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“So, it’s settled then. Tell Bianca I’ll help out. I’ll start at ten and stay until they need me.”
Conor frowns as he considers my request.
“All hell will break loose down there if people can’t get their beer,” Shane says. “I’ll take care of her.”
“Fine,” Conor grunts as he calls the manager of our nightclub back.
“Thank you,” I whisper to Shane who winks at me.
I’m actually looking forward to a night behind the bar. I always loved working in them when I was younger. I love drunk people. I love the club. I love Christmas. What could possibly go wrong?
* * *
Closing the cash register,I turn back to the sea of faces waiting to be served at the bar. I’ve been down here for three hours now and the club just keeps getting busier and busier. I, along with the other bar staff, have been working flat out to keep up with the rush.
I love it though. The music. The buzz of it all.
“Jessie? Jessie Heaton is that you?” A voice that sounds vaguely familiar shouts loudly. Turning to face the direction of the noise, I see a guy with a dark goatee wearing a Santa hat.
“It’s me, Jason,” he says with a big grin, launching himself across the bar with his arms wide open as though he’s about to drag me in for a hug.
He is stopped by a large hand grabbing the scruff of his neck, pulling him sharply backward and making him yelp in surprise. That’s when I realize who I’m looking at. Jason Donegan. I haven’t seen him in ten years. A ghost of Christmas past if ever there was one.
“What the hell, man?” he snaps at Shane who glares at him, practically foaming at the mouth.
“You do not fucking touch her,” he snarls. “Never fucking touch her.”
Jason shrugs himself free from Shane’s grip. “Who are you? Her bodyguard?”
Oh, crap!
Shane’s jaw is clenched tightly shut and I see the telltale drawing back of his shoulders. Jason is about to get a punch in the mouth — or much worse. But the club is packed. It’s almost Christmas. Everyone is drunk and happy — the last thing we need is my possessive husband tearing off someone’s head at the bar.
“Jason, this is my husband, Shane,” I shout, wishing I could get out there and stand between the two of them and diffuse some of the anger that is radiating from Shane in waves. But two feet of mahogany and ebony is in my way. I reach out instead, placing my hand on Shane’s arm.
Jason holds his hands up in surrender. “I just wanted to say hello. I knew Jessie way back, is all,” he says.
“I don’t give a fuck when you knew her, or how, you do not touch what belongs to me,” Shane snarls. “Touch her and I will break your hand. Do you fucking understand me?”
“She’s not your property, man,” Jason scowls at him.
“Shane?” I plead. “He’s just an old…” I stumble over the word. Fuck, what is he? “Friend,” I finally say. Deciding that is the best description I can offer right now.
Shane grabs him by his collar. “Sheismy property, asshole. Every single inch of her. So stay the fuck away.” He pushes Jason backward and a few seconds later he’s swallowed by the huge crowd.
I roll my eyes, watching the Santa hat bobbing away through the throngs of people. When I look back at Shane, he is glaring at me, his eyes narrowed. “Who was that asshole?”
“Just some guy I knew a long time ago,” I say with a shrug before I look at the woman dressed as a sexy Mrs. Claus who has just sidled up next to up him, and is waiting to be served.
“Knew him how?” Shane asks, speaking loudly enough that I can hear him in the club, but somehow keeping that low, menacing tone that turns my insides to warm butter, and also lets me know that this conversation isn’t over.
I glance back at him, unable to stop my eyebrows from pulling my face into a frown even though I don’t want to start anything with him right now. But I don’t know what to say. I can’t lie to him, but if I tell him the truth he might just run after Jason, pull off his arms and beat him to death right on the middle of the dance floor.
I falter for way too long before I reply. “I stayed with him for a few weeks one Christmas, that’s all. There’s nothing else to know.”
Then I turn back to sexy Mrs. Claus. “What can I get you?”
Clearly that is not an acceptable answer to my husband’s question and the next thing I know, he is vaulting the bar like a goddamn Olympic gymnast. Mrs. Claus stares at him open mouthed — a mixture of surprise, awe and desire on her face. I mean he is a pretty fine ass man and he just cleared a bar in one jump to get to me.
