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Then my gaze flies back up to Marcus’s face, my eyes widening. He’s watching me closely, having noticed my examination of his tattoos.
I swallow, a wave of emotions too powerful and unfamiliar to name rushing through me.
Holy fuck. I don’t even know what to do with this.
The markings on his fingers aren’t random symbols. They don’t spell out “love” and “hate” or some shit like that.
They’re numbers.
The month, day, and year of the night I was shot.
“Hey, Ayla!” Duke’s bark almost makes me jump out of my skin. “You mind givin’ me a hand over here? I’m sure your boyfriends can wait.”
A flush creeps up my cheeks as I turn toward the stout man, my hand pressed against my pounding heart. Fuck. I didn’t even notice the group of rowdy girls who are clustered around his end of the bar—probably a bachelorette party or something. Not even bothering to say anything to the three men sitting across from me, I turn and hurry down the length of the bar to join Duke, getting to work mixing Manhattans and wine spritzers.
Several of the girls gawk openly at my tattooed arm, leaning closer to peer at the stump. I hear a few whispering about it, but I hardly pay attention.
Because their gazes aren’t the ones I feel.
Only three sets of eyes burn my skin, and they belong to the three men still sitting at the other end of the bar.
Once the bachelorette party is taken care of, another wave of people comes in, and I lose myself in the rhythmic monotony of shaking, pouring, and rinsing glasses.
The prickling feeling on my skin gradually subsides, and a while later, I peek over at the three men through lowered lashes. They’re deep in conversation amongst themselves, talking easily the way old friends do.
They look different like this. Marcus’s face is more relaxed, and although Ryland’s features are still as hard as ever, there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes as he listens to something Theo says.
Something in my chest squeezes, and I look away hurriedly, focusing back on the drink I’m mixing. I’ve never had that—the thing I can see so clearly in these three men. Friendship. Family. I’ve never had people I trust with everything I am, people I would do anything for. Hell, I’ve never really had people I can sit down and have a fucking drink with.
I never really wanted that, I guess. Early life experiences taught me I was better off as an island, a self-contained continent in a vast sea of people.
It’s harder for people to hurt you when you don’t willingly hand over pieces of your heart.
Clearing my throat, I wrench my thoughts back to the present. I shoot a customer-service smile to the guy across from me and slide his drink across the bar. “Here you go.”
He lifts his chin in thanks, his gaze sliding down my arm to the exposed stump that sticks out from my sleeve of my form-fitting t-shirt. His eyebrows lift slightly, and just like the frat boys the other night, he opens his mouth like he’s about to ask me what happened. But I turn away before he can say anythi
ng.
That’s a question I never feel like answering, least of all tonight.
For the rest of the evening, I do everything I can to stay on this side of the bar, keeping as much distance as possible between me and three men who seem hell-bent on invading my life.
Duke definitely notices I’m acting weird, but thankfully, he doesn’t make a big deal of it.
I glance over one more time at around midnight when movement on that side of the room catches my eye. Marcus and his two shadows are finally leaving. Theo drains the last of his drink quickly as they all stand.
My gaze lingers for just a fraction of a second too long, and Marcus looks up, catching my eye. He cocks an eyebrow slightly, as if daring me once again to come over and speak to them. But I don’t fucking budge.
A small smile curves his lips, summoned by some internal thought. He grabs his wallet out of his back pocket and pulls a few bills out, dropping them on the table. Then he leans over the bar and grabs a pen from the stash we keep for people to sign credit cards with.
He scribbles something on a cocktail napkin, and then all three of them move toward the door and disappear through it.
It takes me ten minutes after they leave to finally make my way over to the spot they claimed at the bar—as if I’m afraid they’ve booby-trapped it with explosives or something.
But there’s no bomb waiting for me.
There are just two crisp hundred-dollar bills, and a note written on a napkin in slanted, confident handwriting.
