Wyatt picks me up at eight on the dot, and I’m impressed at his punctuality. He knocks on the door, and I open it to find him waiting for me in his aunt’s hall.
“You look beautiful, Miss Olivia.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my skin. I try to speak but splutter with embarrassment. “Oh, er. Thank you?”
Still holding my fingers, he lifts his arm and wraps my hand through his elbow, leading me down the hall. The move is old-school chivalry, but instead of swooning, it feels awkward and orchestrated.
Noticing I’ve left my bag behind, I pause. “Oh, Wyatt, I’m sorry, my purse’s still in my room. Let me just grab it and we can go.”
He nods, and I dash back to my room. When I walk back into the hall, Wyatt and Miss Mimi are standing close together and talking in hushed voices. “Wyatt, I’m ready when you are,” I say. He looks up and smiles, but raises his finger, asking for a minute.
Several minutes later, I’m still standing in the hallway. I sigh loudly and fidget with my handbag as Wyatt and his aunt gossip like old women. “Wyatt, I’m sorry to interrupt, but if this is a bad time, we can always reschedule,” I offer, secretly hoping he’ll say yes and I can go back to my room.
A scowl crosses his face as he turns towards me, and I shrink back slightly in surprise. In a flash, the scowl disappears and the confident smile returns. “Of course not, Miss Olivia, please excuse my rudeness. Shall we go?”
I narrow my eyes at his snippy tone and start to speak, but his perma-smile distracts me. He threads my arm through his and steers us out the door.
Wyatt’s a good-looking guy. Without the hat, his hair’s dark, short, and slicked into a side part with so much product it looks wet. Does he really think that’s a good look? His much-too-skinny jeans and ab-hugging T-shirt are designed to show off his muscles. But it all feels like he’s trying too hard.
He walks us across the street to Strikers. Jesus, after working here for the last eight hours, this date is quickly jumping into worst-date-ever territory. Ushering me into a booth, he slides in opposite me.
“Did I tell you how hot you look, baby?” he drawls.
I glance down at my clothes and smile. I managed to pick up a gorgeous pale blue summer dress from the thrift shop in town. It’s got wide straps, is fitted round my tits to the waist, and then flares out in a cute rah-rah skirt to just above my knee. The material is patterned with hundreds of little flamingos. My hair’s down and curly. I look good.
Time drags.
We order beers and try to make small talk, but Wyatt’s eyes rarely lift from my boobs.
I’m bored.
After two beers, I check my phone and throw out an exaggerated yawn. His head lifts from my boobs for a moment. “Oh gosh, Wyatt, I’m so sorry. It’s just been a really long couple of days,” I say, faux apologetically.
He stands, then walks around the booth and scoots in next to me. Cringing, I move till I’m wedged against the back of the booth. He leans into me, the stench of the seven beers he’s drunk and his stale, putrid breath hits me.
“Baby, you ready for bed?” he says seductively.
Oh God, his suggestive tone and the ridiculous exaggerated drunken wink has me holding back laughter. He leans further into me, and I fight the gag reflex that threatens when he breathes in my face. His arm creeps round my shoulders, and I suck in my stomach, trying to move as far away from him as possible.
The sound of a door slamming reverberates through the room, and tingles start all along the back of my neck. Wyatt lifts his head, spotting something on the other side of the bar. The colour drains from his face, and his arm tightens across my shoulders. His fingers dig into my skin.
“Wyatt?” I say. His gaze is fixed, his fingers clenching into my arm painfully. “Wyatt, let go, you’re hurting me,” I say louder.
His head turns slowly, his gaze following the movement of something.
Prying his fingers from my skin, I shove his arm off my shoulders and grab my purse as I try to push him out of the booth. An ominous quiet seems to have engulfed the entire room. Wyatt blocks my escape, but his focus is no longer on me.
Echo and Smoke stand at the end of the table.
Echo looks pissed, anger evident on his face. But he’s not looking at me; all his fury is focussed solely on Wyatt. I look from Echo to Wyatt and back again. The pair are engaged in a silent staredown whilst Smoke stands stoically by Echo’s side.
I push at Wyatt’s back until he reluctantly stands, and I shuffle out of the booth, smoothing my dress as I straighten. I turn to leave. Echo’s hand snaps out, grabbing my arm to stop me.
“Sugar, want to explain what the fuck’s going on?” he growls.
“I’m not exactly sure what you want me to explain, Echo. I was just leaving,” I say haughtily.
Wyatt’s head turns towards me, a sardonic grin twitching in place. “Olivia, baby, where are you going? Our date’s not over yet.”
I laugh. “Dude, our date’s sooo over.” I waggle my finger up and down, pointing to his get-up. “All this. Yeah, that doesn’t really work for me.”
Echo’s grip on my arm loosens, so I start to walk away, but Wyatt the douche grabs my shoulder. “You fucking prissy little British bitch. You’d be lucky to get a piece of me after being seen with that piece of shit biker.”
I spin round to respond, but Echo has him pinned by his throat to the wall, leaning in close to Wyatt’s face. Echo’s voice is so low I can’t hear what he’s saying, but Wyatt blanches and starts jabbering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t touch her. Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me,” he whines.
Echo turns towards me, anger straining his whole body. “Livvy, go stand your ass at the bar and wait for me. I’m not done with you yet.”
He’s not done with me yet. Who the fuck does he think he is?
“Fuck you, Echo. I’m done, and I’m going,” I bite out angrily.
Echo doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns to Smoke and nods towards me. Smoke jumps up, slinging his arm over my shoulders. He guides me to a barstool, lifts me up onto it, and cages me in with his hands on the bar.
Furious, I shove at Smoke’s enormous shoulders. “Smoke, what the hell? Move, I’m leaving.”
He looks genuinely sorry, but shakes his head. “Sorry, sweetheart, but Echo wants you to stay, and he’s only gonna follow your ass back to Miss Mimi’s if you leave.”
“I’m sorry too, Smoke,” I say with a shrug. I knee him in the balls with as much force as I can muster. Poor Smoke drops like a sack of potatoes. Hopping down from the stool, I step over Smoke’s groaning body and walk straight out the door.