Ruthless Saints

Wait, that’s a lie. I did deflate Tommy’s tires our senior year because he slapped my butt.

Slowly Carson nudges the tumbler closer to me, and then he nods. “Please.”

A man of few words, that’s for sure. Maybe he’s just not a people person?

Curious, I say, “I overheard you talking on the phone. Are you Russian?”

His eyes begin to narrow on me, and it makes a weird sensation skitter down my spine, but then he nods again.

“Cool. You’re the first one I’ve met,” I grin. I pick up the empty glass. “Be right back.” Walking away from him, I take a deep breath.

Holy moly, now I understand the meaning of the strong, silent type.

I grab a clean tumbler and fill it with the vodka of his choice. Then, picking up the drink and a napkin, I head back to Carson. Smiling is second nature to me, so my mouth easily curves up as I set it down in front of him.

He’s piqued my curiosity, and it makes me stall. “How do you like living in Saint Luc?”

Carson tilts his head, his eyes intensifying on me. The weird sensation running down my spine returns, then he answers, “It’s fine.”

“Another beer,” a patron calls from the other side of the bar. I widen my smile at Carson. “Enjoy your drink.”

Pouring the beer, I wonder what it is about Carson that’s piqued my interest. I love being single and for a guy to catch my attention is rare. Like super rare. I’ve dated here and there, but it’s never turned into a relationship.

Honestly, the longest relationship I’ve had was with Dean Winchester from Supernatural.

The thought draws a chuckle from me.

I need to binge-watch Supernatural again.

When there’s a lull between orders, I lean my forearms on the counter and tap my fingers lightly on the worn wood. Slowly my eyes turn to where Carson’s sitting.

I take in his sharp features. His sure shoulders. The all-black outfit he’s wearing. The rings on his right hand. Then my eyes zero in on the tattoo peeking from under his jacket’s cuff. It looks like a small teardrop.

Oooh.

My gaze drifts over him again, and then our eyes connect, and it feels as if a bomb detonates between us. My insides flutter as his dark brown irises focus sharply on me.

Carson’s good-looking as hell, but that’s not what got my attention. It’s the intensity coming off him in waves. It’s unlike anything I’ve felt before.

Soon the bar starts to fill with more of the locals stopping by for a drink, and it keeps me busy. I alternate between helping behind the bar and serving the tables. Throughout my shift, I keep glancing at Carson. He doesn’t talk to anyone. Half the time, he seems deep in thought, but as soon as someone gets close to him, his eyes snap up.

I pour two beers, and placing them on a tray, I carry the drinks to a table where two guys are sitting.

As I set the first beer down on the table, the one guy says, “You like to party?”

Smiling, I serve the other beer. “As much as the next person.”

The guys look like they’re in their late twenties and harmless enough.

“Come with us to Sierre. Good clubs there,” the guy says, his accent thick.

Yeah, not in a million years.

My smile turns uncomfortable. “Maybe one day.”

Hopefully, they’ll forget, but I’ve learned some of these guys don’t understand the word no. I hope this isn’t the case.

“Tonight,” the guy demands. There’s nothing threatening about him, but still, I feel uneasy.

I shake my head. “I’m tired. Thanks, though.”

I walk back to the bar and let out a sigh. Glancing at Carson, my lips curve up. I have no idea what it is about him, but I’m not even going to lie anymore – I’m definitely attracted to him.

Okay, it’s more like a crush.

Girl sees guy. Girl likes guy. Girl keeps staring at guy.

Stop it, Hailey. You’re making it obvious.

I glance over all the patrons only to find the two guys leering at me. It makes a yucky feeling twist in my stomach.

I try to focus on my work, but I’m overly conscious of the two guys. When their glasses are empty, I take a deep breath and go to collect them.

“You’re sexy,” the stockier one of the two says.

It’s weird how some people can make a compliment sound like a threat or an insult.

“Refills?” I ask.

The other guy actually leans to the side and eyes my ass. “American girls like to party.”

Keeping my cool, I ask again, “Refills?”

“Yes, bring more,” the stocky one laughs.

I head back to the bar, and while I get clean glasses and fill them, the two guys laugh loudly.

As I set their beers on a tray, I glance at my watch and let out a sigh of relief when I see my shift will be over in sixteen minutes.