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“You still here?” Marco groans, moving through to finish his own closing up.
We always come in and go out through the main entrance of the bar. Something else I never told Dillon, but he seems less interested in this place by the minute.
“I’m waiting to take Becky home,” Dillon growls, standing up and moving towards Marco.
“Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on big guy,” he says jovially, holding both his palms up flat in mock surrender.
It’s late. Or early really, around five a.m. and it’s not the time for anyone to be testing anyone else about anything.
At least that’s how I see it.
“Anything for me?” I ask Marco, who produces a paper sack from behind his back making me feel a little better.
“What’s in the bag?” Dillon asks, but the grease stains and smell of ten-hour old food reach his nostrils making him frown.
I take the bag and Marco sees us both out, heaving the heavy bar and bolt across the steel door once we’re outside.
Dillon snatches the paper sack from my hands, and opening it he stuffs his nose in for a split second before tossing it into the first trash can he sees.
“Hey!” I call him out, really annoyed. “That was my—”
But I can’t say it.
Even though he can probably guess it’s the only food I could’ve had all day, I can’t bring myself to admit it, not even to myself.
“And how fucking long has that been going on?” he asks, looking madder than I’ve ever seen him so far.
I feel my lower lip tremble, and even though I’m just tired and hungry, it hurts more knowing he’s found out more about me and my crappy life.
I can’t even afford to eat let alone pay my rent on time.
“How long?” he demands again, stopping me mid-step and taking me gently by the shoulders, lifting my chin so I’m looking up at him.
“Since I started here… about three months,” I start to blub. The tears come but Dillon ignores them. He’s disappointed and not with me.
“I should’ve known…” he growls to himself, only taking a few steps away from me so he can kick at the ground and swing a fist into the empty air.
“Dillon, you’re scaring me,” I tell him, really crying now.
He grabs hold of me, pulling me so tight against him I feel my chest crushing into his ripped, hard body.
“I’m never ever gonna see you go hungry or worry about anything ever again. You hear me?” he growls, but even his voice cracks slightly.
The most emotion apart from lust and rage he’s shown since I met him.
“Do you hear me?” he repeats again, waiting until I look him in eye and agree.
“That’s better. Now stop crying. No woman of mine cries over something like this. We’ll go get something to eat and then I’m taking you home,” he informs me.
“To… to my place?” I ask, worried all over again, but he shakes his head impatiently.
“No not to your place. You’re finished there. You’re mine now, Becky. How many ways do I have to say it?”
“Mine,” he growls again, looking into my eyes with such intensity I feel every tear and fearful emotion evaporate.
Dillon isn’t just my rock, he’s a freakin’ mountain, and right now I want him more than anything.
“Now, what else was there?” he asks briskly, casually taking me by the elbow and pointing me in the direction we need to go. “My truck’s parked down here,” he says.
“What else?” I ask, sounding stupid instead of just naive and innocent.
He tsks to himself, sounding short of patience.
“The other thing you had to tell me?” he almost barks. “The reason you wouldn’t let me eat your sweet cunt, my cunt, in the bathroom back there?” he says sounding like it’s happened just now instead of eight hours ago.
Oh. That.
I go quiet, but he doesn’t press it any further.
His huge hand travels from my elbow to softly grip my hand in his.
Dillon’s only other real tender display of affection so far, but enough for me to know he’s not really angry with me. Just impatient.
Just a man who knows what he wants and is tired of waiting so long to get it.
“Is that your truck?” I ask, not meaning to change the topic but noting his grunt as I do.
He shoots me a look as he lifts me up like I weigh nothing. Settling me in the passenger side on the huge bench seat.
Big man, bigger truck. That’s how it works, I guess.
It’s big and black with tinted windows and huge wheels.
There’s a gold logo on the side, making it look a little like a police truck, but it’s something else.
“...security,” I read before I’m whooshed into my seat.
He shuts the door in silence, and letting himself in his side I ask him what the logo is.
He puffs some air out of his cheeks, taking the time to gather his thoughts. Both of us so wound up for each other but also feeling the draining effect of a ten-hour shift.
