The pervert stumbles back, hands lifted in weak surrender, but Carter doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Come on, man,” the guy slurs desperately, “I just wanna feel her tight cu?—”
He doesn’t even get the words out. Carter grabs him by the collar and yanks him off the barstool like he weighs nothing. The sound of fabric tearing fills the bar as Carter slams him against the nearest wall. The guy’s boots scramble uselessly for traction against the floor.
The creep wails, the sound sharp and pathetic against the stunned silence that has fallen over the room.
“God! Somebody help me please!”
Carter leans in closer, his voice a low, vicious growl. “There is no God when I’m around, you son of a bitch,” he snarls, “you don’t fucking touch her.”
The entire bar goes dead silent.
The thumping bass dims to a low hum, like the whole damn building knows better than to interrupt this moment.
The man tries to stammer some excuse, but Carterdoesn’t give him the chance. Carter grips the man’s shirt and shoves him to the ground, sending him stumbling backward, as he crashes into a stool hard enough to nearly topple it.
“Get the hell out of here,” Carter barks, “before I fucking make you.”
The bastard doesn’t argue; he practically trips over his own feet trying to scramble for the door, disappearing into the night without a backward glance.
For a long moment, no one moves.
Then, like flipping a switch, life floods back in. The music picks up, conversations resume, and the clink of glasses and low laughter fill the space as if nothing had ever happened.
Just another night at Boots & Bourbon.
I’m still standing there, shocked and confused. I rub at my wrist absently, the phantom feel of the creep’s grip still burning into my skin.
Carter turns toward me, his chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. The hard set of his jaw remains, the furrow carved deep into his brow, but his eyes—God, his eyes.
They’re raw. Wild. Haunted. Looking at me like he’s fighting something he doesn’t know how to control.
A faint, angry red paints his cheeks and throat, the aftermath of the adrenaline still rushing through his veins.
He doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.
I should be furious. I should snap at him, accuse him of stepping in like I’m helpless, like I can’t fight my own battles.
But I don’t.
Because underneath the anger, underneath the pride clawing at my ribs, something else stirs, something dangerous.
The last ofthe stragglers have stumbled out, the jukebox has gone silent, and the neon lights flicker softly against the dark wooden walls.
Moving through the space, I gather empty glasses and wipe down the tables, the sounds of my movements echoing in the empty room.
Reed trusted me to close the bar on my own on my first shift, muttered something like, “Well Carter’s here, he can help, I’m fucking exhausted.”
Whatever.
My feet ache, my arms are sore, and I probably smell like cheap liquor, cigarettes, and stale bar air.
I’m ansy, and it has everything to do with the man sitting in the corner, watching me like a damn predator.
Carter still hasn’t left.
He’s still there, legs sprawled out under the table, his fingers tap aimlessly on the wooden table. His eyes tracking my every movement.
