Page 42 of Roma King
Unbidden, a scathing bark of laughter erupts out of me. “Yeah.Right.”
“You okay, sweetheart?” Andrew leans closer to the bar, toward me.
I shoot daggers at Pasha. Garrett hisses, elbowing me in the side. Hard. He doesn’t like the game Pasha is playing any more than I do. It’s time to end this charade, before Garrett takes matters into his own hands and ejects the guy from the bar. “I’ve actually had the pleasure of meeting your mother, haven’t I,Pasha? She was pretty rude. I’d go so far as to say the woman doesn’t possess a sense of humor, unique or otherwise.” I still don’t know what happened between Sarah and Shelta to have caused a thirty-five-year long rift between them, but I know my friend. I’m certain that the blame for their enmity doesn’t lie atSarah’sfeet. Shelta is a grade A bitch.
Andrew, Waylon and Henry share confused looks. Garrett grunts, unhappy, nostrils flaring as he grimaces at Rivin. “Oh. So, you came here to visit Zara, then? That’s a little…odd.” Andrew shifts away from Pasha, his torso twisting as he finally takes the time to assess the newcomer properly for the first time. His eyes travel over him and land on his wrists and his neck—the only two places you can see the man’s extensive tattoos. Andrew goes stiff, wary now; he’s never liked guys with ink, let alone ink all over their bodies. Pasha opens his mouth, and I brace myself. His next words are important. If he says the wrong thing, there will be fireworks. And then an ambulance. And something tells me the guy doesn’t have health insurance.
“I actually came to apologize to her. My mother can be a little…hostileat times. She’s not known for her warm bedside manner. I also came to return this.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim black device. Instantly familiar. It’s my cell phone. He gently sets it down on the bar top. “Thought you might need your portal into the outside world,” he says. “People don’t tend to do so well when they’re separated from these things. I was in the neighborhood. I figured fuck it. I’d bring it by.”
Four pairs of eyes watch me closely; I assume they’re waiting for some sign that I’m scared of this guy, and his unannounced intrusion into such a personal part of my weekly routine is unwelcome. I don’t want any trouble, though. A fight is the last thing I want. Andrew can’t even open a jar of pickles by himself these days. If he has to weigh into a brawl in defense of me, then he’s not going to fare well.
I hold out my hand, gesturing for my phone. The simplest and smartest thing Pasha could do is hand my phone to Andrew, so it can be passed down to me. He doesn’t do that, though. He tosses back the drink Henry’s poured for him, slamming the glass down on the bar, and gets to his feet. The phone in his hand, he saunters past Waylon and Garrett without so much as sending them a sideways glance. He really doesn’t give a shit about them, or the fact that their eyes are flashing murder. When he stops in front of me, to my horror, something strange and unusual tightens in the pit of my stomach. Pasha reaches out and takes hold of me by the wrist, lifting my arm.
“I don’t think so,friend. Get your fucking hands off her,” Waylon warns. “It’s not polite to show up at a bar and hang around for a girl if you haven’t been invited. You should be on your way now.”
Pasha looms over me, a giant presence. I’ve never felt more fragile than in this moment, with Pasha Rivin’s grip cuffing my wrist. My arm is on fire, from my fingertips to the top of my shoulder. He smiles down at me, a strange, secret smile, and for a second the arrogance that he’s been brandishing like a shield seems to drop away. I open my mouth, about to tell him to unhand me, but then…
A shockwave, powerful and alarming, hits me straight in the gut.
He...
A shot of adrenalin rushes straight to my head. Everything tilts rather drunkenly, as I’m overcome with the weirdest sense of familiarity. His hand on mine—there’s something about the way his hand feels on my skin. Pasha’s eyes flare, a fierceness shining brightly in his unusual irises. “Oh. I’m sure Ms. Llewelyn doesn’t mind. Here you go,Firefly,” he says.
Firefly? Why does that sound so familiar to me? No one’s ever called me by that nickname before, and yet it sounds so right when Pasha says it. Like I’ve heard him call me that a thousand times before.
He flips over my hand and places my cell phone into the cradle of my palm. His hands are calloused, warm and strong as he closes my fingers around my cell. “I’ve got something to attend to right now,” he says, his tone lowering even deeper; he’s close enough that I canfeelthe vibration of his words rumbling in his diaphragm. He’s also close enough that I can smell him now, too. Oh, holy fucking shit.
Warm leather and wood shavings. The slightest hint of smoke. Not the unpleasant bite of cigarette smoke, but the smell of a wood fire burning in a winter forest. Crisp. Clean. Cold.Deadlyand inviting.
My entire body reacts as his scent teases the back of my nose.
Pasha’s mouth curves, lifting at one side as he smiles. Leaning in a little closer, his warm breath stirs my hair as he whispers in my ear. “Glad you’ve got your phone back. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
With that, he straightens up, releasing his hold on my wrist. I’m numb, down to the roots of my being as he removes his wallet from his pocket and places some money down on the bar for Henry.
Waylon’s voice reaches my ears—he’s saying something, and his tone doesn’t sound very patient, but I don’t respond. Neither does Pasha. His eyes travel over my face, and the frown he wore the other night when he walked out of Shelta’s tent appears again. Critical? Disappointed? Irritated? God, I have no idea what to make of his expression as he steps away from me and slowly heads for the exit.
Shock ripples through me, and I gasp for a breath of air; it’s as though a part of me is being pulled along with him as he goes, and it feels…it feels terrible. As the door to Hitchin’s swings closed, I realize to my horror that my eyes are stinging like crazy, and I have no fucking idea why.
As one, Waylon, Garrett and Henry walk to the windows once he’s left and watch him as he vanishes into the night. “Wow.” Henry twists his bar rag around his knuckles and clenches his hand into a fist. “That’s the last time I let anyone else stay past closing. You okay, Zara?”
I drop my phone into my purse, shaking off the sensation that, good or bad, something of consequence just happened. However, the sense of familiarity that just overtook me won’tbeshaken off; it settles inside me, itching at me, begging for me to take notice of it. It’s the most unsettling sensation.
Pressing my fingertips to my mouth, I suck in another deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. He’s gone now. I’m free of him, and that’s all that matters. I can still feel the warmth of his hand, chaining my wrist, though. I can stillsmellhim. A dull pressure thumps at my temples. God, what would Sarah have done if shewashere? She would have realized who he was in ten seconds flat. Would she have told him who she was, or would she have freaked the fuck out and bailed? I honestly don’t know but having him show up here without warning would definitely have been upsetting for her.
Her words from this morning are still bothering me; she’d said his existence changed everything for her estranged family, but she hadn’t expanded on her cryptic statement. She obviously hadn’t wanted to discuss it any further, and I hadn’t wanted to push.
A multitude of questions clamor for my attention all at once. How the fuck did he end up at Hitchin’s? How did he know I’d even show up here tonight? He’s obviously done his research and managed to dig up a few useful kernels of information about me. And if he knows about my weekly bar sessions with my friends, then what else has he found out about me? There’s a high likelihood that he knows where I live.
My phone contains all kinds of information about me, but the device is password protected. He couldn’t have broken into it, there’s just no way. So how did he find out so much about me?
I don’t know a single thing abouthim. Not one thing.
Waylon looks like he’s chewing on glass as he stalks back to his bar stool. There’s a dangerous look in his eyes. “You got plans on seeing that prick again, darlin?” he asks.
“Hell no. Absolutely not.”
“Good. I didn’t like him. Guy had a really bad attitude. No fucking respect.”
