Page 1 of Welded Defender
CHAPTER 1
Marcy
My stomach twists—hunger, dread, I can’t tell which—as I push into Hal’s Bar and Grill.
The place is teeming—no tables left. I thread through bodies to the bar and snag the last stool. My elbows hit the polished wood. My hands won’t stop shaking.
The bartender, with dark hair and a friendly smile, approaches me. “What’ll it be?”
I hesitate, my mind torn. “What would you recommend?” I ask, my voice wavering.
“Burgers are good here. Personally, I love our sweet potato fries.”
I nod, trying to smile. “Sure, I’ll take that then. And a coke, please.”
He winks and turns away, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I’ve been on the road for four days straight. Barely stopping for more than gas and the occasional nap. I’ve been living on coffee and gas station nachos. I don’t know what prompted me to stop here. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m finally closing in on my destination, or maybe it’s the need for something actually cooked for a change. But the longer I wait for my food, the more I wonder if I’ve made the wrong choice.
I reach for my phone, when someone shifts next to me, drawing my attention. My fingers freeze on the screen as I look up. Next to me, taking up the corner seat, a man sits, the neon Budweiser sign catching the edge of his bearded jaw. His flannel stretches across shoulders wide enough to fill a doorframe, sleeves pushed up to expose forearms corded with veins and muscle. He tilts his beer bottle back, throat working as he swallows. Our eyes connect over the rim. My pulse skips. I drop my gaze to my lap, the heat rising from my collar to my hairline as I count the threads in my jeans.
Before I regain my composure, my Coke arrives, and I cradle the glass, trying to calm the anxiety swimming in my veins. My food follows moments later, piled high on a white plate. I suddenly realize just how hungry I am, the scent of sizzling meat nearly making me ache. I pick up the burger, my teeth sinking in, and, for a moment, the world narrows to salt and juice and the steady pounding in my ears. I don’t think, I just eat, bite after delicious bite.
I’m halfway through the best burger of my life, when the door to the bar opens behind me. A blast of chilly winter air seeps into the bar. And that’s when it hits me: dread, seeping into my veins like ice. I freeze, burger suspended in mid-air, as the weight of eyes on me prickles the back of my neck. I whirl around, heart pounding in my chest.
He stands just inside like he owns the room—sandy-blond hair, expensive coat, practiced smile. To everyone else, he’s charming. Polished. Safe even.
Then his eyes lock on mine like a hawk’s and the blood drains from my face. Brett.
I spin back toward the bar, my heart hammering.
The bartender stops in front of me. “Hey, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I glance at him—compassion in his brown eyes—and then at the giant man beside me. Both are watching me with concerned expressions. My pulse thuds so hard I’m afraid they’ll hear it. My fingers twitch toward my purse, then curl into my palm. I want to run, but my spine locks.
Without thinking, I slip off my stool. I close the tiny space between me and the flannel-clad giant, fumbling for words as terror thrums in my chest. I touch his sleeve. “Please,” I whisper. “Pretend you’re my boyfriend.”
He glances at the bartender, then back at me. His emerald eyes flick over my face. I don’t know what he must see but it’s enough for him to nod once, decisively. He swivels on his stool and pulls me close, pressing me into the V of his legs until I’m practically sitting on his lap. My cheek rests against his broad chest, his flannel smelling faintly of motor oil and mint. My heart strains against my ribcage.
“Who’s bothering you?” he murmurs, voice low and calm as he presses his chin to the top of my head.
“The blonde man by the door.” I resist the urge to glance over my shoulder.
His grip tightens around my waist, a protective gesture that feels foreign yet oddly comforting. The bartender glances over, uncertainty etched across his face, and I realize how desperate I must look—clinging to a stranger like a little child.
“Just breathe, sweetheart,” the man murmurs. “What’s your name?”
“M—Marcy,” I manage.
“Pretty name.” He grins. “I’m Landon.” He leans back and grips my chin gently, tipping my face up towards his. “He’s coming this way, but I won’t let him touch you, okay?”
My chest tightens as his eyes lock with mine—green flecked with gold around the edges. I want to believe him, I really do, butfrom the corner of my eye I can see Brett weaving towards us. Panic floods my veins and I grip the stranger tighter.
“Kiss me,” I blurt out the words, my fingers clutching the worn flannel of his shirt hard enough that my knuckles ache. “Please.”
Landon’s eyes flick to Brett and back to me. He tilts my face upward with his thumb, his stubble catching the neon light as he leans down. The air between us tightens, his breath warm against my cheek. My chest rises, and for a heartbeat, the rest of the bar could be a thousand miles away.
His lips touch mine—just barely at first—and goosebumps race up my arms. My shoulders drop an inch from where they're hunched around my ears. He tastes like the beer he's been drinking and something else—mint gum, maybe.
His hand slides up between my shoulder blades, fingers tangling in my hair. The clink of glasses and scrape of forks on plates disappear completely as my legs go liquid. My aching fists loosen their grip as I melt into him, the warning sirens in my head growing distant for the first time in months.
