Chapter One

 

Dante

“Gimme another beer,” the guy slurs, both elbows braced on the bar, eyes bloodshot and tie askew. “No, fuck that. Sumth’ng stronger.” He wiggles his fingers. “Vodka.”

Bracing my hands on the counter behind the bar, I lean over. “Sorry, man. No more booze for you. It’s time for you to go home.”

“I said, gimme another.” He glares at me, and I fold my arms over my chest, ready for a fight.

Bad idea. Something about him ticks me off. My fingers curl, trying to make fists, itching for something to hit, but no fucking way. It’s a quiet night in Halo and I’d rather it stay that way.

Besides, poor fucker is in the middle of a nasty divorce. He told me so earlier, over his first beer, and I don’t wanna add physical injury to his inner turmoil.

Anyway, I’m not cleaning puke or calling the cops to take him home. Fuck, no. Just the thought frays my nerves a little more, enough for adrenaline to shoot through my veins, for tunnel vision to form, and then …

“Relax, Dante,” Logan says. He shoots me a warning look, and walks around the bar. “I’ve got this.”

I watch him as he talks quietly to the guy while I try to relax my shoulders, regulate my breathing. “He’s all yours.”

Come on, inner calm. I’m counting on you.

Logan is one of the bartenders, my roommate Malcom being the other. Logan’s been working here for years, while I only started a couple of months ago.

Not that I’m new to the profession. Bartending is a well-paying gig and I’ve been doing it on and off for the past couple of years.

I’m normally a patient guy. I handle drunk people night after night. The look Logan threw me, though … It said, no punching people, Dante.

Asshole can see right through me.

No punching the customers. Basic stuff. Stuff I shouldn’t need anyone reminding me.

I ’m still watching as Logan steers the guy to the door, still talking. He pats him on the back and even waves goodbye.

He fucking waves goodbye, and I’m still vibrating with useless energy that I don’t know how to let out without hurting anyone.

Gritting my teeth, I force my hands to unclench and busy myself tidying up behind the bar. I’m better than this. I’ve learned how to control myself over the years. That’s not bragging, it’s a fact, and I worked my ass off doing it.

So why is it so hard to fight the dark thoughts tonight?

Logan returns, a smug look on his face. “Taken care of.”

“Shut up,” I grumble.

“Talking to people can help, you know.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s not a good attitude for a bartender,” he informs me for the millionth time.

“Whatever.”

He’s right. He also knows by now I’m not always in such a bad mood.

“Something happen?”

I shake my head, refusing to think about the question. About the reason why I want to bite his head off just for taking care of a customer, doing things the right way.

“Did you talk to your sister? Is that what triggered you?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, my pulse spiking. Because it could be that, or the fact that the guy from earlier reminded me of my uncle. Who the hell knows?

“You should go home, sleep it off. Better yet,” he lifts a finger, “get laid. I know—”

“Logan.” I put down the glass I’ve been polishing. “Shut the hell up.”

Wisely, he does, but I have to wait for a moment to find my center again, for my hands to stop shaking enough to get back to work.

This is bad. Real bad. Just one of those nights that drags me down, sinking its claws into my thoughts, opening raw wounds. I’ll leave earlier, like Logan suggested.

And I’ll deal with it the usual way.

* * *

I ponder what the hell went down as I make my way home an hour and a half later, jacket zipped up, hands deep in my pockets, shoulders braced against the cold. My building looms out of the night haze, the lamp outside casting a sickly yellow light over the entrance.

Home sweet home.

That wasn’t sarcastic, by the way. The apartment I share with Malcom, an old friend of mine, is as much of a sanctuary as Halo. I may have been unlucky with family, but damn, I Iucked out in the friend department.

Not that Malcom is around much lately since he’s too caught up with this girl he has a crush on. That’s okay by me, and good for him.

Though when I unlock the apartment door and nobody’s there, my mood darkens more. Closing the door behind me, I switch on the lights, and yet nothing seems brighter.

It’s all in your fucking mind, I tell myself, making my way to the sofa and turning on the TV. You don’t live with Uncle Jerry anymore, neither does Lisa, and if he scared her and brought back those damn memories, well… that’s too bad.

Suck it up and move on.

But I don’t. It seems like I can’t. I’m stuck, so stuck that the sight of a drunk, depressed stranger at the bar gets me all wound up and ready to put a fist in his face.

Dammit.

The booze is calling me, and I grind my teeth, trying to resist. You’d think that coming from a household torn apart by alcohol I’d avoid it like the death curse it is.

Instead, I drink and work at a bar.

Ironic? You bet.

Yeah, alcohol is my one area of expertise. After all, I was raised by alcoholics—not my parents, as they were out of the picture early on, but my uncle and aunt. I played with empty Whiskey bottles as a toddler. Learned to duck under flailing fists as a kid, to walk on eggshells when they were in their drinks, when they had screaming arguments and broke things. Learned to keep away and hidden, trying to keep my sister quiet, so they wouldn’t turn that aggression on us.

It worked, mostly. But just thinking about it, remembering, it gets my hackles up and twists my stomach in fucking knots.

See, Lisa, my sis, told me today that my uncle called, asking her for money, and it brought it all back. They call every couple of months, trying to suck cash out of us. I never reply, so now they only call my sis.

Fuck them. I don’t owe them. I don’t give a shit about them, like they never gave a shit about us.

I sigh, rub a hand over my face.

Fuck them, but I know I’ll dream of the past tonight, that I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the next few days before returning to normality. As much as I ever do. Somehow I can never settle in my life. Maybe it’s my dreams, where I’m stuck back at that house, back in the past. It feels as if I’m on call, as if I’m living on borrowed time, waiting for the violence and fear to return.

I’m staring at the TV show and not seeing it. Fuck it. The only thing that really helps on most nights is beating one out. I’ll grab a shower and jack off until the tension bleeds out of me.

After getting off the ratty sofa, I stumble into the bathroom, shedding my clothes along the way. Then I turn on the water and there’s… nothing.

No water.

What the fuck? With a growl, I smash my fist into the wall, relishing the pain. What the fuck, life? Is this how it’s gonna be today?

I stomp to the bedroom. Fuck the shower. I’m gonna beat one out right here, even though I’m not horny. Just frustrated, antsy, and fucking pissed. Cornered. Makes me wanna shrug out of my skin.

Maybe if someone was here….

There was a pretty brunette at the bar earlier smiling at me. I should have taken her number. I dunno why I didn’t, why I thought I didn’t need someone to touch me today.

I rarely bring girls home, and anyway, it’s too late now.

The bottle of Whiskey in the kitchen is calling me. It’s been calling me ever since I walked in, and though I normally beat this test easily, tonight I don’t know if I can resist any longer.

Tonight is a dark hole waiting to swallow me down.

Then the doorbell rings.

Glad for the distraction, I grab a towel, wrap it around my hips and throw the door open, expecting Malcom.

But it’s not Malcom.

It’s a girl.

And shit, she’s hot. Dark eyes, dark curls framing a delicate face, a soft mouth, and as my gaze travels lower, I see she has rich curves, and her cleavage is like a black hole, sucking me in.

I brace a hand on the doorframe, unsteady.

She blinks at me. “Is Malcom in?”

I shake my head as I try to wrap my mind around her presence and get my vocal cords to work. “Nah.”

“He said I could crash here.”

He did? I open my mouth to tell her that’s bullshit, and that he said no such thing to me, when she ducks under my arm and is inside.

“Just for tonight,” she says, shooting me such a bright smile over her shoulder it takes my breath away, and saunters into Malcom’s room.

Well, then. I guess that’s settled, right?

Jeez, the blood rushing to my dick isn’t helping any with my confusion, and I can’t fucking believe she just walked in.

I need to talk to Malcom.

And to this girl. Sexy or not, she’s got no business being here tonight, and the last thing I need is to drag her kicking and screaming out into the cold.

Resigned, I close the door and go find her.

* * *

She’s in Malcom’s room, seated on his bed, rifling through one of his music magazines. The sight of her on my roommate’s messy bed is doing strange things to my mind, to my resolve.

Weakening it. Conjuring up images of her in lacy underwear, dark hair spread around her.

Christ. I scowl at her, bracing one arm on the doorjamb. “Look, girl…”

“Charlie,” she says, looking up, flashing me another of those breath-stopping smiles. She stretches her hand out for a handshake. “Charlie Quinn. And you must be Dante.”

Charlie. I turn her name over like a candy in my mouth. I like the sound of it, the taste of it like cake frosting and sparkles.

I’m staring at her small hand, that’s delicate like her face, the color of caramel, and wonder what it is about this girl that has me hard and aching just like that.

It also sinks in that she knows my name, which could be a sign she’s telling the truth about Malcom telling her she can spend the night, or at least talking to her about me

Maybe.

Possibly.

“Malcom didn’t say anything about a girl coming over,” I manage at last, “and you can’t just go through his things before I confirm you can stay.”

And since when is that an option?

Her hand drops to her side. “He probably forgot. He’s busy right now.”

“Busy?”

She shrugs, smirking. “With a girl.”

Before I can think of an answer to that—I mean, I knew he was out trying to hook up with this girl he’s been crushing on for ages—she gets up and bends over to grab her purse from the floor, and fuck, the girl has a sexy ass, too.

I lick my dry lips as she straightens and do my best to tear my gaze away—only it falls on her mouth and damn, I’m diamond hard and pitching a hell of a tent under the towel.

“Call him,” she says, fishing her cell phone out of her purse and scrolling through her messages. “He’ll tell you. We’re distant cousins. Here.”

She thrusts the phone in my face and sure enough there’s a pic of her with Malcom, both of them grinning at the camera.

But she could be a classmate. A neighbor. A psychotic ex.

“That proves nothing,” I say mulishly. “I’ll call him.”

“God, you’re so suspicious.” She sounds delighted, and for some strange reason she beams at me. “And so serious. Malcom told me that about you.”

“I’m not… hey, where are you going?” She’s walking past me and out of the bedroom. I grab her arm, stopping her. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t believe me. You think Malcom didn’t tell me I could stay. So I’ll be out of your hair.”

“No, wait.” Her arm is slender but solid in my grip. She smells of flowers and melted sugar. It makes my mouth water, and I don’t know what I’m doing, but she’s warm and sweet and she’s right here with me. “Stay.”