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“Maybe you should read the employee handbook again, wench.” There he is, even if his tone still feels squishier than normal.
“Is this the Micah Rules Roar handbook? Because Ani never gave me a manual to do my job. She knows me better than that.”
The few women left at the bar side-eye each other and throw smirks at our back-and-forth. That will be ten dollars for your evening entertainment, ladies.
If steam could waft from his scalp, it would be now.
“What is your problem?” he blurts out. He throws a cleaning towel in the sink and steps closer. So close his breath tickles my cheek. The sensation triggers a tingle at the base of my spine. “Why is it your mission to piss me off?” His hissed words only loud enough for me to hear.
Beside us, the women at the bar ooh and ahh. But I don’t focus on them. I can’t. Not with Micah close enough to press his lips to my skin. To my lips or my neck.
A light sheen of sweat slicks my skin. I resist the urge to step back. To let him win. I got this. Micah Reed doesn’t hold power over me. Not anymore.
“I love how easy it is,” I tell him. “And because I need to.”
He cocks a brow at this. “You need to?”
Too close. He is still way too close. I need to step back. Need clean, cool air. Need to see something other than his supple round lips and beard stubble. Stubble that probably feels so good between—
Shut. Up. Peyton. Do not go there. Do not think of Micah Reed and sex simultaneously. Just. No.
“Someone needs to put you in your place,” I croak out. Great. Nothing like sounding less confident when I need to come across bolder.
“And where exactly is my place, Peyton?”
He called me Peyton. Not bar wench or wench. Peyton. That doesn’t happen often. It never happens when we stand this close to each other. Hell, we never stand this close. Ever.
“You don’t know?” I tease.
His head shakes subtly. “Enlighten me.”
The angry part of me wants to yell, “In the pits of hell.” But I don’t need to scare off the small number of people that visit on Wednesday nights.
I don’t want to lie to him, but throwing down my whole hand makes me vulnerable. Micah Reed doesn’t own those rights. He doesn’t get to choose when I open myself up. Only I get to decide. Me.
So, I take the easy way out. Toss out a statement that still applies, but doesn’t reach the heart of the matter. That he hurt me. He may not remember, but one day he will. And he needs to feel what I felt when it all hits him.
“With all the other assholes and manwhores.” I step back and smirk. “No doubt there’s a special place in hell for all of you. Don’t you think?” I take another step back and twirl the length of my hair.
He winces. I expect him to lash out. To step back into my space and give as good as I deliver. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he takes a step back. Then another. And without another word, he retreats and heads for the office.
The women at the bar watch his retreat, then snicker among themselves. I cash them out and they leave me a heftier than normal tip. Does bickering with Micah in front of customers equal better tips? If so, I need to turn that shit all the way up.
Once all the customers leave, I start my nightly cleaning routine. Micah has yet to return from wherever he went. He may not help clean up, but he needs to run sales numbers and take the tills to the office. Which means avoiding me until we leave is impossible.
The tables have been cleared of glasses and wiped down. The condiment boxes refilled and stowed in the fridge. Glasses cleaned and napkins restocked. When I start cleaning the floor, Micah reappears.
Not irritated. Not angry. But maybe a little defeated.
Did I cross the line? Was I too harsh? Banter and frustration are nothing new with Micah. But tonight feels different. Micah seems different. And I have no idea why.
Do I cave and apologize? No. Nope. Not happening. If I apologize, he wins. Not that the constant tension and barking at each other is a game. For me, it is all too real.
I have been on the receiving end of his shit and the people he associates—associated—with. I know what it is like to go home and cry until I pass out. Know what it is like to just want friends, not even a boyfriend, and have that squashed like a bug.
Micah Reed may not be the sole reason for my pain, but he holds a significant piece of the pie.
“Why?” I startle at his voice. His proximity. When did he step so close?
I swallow down the sudden lump in my throat. “Why what?” I choke out.
“Why do you hate me so much? Give me a real answer. Not some bullshit reason.”
He wants the truth? How convenient. How fortunate.
Well guess what, Micah Reed? You need to work for the truth.
I face him head-on and shake my head. My gaze locks with his and all the words on my tongue swirl like alphabet soup.
Have I seen his eyes this close before? Seen how they shimmer under the brighter light. Earlier, I thought his eyes were lapis blue; a rich, dark blue. Now, with his proximity, I really see the resemblance. And the hints of gold. Like stars in the night sky.
