Page 5 of Sully
The sign readThe Bottom Shelfin blue neon.No bouncers, no line outside.Just a plain door with a small window.
“Seems boring,” I observed.
“Seems quiet,” he countered.“For conversation.”
“Is that what we’re doing?Conversing?”
His gaze dropped to my lips for just a moment before returning to mine.“For now.”
The heat that had been building inside me flared higher.This man was dangerous in a completely different way than most of the bikers inThrottle.They were all noise and posturing.Sully was… different.I couldn’t put my finger on it, but his energy intrigued me.
“After you,” he said, opening the door.
I passed close enough to feel his breath on my neck, another deliberate test.His pupils dilated slightly, the only indication that my proximity affected him at all.The man had control; I’d give him that.But control was just another word for building pressure, and every system had its breaking point.
I couldn’t wait to find his.
The Bottom Shelflived up to its name.Dark wood dominated the décor, and the absence ofThrottle’sneon and chrome felt like a relief.The low music made actual conversation possible.Country music, of course.Only a handful of patrons occupied the space, most of them settled into corners with their drink of choice, minding their own business.I hated it immediately.Or at least, I told myself I did.Truth was, places like this made me itch because they encouraged lingering, and lingering meant attachment, and attachment meant vulnerability.But Sully was already heading to the bar, and for some stupid reason I followed him.
He chose two stools at the corner of the bar, positioning himself with his back to the wall.I took the seat beside him, our knees brushing as I settled in.
“So,” I said, leaning my elbows on the polished wood.“Think you can keep up with me?”
His eyebrow raised a fraction.“At what, exactly?”
“Drinking.”I flashed a smile at the bartender, a middle-aged man with short gray hair and forearms corded with muscle.“Six shots of your best whiskey, please.”
“Three each?”Sully asked.
“To start.”I turned back to him.“Unless you’re scared.”
The bartender lined up the shots, amber liquid catching the low light.Sully watched him pour with that same measured attention he seemed to give everything.
“What are the stakes?”he asked.
I considered this, tapping my finger against the bar.“If I win, you tell me what really happened with the guy you went to prison for.Not the sanitized version.”
His eyes darkened slightly.“And if I win?”
“You won’t.”I picked up the first shot glass, holding it up between us.“But you can name your prize anyway.”
“If I win,” he said, lifting his own glass, “you tell me why you’re really in Nashville.”
My smile faltered for just a second before I recovered.“Deal.”
We clinked glasses and threw back the first shot.The whisky was good, smooth fire that warmed my throat all the way down.
By the third shot, our bodies had drifted closer together, his knee now firmly pressed against mine.I didn’t move away.The whiskey had started its work, softening the edges of my perpetual wariness.I was still sharp.I never let myself get truly impaired, but the pleasant buzz made everything more immediate.
“Another round,” I called to the bartender, reaching into my bra to pull out the cash I’d won from Butch.I took my time, watching Sully’s eyes track the movement.His expression remained controlled, but the slight flare of his nostrils gave him away.I laid the bills on the bar, letting my fingers linger on them.
“Unconventional wallet,” he commented, voice slightly rougher than before.
“Best anti-theft device there is.”I winked at him.“Most men are too distracted by the packaging to notice what’s inside.”
“Most men aren’t paying attention to the right things.”
The bartender poured another round, and I raised my glass.“What are you paying attention to, Sully?”
