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“Isn’t it so, Senna baby?”
The man harassing me closes the space between us, rakes his fingers through my hair, and pulls me into him.
My fists meet his chest with force.
The blow takes him by surprise, making him lose his balance. He straightens his back and leans closer, trying to touch me again.
“Get your hands off me!” I snarl, dead fucking serious.
My voice rips into the air as my eyes cut through him.
His smile fades, and everybody freezes. The man sitting on the pavement rises to his feet.
It takes a few moments before the jerk in front of me steps back, and I almost hear a collective sigh of relief.
As odd as it seems, I saunter in, unfazed.
The place hasn’t changed much, but the crowd is somewhat different. A few new people work at the bar, along with my old buddy, Scottie.
He catches sight of me and greets me with a nod. I stop at the counter and give him a hug before he motions me to my favorite table.
Tucked-in, next to the window, the spot is perfect for surveilling the street while keeping an eye on the inside of the sports bar.
He sets my drink on the table and walks away. My gaze shifts to the people outside.
The crowd has thinned out substantially now that the show has come to an end. The rowdy men and working girls are nowhere in sight.
I crane my neck and scan the sidewalk looking for the mysterious man.
I don’t remember seeing him here before.
Hoping to glimpse him again, I swivel my head and search for him. My gaze sweeps the street up and down until my eyes find his broad shoulders.
He walked to the other side––it seems. Abandoning the corner, he moved closer to the entrance.
Feet away from me, he leans against the streetlight pole, and his face comes into focus.
He flexes his arms, the flame of a metallic lighter brushing the tip of a cigarette tucked between his lips. He narrows his eyes and takes a quick drag, glancing at the road just as a few cars pull in.
He briefly scans them as they roll into the parking lot. Men and women climb out and amble to the bar.
He gives them a quick last glance before shifting his focus away.
Another hour passes, and fewer cars pull in.
Sliding his hands into his low-slung jeans, he restlessly looks down the street, flicking his cigarette with the tip of his tongue.
He brings his long-fingered hand to his lips, tears the cigarette away, and blows the smoke out.
A silver ring glints on his right hand.
I take a good look at him as he keeps observing the cars and the patrons.
Tall, he has a chiseled face that’s hard to forget. Sculpted cheekbones, bedroom eyes, and a teasingly drawn mouth.
Strong, proportionate jaws and a straight nose.
He sports a gray T-shirt that hugs his chest tightly, destroyed jeans, a biker leather jacket, and scuffed black boots.
