The Hunted (3 page)

S
ticky is the new glam
. It’s the motto I repeat over and over in my mind as I toss out drinks and try my best to make friendly with the customers in hopes of a larger tip. I still suck at the gig but have promised myself to fake it until I make it. My stash of greens is growing larger, so something is going in my favor.

This job is boring, predictable, and routine, which is everything I’ve always despised. To me, it’s all ironic since my mom gave me free rein to do as I please my entire life and to discover my own path. Now I’m stuck here slinging drinks and watching strippers when it’s slow. The constant tacky feeling on the sole of my boots is about the only thing I find comforting about this place and only because it’s a constant. I’ll never begin to understand the way my mom chose to raise me, nor the hippy lifestyle she lives on a daily basis. But there’s something inside me that wants to paint a wild piece of art before me as I trail through life, leaving behind a vivid scene.

“Damn, it’s slow as hell tonight.” Stew slings down his damp rag in my direction. I look over the tables and only spot two paying customers but the stripper on the stage is shaking her booty like there ain’t no tomorrow.

I’d ask to go home and I’m sure any college age student would, but I’ve realized in my few short weeks here that Stew is a veteran and missing a leg. The back of his bar is his comfort zone and home away from home. I’d never be so selfish as to drag him from it.

“Why do you think it’s so slow?” I ask.

“I know.” I look over to Van, who’s perched upon his barstool with his typically pissed off scowl covering his face. When most men wear their pissed off scowl, it makes them intimidating and scary as hell, but with Van, it makes him sexy as fuck.

“Argo,” Van roars out in one long syllable.

I almost have to lean in closer to understand the word or whatever in the hell he just spoke.

“No,” Stew mumbles as he slings clean beer glasses from one hand to the other.

“Word on the street.”

I’m hypnotized by Van as he speaks, and I study each of his movements.

“How do you know about word on the streets?” Stew raises an eyebrow.

“How in the fuck do you think?”

I’m distracted this time mentally fondling Van, as one of the strippers who was previously dancing is now practically dry humping his back.

“Give me fifteen.” He turns his head just enough to look her in the eye.

I want to punch her in the throat and then stab her eyeball for interrupting my view of Van. He’s the dirty devil on my left shoulder. I know I should stay away, but it’s the moth to the flame effect, and it seems I can’t get enough. Since first meeting him, Van’s been here every night and after closing while I’m wiping down the tables, Stew counts a load of money to him, and then he waits for me.

He follows me silently in the dark to my place. I hate it and look forward to it all at the same time. I know I’m safe with him based on what Stew has told me. Which is very little. Van is a misfit, toughest man he knows, and also the most stubborn.

“Van, I need to go now.” The blonde whines louder. “I don’t want to be the next body in the alley.”

He does a very good job of ignoring her. Van swivels back around to face Stew.

“Argo is looking for me and anyone associated to me. He’s ready to take us all down. Hell, we know what he did to me last time.”

“Jesus.” I watch as Stew ruffles his thick gray locks. “How in the hell do you know this?”

“I’ve been running–”

“Wait, I don’t want to know.” Stew finally throws his hands up in the air. “ You work here as a bouncer on the night shift and part of your pay is the apartment. That’s all I need to know.”

“I’m going to kill him.” Each one of Van’s words comes out as a threat mixed with his growling voice. Chills race up my spine. I don’t even know who in the fuck Van is, but I do know for damn sure that Van means what he says. My eyes focus in on the long scrape that runs from his wrist to his elbow. Speckles of scabs trail along the wound, and it’s a deep one that’s going to leave a scar.

The deep baritone edge of his voice rips me from my staring. “I fucking said it would be a bit.”

I peer up to see the commotion as the blonde stomps off with both of her ass cheeks hanging out of her barely there skirt. With each stomp, I can practically feel her anger radiating from her hooker heels.

“Fucking whore,” Van mutters.

I giggle out loud, thinking the exact same thing. Night after night, I’ve seen women throw, jump, and leap their ways into Van’s lap. I mean I get the attraction thing, but clearly he must have a reputation on the streets for being wickedly delicious in the sheets.

“What’s funny, rookie?”

Peeking up through my lashes, he’s staring right at me, and I want to die. I’ve never held more than a five-word conversation with the man, let alone him directing a question at me. My shoulders automatically fly up into a shrug, and I tuck my head back down.

“Answer me.” There’s something laced in his voice that screams don’t fuck with me.

I peer back up at him, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Oh.” He grumbles and then turns back to Stew. “But no shit, Argo is already on the hunt for me.”

“Be nice to Bay. She’s a good girl and you don’t need to be a dick to everyone. Try talking nicely to some people. Remember, boy, I knew you before your shit storm.”

I decide to walk away, considering the conversation immediately turned to awkward right in front of me. My hand finds an old metal chair, and I drag it from its spot and plop right down onto it and focus on the dancer on the stage.

I know Ivy or any other person with her mindset would be disgusted with the brunette on the stage who’s starting her routine. However, to my eyes, it’s always been an art from the music right down to the instrument of their body and the way they use it to convey the story. I’ll be the first to admit that I could do without the nipples and vajayjay, but I only focus on the bigger picture.

What kind of balls would it take to get up there and expose your bare soul to a club of men
? I’m thinking gigantic brass balls. It’s courage that I’ll never have and that fact scares me. I want it all–from the free spirit, to courage and ambition. It’s what I see as the perfect future.

The time slips by easily as I study the dancer on the stage, randomly check in on customers and then take up residence at the same table. Stew’s face has morphed into deep red with veins popping from his temples, so I’d guess the conversation has only become more heated.

Watching the dancer on stage nearly makes me feel like a teenage boy who snuck into his father’s porn stash and was busted. It’s the curiosity that killed the cat. I’m not proud to admit it but sitting here and analyzing a stripper, I feel the tiniest bit of tingle moving through my body, but it’s natural. A booming voice interrupts my disturbing thought process.

“You bastard.” I recognize Van’s voice, hollering from his perch.

I turn to see a mirror image of Van walk through the front doors, but this one is wearing a shiny gold star on his chest. Stew is out from behind the bar and making his way to the look alike.

“What business do you have here?” Stew asks.

With quick steps, I walk up to the bar, knowing the safest place is near Van and Stew.

“Just checking up on licenses.” The man smiles.

The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I hear Van’s voice come from another body and if my eyes were shut, I’d never know it was not him. Also, his skin is clean of tattoos and scars.

“You know damn well that I run a clean operation,” Stew fires back.

By the look on his pained face, I can tell there are other keywords he’d like to let fly from his mouth, but instead he restrains himself and retreats to the back of the bar. I wonder if he’s going to where his shotgun is located under the bar. He showed me where it was and even made sure I knew how to use it in case of an emergency. But Stew can’t shoot at a cop.

“I’ll just be a few minutes.” The cop begins sauntering around the bar and then makes his way out onto the floor of the club.

The whole time my view is glued to Stew, who is trying to keep a very pissed off Van calmed down. A couple of times the veins in Van’s arms nearly explode as he pounds the bar, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the words spewing from his mouth.

“Miss.”

I look up at a cleaner and more proper version of Van.

“Yes.” I stumble to my feet, letting my nerves get the best of me. My fingers begin to tremble as my knees knock. My mother was never against the cops, but she was also never their biggest fan.

“I need to see proof of ID.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

Instantly I want to kick myself for how pathetic and spooked my voice comes out.

“No,” I feel arms grip onto my hips, “you didn’t.”

My back collides into a hard chest, and I smell the scent of fresh soap. Hands dig further into my hips causing a biting pain, but I can’t stop my body from melting into his. I know Van has hold of me and is trying to protect me.

“Van.”

“Argo.”

The most awkward of nods are exchanged between the two men who look like near mirror images of each other and in this moment, I catch the last name on his badge. Hollis.

“ID, ma’am. If you can’t provide one you’ll need to come down to the station with me.

“She has one. Back off,” Van barks, causing my flesh to perk up in goose bumps.

The anger radiating between the two men creates an eerie vibe that bounces between them.

Once again the deep and overbearing voice of Van sends chills down my spine.

“Go get it,” he whispers into my ear but pauses a bit to let his lips brush against my lobe. It may be the closest thing to a real kiss for me. His hands dig even deeper into my hips. In those few moments, he’s said more without words than he has the whole time I’ve known him.

And as soon as I leave his clutches, I feel cold and scared. I fumble around in my purse for forever before finding my driver’s license. With shaky fingers and unsure steps, I head back to the floor where the police officer and Van are still standing nose-to-nose looking ready to brawl.

The mood is intense and holds every single person in the club captive. I haven’t been around much in my lifetime, but I do know all it would take is one wrong word or shove to get those two brawling.

“Here.” I hold up my license to the officer, but he’s too deep in conversation with Van even to acknowledge me.

“Where did you get that scratch?” The officer points to a different one on his neck.

I try to wedge in a bit closer to gain the attention of the officer.

“From fucking your cute little wife the other night.” An evil grin spreads across Van’s face.

“I’m watching you and just waiting for the moment to put you back behind bars, little brother.”

“My license.”

Both men finally look down at me, and I find myself wrapped back up in Van’s arms. The officer snags it and holds a small flashlight to it, then studies my face and then goes back to the picture.

“What brings you to the city, little missy?”

“Don’t answer him,” Van hisses in my ear. I wait for his lips to make contact but nothing happens this time.

“You look like a really nice girl. I’d stay away from this criminal here.” The officer holds up his finger, pointing to Van and then pounds his finger into Van’s chest. I feel him still behind me as every single one of his muscles tense up.

The cop is an asshole and clearly taunting Van into something. He’s using his power to prod him. It’s the cruelest thing I’ve ever witnessed. I whirl around in Van’s arms, placing both of my hands on his cheeks and wait for him to focus back on me. I really have no clue what I’m doing, but I don’t want to see this man tormented any longer.

“Let it go. Let him go.” I stand up on my tiptoes, placing a gentle kiss on his chin. His body relaxes a bit although his grip on my hips still remains intense. Moments fly by between us, both of us staring at each other before he talks.

His arms wrap up higher on my back and he pulls me in close to his chest before he speaks, “Thanks for saving the day, Captain Dickhead can leave now.”

The officer isn’t shy about encroaching on Van’s personal space. “Watch it, boy, I’m salivating to throw your ass back in.”

And with that, he leaves as quickly as he had entered. I want to ask questions and try to understand exactly what is going on or what in the hell just happened, but I don’t as I’m dragged by the elbow into the storage room.

“Get your shit. I’m walking you home.”

My stare must ask every single question that I want to.

“Just get your shit. We need to get out of here.”

“Why?”

“Because I have skulls to go bust now, but I want to make sure you get home safe.”

I move and follow each of his instructions. His hands are on my lower waist as he ushers me out the back door.

“But my tables.”

“Stew understands.” He freezes after he speaks, and before I know what’s happening, he has me spun around in his arms with our chests pressed together.

I feel him pull my hair free, sending my thick and wild curls everywhere and then his hands grip my hair tight. I’m drunk on his smell and touch.

“I’m going to kiss you, rookie.”

His lips are on mine before I have the chance to refuse. When our lips touch, uncontrollable sparks explode within me. His expert tongue dives into my mouth. Van groans lightly into my mouth before pulling away. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first day I met you.”

“The day you called me dumb?” I ask, touching my fingers to my swollen lips.

He actually smiles and nods his head while pressing a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. I squeeze my legs together, relishing the feel. Everything about this man screams sex and danger.

“God, your fucking hair is sexy as hell,” he mumbles with the lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

And as if on cue, I stare down at my toes and fumble with my fingers. I feel his fingers tilt my chin up to look at him.