumbs at work.
I smirk at the vision, trying to get a handle on who the hell he is. There’s breeding going on. I could tell by his voice and tone, and the money, but the clothes seem like they’ve been worn for years. More normal for around here. Not tattered, just used and moulded to him like a second skin.
I’m walking back to him without realising I am doing, shifting my bag about on my shoulder as if the very thought of him makes me prickly. Don’t know why. I shouldn’t be. He just dealt with something so I wouldn’t have to, not asking for anything in return.
His head turns slightly at my approach, his eyes directed at the floor rather than at my face.
“Hey, I just …“ Both eyes come up to look at me, near black orbs halting my mouth in its tracks again. He doesn’t cut in this time, just stares, still without any hint of a smile. “I just wanted to …” Jesus Christ. Why can’t I speak? I grip my bag tightly, trying to find some spine. “I wanted to …" He starts smiling and lord help me that finishes off any hope of fucking language I was trying for.
“What did you want, Ally cat?” The smile widens, his back leaning until he’s resting on the padded booth and throwing his phone on the table.
“I was trying to say-“
“Can you make it interesting?”
