Rev looks past me to Chance. “Get her bar covered. She needs a minute.”
Chance doesn’t respond, just moves his huge bulk past me, one big hand resting briefly on my shoulder. “Got some big ol’ balls on ya, girl, I’ll give you that.” And then he’s gone.
Rev has my arms in his hands. “Breathe, Myka.”
I suck in a shaky breath, which I hadn’t realized I was holding. “I wasn’t thinking, Rev. She needed help, and I just—”
“It’s over.” He holds my arms, a space of about a foot between us. “Breathe. Gotta feel somethin’, feel it. Move on.”
I close my eyes and breathe. “I’m okay. I knew you were coming.”
“Nothin’ happens in this club I don’t see.” His voice is low, the fury gone out of it, now. “I was already on the way to handle it.”
“Okay. It won’t happen again, trust me.”
“Better fuckin’ not.” He growls a sigh, then looks at me. “You don’t have dreams of a music career, do you?”
I frown. “No, why?”
“Eddy Baron is a producer. Makin’ an enemy outta him woulda been the end of that dream.”
“Oh. Well, no. And if I had to go through someone like him to get there, I don’t think I would have made it, anyway.”
He stares down at me. “Not a big fan of that scene, Myka.”
“Which scene?”
He jerks his head toward the dance floor. “Seein’ him with his hands on you.” His brow furrows. “You not likin’ it.”
“Oh.” I swallow, considering the implications of this, especially the first part, which smacks of jealousy. “I wasn’t a real big fan of it either.”
A moment, then. His eyes on mine, mine on his, the foot between us slowly evaporating until I’m all but pressed up against him. His hands move from my shoulders to my hips, holding. Pulling me closer. His forehead touches mine, and I feel his breath on my lips.
“Myka, we’re shutting down—” Ingo’s voice, from the door. “Shit. Sorry.”
Rev is gone, vanished into the shadows of the corridor, leaving me off-balance, expecting—and wanting, if I’m honest—a kiss that never came.
“Sorry, Myka.” Ingo knocks on the side of the doorframe. “Just count your drawer, restock, and head out. It’s dying out.”
“Okay. Thanks, Ingo.”
He hesitates. “You good?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He grins at me. “You do the ass-kicking behind the bar. Let the bruisers do the ass-kicking on the other side. Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
* * *
I’m home—andnot without event. I noticed those same three young men haunting the parking lot across the street. Same place, on the curb, smoking a blunt together. Watching me. No bicycles, this time; a jalopy is parked on a slant beside them, rear axle dragging low, rap thudding low from the speakers through the open window.
Rev, it seems, is right.
This isn’t a safe place for me. I need a better apartment, in a safer area. Which means I need to save for a deposit. And probably, keeping all my cash in a shoe box in my room isn’t a great idea, either. If I’m staying here for any length of time, I need a decent place.
I lock and chain the door, but I’m jittery.
