"You were sure staring at me like you wanted me to." The man sounds amused. I snatch my hand away, face burning in earnest now.
"I wasn't staring!" I protest. His words from earlier come back to me suddenly: seems like someone other than me wanted to get better acquainted with you. My eyes narrow by degrees as I unpack the full meaning of his words.
"And anyway," I continue as the bartender plunks another stein down in front of me. "If you didn't want to be stared at, maybe you shouldn't dress so damn conspicuously." I lower my gaze to indicate all the leather, and his eyes follow my lead.
"You're right," he reflects after a moment. "I should put in less effort. Appearance isn't everything. You're certainly not concerned about it. Do you usually roll out of bed and head straight to the dives?" He turns back to the bar to take up his whiskey. "I envy your life."
I bristle slightly at his words, but I'm far from beaten. I turn gamely in my stool to face him and unwrap a finger from around the handle of my glass to point at him. "First of all, you definitely don't envy my life," I correct him. "And if you must know, I thought you looked familiar to me. That's all."
I bite my lip following the admission. I hadn't realized it until the words were out of my mouth, but it's true. He does look familiar, although I'm certain our paths have never crossed before.
"Interesting," comes the response, and suddenly I'm even more intrigued than I was before. The man takes a sip of his drink; I watch as his throat works, and the ice butts up against his lips. But I can't allow myself to be distracted now. He's all but confirmed for me by his nonchalance that I'm on the right track. I cross my arms and settle one long leg over the other, jogging my ankle beneath the bar.
"So what are you?" I press. "Some disenfranchised Calvin Klein model? A child celebrity all grown up with an axe to grind against society?"
"What makes you think I'm not a criminal?" he replies evenly. My ankle freezes. "Take a look around you." He nods, indicating the rest of the bar. "You're not exactly on the nice side of town, sweetheart."
"Ana." My correction comes automatically. The name, like the red hair, suits me, but I'm still getting used to it. It tastes truncated, maybe even a little exotic, on the tip of my tongue. The man raises his eyes to look at me, and I take a quick sip of my beer to disguise my expression. I'm not sure he believes me, so I carry on quickly. "I'm Ana. I'd prefer it if you called me by my name."
"That's not your name." His intuition startles me, and I sit back. "Any more than 'sweetheart' is. But I'll bite. Flint."
"Flint," I repeat. A helpless smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I can't be sure it's his real name, either, but it suits him so well. Sharp-edged and black and unforgiving. "Well, whoever you are…thank you. You stuck your neck out for me when you didn't have to."
The bell above the front door jingles, signaling the entrance of another patron. Flint doesn't take his eyes from me, as if no one from the outside world could possibly hold his interest, but my own gaze slides past him. My eyes widen at what I see, and my heart—which had been beating erratically ever since Flint wandered over—seems to freeze all operations within my chest.
It's not that I know the men who enter the bar personally—and yes, it wasn't just a single patron who entered now, but several. Four men, to be precise, dressed in dark clothes, all of them far too muscular and unofficial-looking to fill out their suits properly. Their clothes seem to bulge and strain with each swaggered step, as if they are wearing poorly-fitted costumes and not anything tailor made for their foreboding musculatures.
The bar room falls silent at the sight of these male specimens. I am sitting behind Flint at the bar, and I realize his own towering frame, though not as bulky as that of the men, shields me from their view. I have only seconds to act, if it isn’t too late already. I notice Flint's eyes start to slide from me to follow the direction of my gaze, and I quickly switch my gaze back over to him.
"Well, it was very nice to meet you Flint," I say hastily. I slide down from the stool and bend beneath the bar to snatch my satchel out from between his legs. When I straighten, I see that he is going for an amused look, but I can tell he is perplexed by my sudden intention to depart. I regret it as well, though I can't let it show on my face. There are more important things in life than chatting up a dark and gorgeous stranger at the bar, like continuing to succeed in escaping the life I swore to myself I would leave behind.
"Just like that? You're not even going to finish your beer?" His deep-chested voice makes me tremor a little. I would like to hear it more, but I'm out of time. I nod my head in recognition of his subtle invitation to take back my abrupt exit, and I feel my mouth pull down in disappointment.
But there's no time to lose. The men are drawing closer, and it's only a matter of time before one of them spots me. I imagine I can almost feel the weight of their identical glances behind their dark glasses dragging the sea of bar patrons, trying to dredge me up. I shoulder my bag and turn. I start heading back toward the hallway and the bathrooms. I'm not sure that there is an exit out that way, but I pray to God there is. Damn it, why didn't I inspect my premises before when I was back there? I could have saved myself time and a lot of hassle. If I got caught trying to escape now, it would be my fault for letting a stranger clad in leather distract my every self-preserving faculty.
There is a window in the bathroom. I remember that much. I am slight enough that I think I can fit, though it's going to take some scrambling. I might have to leave my bag behind. Shit, I left my credit card behind me back at the bar.
All of these thoughts pass through my head in a jumble. I've barely made it half a step before I feel a hand clamp down on my arm. My heart leaps out of my chest and lodges in my throat. Where it was paralyzed before, it now beats double, maybe even triple time. I wheel, and in my alarm, I drop my bag.
The man that entered first, the leader of the pack, and the largest, glares down at me. At least, I think he must be glaring, but it's hard to tell his expression with half of his face behind the black gleam of his sunglasses. I try to cringe away from him, but his grip is too strong to resist. The entire bar is watching us.
The man wets his lips, and I see his mouth pull back in a nasty grin of triumph. He is about to form a word, maybe even a name. My entire world, the new one that I worked so hard to erect, is about to crumble around me.
I don't know why, but in my final moment of freedom, my eyes seek Flint. I catch and hold his gaze, wishing that our paths had crossed at a different time, maybe even in a different life.
But to my surprise, he is already moving.
CHAPTER 2
FLINT
And with the entry of those thugs into the bar, I broke my number one rule on my last, final ride into Hell: don't get mixed up with a woman.
I have nothing against women. Hell, I used to bed plenty of them: I'm Flint Carter. There was once a glamorous, inescapably opulent time in my life when there was never a dry spell or a lack of willing, wanton partners, but that was a long time ago.
And I can't help but think about that time when I notice her looking at me across the bar. That time when I was someone, when I was worth something more than a shadowy bank account and the hard, hot and road-ready equipment almost permanently fixed between my legs. It's been a long time since someone looked at me like that, and never a woman who looked as good as she did when she was evidently running on empty.