Page 13 of Burned in Stone
Three months since I told him that night was a mistake, that we needed to take a step back, that I wasn’t looking for anything with anyone. He’d listened to my whole speech, leaning against the bar with his arms crossed and that knowing look in his eyes. When I finished, he just smiled.
“OK, angel,”he’d said, voice low and patient and way too confident.“I’ll wait. But we both know you’re lying.”
And he has been waiting. Every Friday. Showing up to ‘help’ with closing. Both of us dancing around what almost happened, what we both want to happen.
What I won’t let happen.
Three months ago, I made a choice—keep Cash at arm’s length or watch Gabriel destroy us both. Since then, an unknown number has been calling. Twice a week, like clockwork. A reminder that I’m not free, that I’m not safe, that he sees everything. Cash thinks I’m scared of us. He doesn’t know I’m scaredforhim. So I try not to flirt back, try not to respond to his teasing, but sometimes the tension snaps taut and we both go half-crazy—and even then I pull back.
It’s torture. But I cannot cross the line he keeps trying to coax me across. It’s the only way to keep him safe from the trap I’m caught in.
“Sensible shoes don’t get the same tips,” I say, padding over to grab the mop bucket. “Besides, these legs deserve proper showcasing.”
His eyes track down said legs, taking in the short black skirt that’s part of my unofficial uniform. The heat in his gaze makes my skin prickle with the same fire I felt that night when hisfingers were hooked in my panties, when he promised me it wasn’t over.
“Your legs are perfect in anything,” Cash says, voice dropping to that gravelly tone that does things to my insides. “Or nothing.”
“Smooth talker.” I start mopping, very aware that bending over in this skirt gives him a show. “How much did we make tonight?”
“Enough to keep Summit’s lawyers from finding another lame excuse to shut us down.” His eyes stay on me instead of the money. “Though after that health inspection bullshit they pulled, I wouldn’t put anything past them.
Summit Development. Still trying to buy up Stoneheart, still making life difficult for everyone who won’t sell. The MC keeps pushing back, but we all know this war is far from over. I guess that’s why I’m trying not to add to their woes in my own way.
“Kya handled that like a boss,” I say. “Though Lee hovering like a protective grizzly probably helped.”
Devil’s Bar has been thriving under Kya’s ownership. She took this dive from run-down biker joint to a popular spot where the locals gather with live music on Wednesdays, bike night on Thursdays, and the best damn bartender in three counties—that would be me.
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” Cash says. “Hovering?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.
“More like a vulture waiting for the gazelle to drop dead from exhaustion.” I mime wings with my arms. “Just circling and circling...”
The look he gives me could melt steel. Pure heat, pure want, pure done-with-your-shit. The same look he gave me when I stoodright where he is now and called what happened between us a mistake, the same look he gives me every time I put that wall up between us and refuse to let him tear it down.
“Come here.” He sets down the stack of bills, voice dropping to that commanding tone that makes my knees weak.
“I’m mopping.”
“Mercy.”
Just my name, but the way he says it—patient and hungry and commanding all at once—has me setting the mop aside.
My bare feet are silent on the sticky floor as I walk toward him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I stop on the other side of the bar, using the polished wood as a shield. “I’m here. What do you want?”
“Closer,” he says.
I shake my head, a small, defiant gesture. He doesn’t move. He just waits, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch. With a sigh that’s more frustration than exhaustion, I round the edge of the bar. I stop a foot away from him, my arms crossed over my chest.
“Happy?”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “Not yet.”
He reaches out, fingers catching my wrist, tugging gently until I’m flush against him. His free hand settles on my hip, thumb finding the strip of skin between my top and skirt. My breath hitches. His scent—leather, whiskey, and something uniquely, dangerously Cash—short-circuits every rational thought I had about keeping him safe. His head dips, forehead resting againstmine. His green eyes are dark with frustration that mirrors my own.
“We go through this every week, Cash,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“We do.” He tilts his head, mouth ghosting over my pulse point. “And every week you bolt right when it gets good.”
Just like I ran that night. Just like I’ve been running ever since.
