Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

I want this job because I want to move on with my life. Waiting tables isn’t moving on. It feels more like I’m just… Waiting.

Since I can’t say any of this, I open my mouth to deliver a canned response.

“Stand up.” The low, deep voice reverberates against my back, shooting a shiver down my spine.

I twist in the chair, my heart in my stomach, and meet the blazing, feral eyes of the one man who scares me more than any other. “What are you doing here?”

He steps to my side and turns that menacing gaze on Keegan. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Jarret,” I whisper harshly.

“I’m Keegan Mitchell, and you’re making the lady uncomfortable. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

It’s the absolute wrong thing to say. The cords go taut in Jarret’s neck, and his hands clench and release at his sides.

“The lady,” he spits past grinding teeth, “belongs to me. And if you look at her chest one more time, I’ll tear you limb from limb, starting with your dick.”

My face heats. My vision clouds, and every inch of me stiffens.

Any chance I had at this job is gone.

I turn my attention to Keegan and try to keep the fury out of my voice. “I’m so sorry. If you’ll excuse us for just a minute—”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I can deal with this.” He rises from the chair and stands in a face-off with Jarret.

Six inches shorter and a fraction of the muscle mass, Keegan must be suffering from Napoleon syndrome. Or stupidity.

“Time for you to leave.” He scowls at Jarret and reaches for me.

His fingers curl around my wrist, and he tries to pull me over some imaginary line, as if he has a claim on me.

I yank my arm free as Jarret grips Keegan’s collar and neck with both hands, lifts him, and tosses him across an open table.

Place settings and flower arrangements crash to the floor. Gasps shudder from surrounding patrons, and two suit-clad servers rush toward us and stop.

My eyes burn. My throat constricts, my heartbeat sluggish and loud in my ears.

Keegan pulls himself to his feet and stumbles back, dazed and unsure.

“Stay away from her.” Jarret puts his huge body in front of me, facing Keegan with his hands folded behind him.

The back of the Stetson tips upward with the dip of his chin. Muscles twitch across his shoulder blades and biceps, his neck a column of golden skin and strength. Whatever look he gives Keegan causes the man to take another step back.

“I don’t want to fight you.” Keegan tosses up his hands and bumps into a table. Then he fumbles for his coat and casts me a worried look.

“You better go.” I slide on my own coat and snatch my purse, humiliated and seething. “I’ll settle things with the restaurant.”

I just want to get the fuck out of here. I’ve spent the last year avoiding attention and trying not to become the target of small town gossip.

Keegan pushes out the door without a backward look, and I lift my wallet from my purse. I don’t have much money, barely enough to pay the rent on my studio apartment. But there are broken dishes and flower vases and a dinner tab. Do I have the cash to cover that?

Jarret tosses a few large bills on the table, more than enough to pay for the expenses.

His fingers rest possessively on my lower back, his mouth at my ear. “Let’s go.”

A voracious shiver weakens my knees, and I mentally slap myself. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Fine.” He sets his hands on his hips. “We’ll do this here.”

A fever spreads up my neck. “We’re not doing anything, anywhere.”

I breeze past him and make a beeline for the door. He chases me out and through the parking lot. The chilly night air bites my skin, but my blood, my muscles, everything inside me cooks with anger.

A few feet from my car, he catches me around the waist and twists me to face him. “Were you going to fuck that weaselly motherfucker?”

“What?” My eyes bulge. “I was on a job interview!”

His expression blanches for a fleeting second before his gaze narrows ruthlessly. “He intended to be deep inside your cunt before the night was over.”

“You’re so fucking sick and twisted.” I shove at his chest, causing his arms to constrict tighter. “Not everything is about sex.”

“A man doesn’t take you to dinner without making it about sex. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you. Every second he sat at that table, he imagined your tight pussy squeezing around his dick.” His voice rises to a shout. “The napkin on his lap couldn’t hide his fucking hard-on!”

My stomach sinks. My teeth slam together, and I push harder against him, breaking free from his grip. “Fuck you!”

“You know I’m right, Maybe.”