Page 21 of Chasing Wildflowers
Let him. The second he does, I’ll end it.
Nine
Lane
What the fuck just happened?
I stare wide-eyed at Jameson pinning Luke against the wall, effortlessly. The bar is dead quiet, except the Alan Jackson song crooning out from the jukebox. Every set of eyes on them.
Jameson leans in, voice low and menacing. “I told you, you didn’t want to do that.”
Luke struggles against his hold, red-faced, veins popping, chest heaving, not knowing when to just give up. “Don’t just stand there, you idiot!” he screams at Billy, his words raw with panic and rage.
Billy’s eyes bounce between Jameson pinning his friend to the wall and the door. His boots scuff across the carpet as he bolts, the door slamming behind him with a satisfyingbang.
Jameson jerks Luke off the wall by the back of his collar, his movement fluid, almost lazy. Then he shoves him toward the exit. “I suggest you join your friend.”
Luke stumbles backward, eyes trained on Jameson. “This isn’t over,” he shouts, voice cracking, before the door crashes shut behind him, rattling the frame.
The chatter picks up again, everyone going back to their previous conversations, unfazed. Bar fights are nothing new here. Customers like Luke are why we keep cards on file.
My eyes follow Jameson’s movements, as he sits back in his seat, calm as can be, and takes a sip of his whiskey. As if pinning some drunk asshole against the wall is a typical Tuesday night.
Okay, I’ll admit, that was hot as fuck. But I’m not about to let him or anyone else think I’m some damsel in distress in need of saving.
“I could have handled him,” I huff, as I stride toward him, both annoyance and embarrassment reddening my cheeks.
Jameson looks at me, his eyes hard but not unkind. “I’m sorry. I’m not the type of man who sits by and watches a woman being disrespected.”
I brace my hands on the bar in front of him and lean in slightly, offering a flirtatious tilt of my lips. “And what kind of man are you, Jameson?”
His scent hits me first, leather and a hint of crisp mountain lake, and my core tightens without permission. That smirk, slow and deliberate, curls across his lips. “You’ll have to wait and see, Wildflower.”
His gaze holds mine just long enough for me to burn it in before he stands, and tosses some bills on the bar. His boots thudding softly against the floor as he crosses to the door. “Have a good night,” he calls over his shoulder, voice low, leaving me swaying.
I’m so fucked.
By the time I’m locking the deadbolt after my shift, exhaustion seeps into my bones. I want a hot shower, a glass of wine, and my bed. Dealing with Luke’s entitled, Coors-chugging, asshole behavior is getting old. He knew it was just sex, and now he won’t leave me alone.
Gravel crunches under my shoes as I cross the dimly lit parking lot, the fluorescent lights casting pale yellow pools of shadow. My stomach drops when I reach my car: the front driver’s side tire is completely flat.
He wouldn't, would he?
I check the passenger side. Flat.
I frantically walk to the back of the car. Both tires are flat.
That old feeling creeps up my spine. An overwhelming mix of sadness and rage seeps through my veins. I’m being punished for not bending to his will.
Fucking asshole.
Did he really have to slice all four tires?
Groaning, I slump against the trunk, the rough metal scraping through my top. This is just fucking great. I hope I’m able to wake Kam out of her nightly coma to give me a ride home.
A deep voice cuts through the night. “Do you need a ride, Wildflower?”
I whip around, my heart lodging itself in my throat. Jameson stands there, the light from the streetlamps casting a glow around him like some kind of dark angel.
