Bad Boy Hero - Tanglewood Academy
But there’s a little part of me that can’t help noting: I’ll be just as bored in an engineering job as I am right now in this math class. Doesn’t that count for anything?
No, I remind myself, scooping the group of rowdy businessmen’s empty glasses off of the counter and setting about pouring them fresh pints of beer. Not unless you want to spend the rest of your life working in places like this.
I need to get my head in the game. Be smart about this opportunity. If I want to make the most of my life, both during and post-college, than I need to pick a practical major. Something that will help my family and me out from here on.
“Missy.” Henry’s voice breaks through my reverie. I startle and realize that one of the pints I’m pouring has overflowed.
“Crap. I’m so sorry,” I call over my shoulder to the customer, one of the more red-faced of the business group.
“That’s all right.” He eyes me from the head all the way down to my toes and back—although he lingers for a longer time than is comfortable on my chest. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart.” He actually winks, then, and I cringe internally.
Much as I enjoy tending bar for the nicer customers, I can’t deny that we see a lot of men like that in this line of work, too. I turn my back to finish pouring his pint, and I don’t bother to wipe all the excess foam off his glass before I pass it back to him with a tight smile.
He makes sure to touch my hand while he takes the glass from me, and I smile through gritted teeth, fighting an urge to roll my eyes. Or to toss the beer in his face, when he drops his gaze to my chest again, his upper lip curling in a leer.
“Dear God,” a voice cuts in, from the other side of the bar. “I knew this place was known for has-been clichés, but I didn’t realize they’d all be quite this obvious.”
“’Scuse me?” The drunken business creep spins around, sloshing half the beer I just refilled all over his shoes as he does.
“My apologies, did I use too many big words for you?” The guy who spoke is a lot younger—around my age, I would guess—but he also stands a head taller than the creep. He’s thin, but not in a scrawny way. Just long, lean muscles. And the kind of glare that looks like it could kill a man at ten paces. “Leave the lady alone.”
The creep glances from the guy to me and back again, sputtering. “I didn’t even say anything—”
“And yet, we could all tell exactly what you were thinking. This poor girl most of all, bless her.” The guy shoulders past the drunk, which leads to more beer sloshing. But he doesn’t even seem to notice. He turns his back with the casual ease of someone who’s used to getting into fights. Or used to ending them, anyway. He doesn’t even view the older man as a threat, clearly.
Something about that move clues the older man in, too. I expect him to keep arguing—I’ve seen enough borderline blackout drunks like him in my day to know that once the testosterone spikes, they are ready to throw down no matter what. But instead, he turns around and retreats back to his cluster of friends in the corner, cowed.
My eyebrows rise. “Wow. That was impressive.”
The guy snorts. “Please. That was nothing. You should see me in an actual negotiation.” He scans the shelf behind me. “What’s the least poisonous thing on the menu?” he asks.
But I don’t reply. Because suddenly, my voice has frozen in my throat, choking me.
I didn’t notice until he was leaning right up against the bar. But I see it now, clear as day, and I wonder how I’d missed it earlier. The guy is wearing a jacket with the Tanglewood University crest emblazoned on the pocket. I’ve seen coats like this—the upperclassmen all wear them. I’ve heard rumors about the crests each meaning something, different levels of academic success. This guy’s is embroidered in gold, which I’m pretty sure means top marks.
But that doesn’t matter, because the much bigger problem is he cannot know I work here.
“S-sorry,” I stammer, backing away from the counter. “I, um, I forgot something…” I’m about to flee toward the back and beg Henry to cover this half of the bar, when the guy peers at me more closely, his forehead bunched with concern.
“Are you all right?” he asks quietly. “That guy didn’t freak you out, did he? Because I know where he works; if he did anything to you, say the word and I’ll make sure he’s out on his ass by Monday.”
Who is this guy?