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Supplying them with beer and charming them. Keeping them happy as can be.
She winks as one tips her a twenty and then moves on to a guy who catches her attention to tell an unfunny joke. She laughs anyway.
I grit my teeth, a flame of irritation torching me.
If this bitch isn’t up to no good, then I’m no Steel King. I’m the fucking King of England.
“Mace? What’s that look for? Mace?!”
Mick calls after me, but I can’t hear him. I’ve set my targets on Sydney, and I’ve decided enough’s enough. This shit ends right now.
I head straight for her. Some of the guys notice before she does. She’s too busy giggling at some dumb shit Ozzie’s said (I’ll scold him later for entertaining her). I’m footsteps away when she finally looks over and spots me.
Surprise flickers in her brown eyes for a split second before she remembers she’s not supposed to let me shake her.
“Mace,” she says in a cool tone. “Want to join us? We were thinking about playing a game of pool—”
“First off, let’s get one thing straight. Kings call me Mace. Outsiders don’t get that privilege. Do it again and you won’t like what happens,” I snap, grabbing her by the elbow and wrenching her away from the group by force. “You’re coming with me. Time to put you to real work.”
“Aw, c’mon, Mace! Don’t be like that. The girl’s just hanging out—”
“She was serving our beers—”
“We called her over. She didn’t do nothing—”
I ignore them all. My hand clenches tighter around Sydney’s arm and I drag her along with me across the bar. She doesn’t fight me on it, though I can sense her uncertainty. Even if she acts like she’s tough shit, she’s not that good of an actress; she’s yet to figure out how to take me. How to read my actions.
Good.
The bitch can’t be trusted, and I don’t want her to be able to manipulate me the way she has the others. I want to keep her guessing. Keep her worried.
Afraid.
“Where are you taking me?” she finally asks as I pull her toward the backroom. “I have several tables. Mick doesn’t have anyone to cover—”
“He’ll get somebody. I’m putting you to work. Real work. No more flirting. This bar isn’t social hour. It’s the clubhouse for the fucking Steel Kings. That seems lost on you.”
“You’re hurting my arm!”
I squeeze tighter and pull her so hard she stumbles. “I don’t give a shit.”
Once we’re inside the back room, I slam shut the door. She jumps and then pins me with a narrow-eyed glare.
“Great. So not only are you an asshole, you hurt women.”
“I’ve never laid a finger on one in my life.”
The sound she makes is of disbelief. Skepticism. She turns away from me like she can’t stand the sight of me.
Something about that—and the skeptical sound she made—bothersme.
It makes me angrier. More agitated.
I pace the cramped space of the backroom that’s filled up with stacks of beer cases and other alcohol.
“Your husband put his hands on you?” I ask.
That earns a look. Her head snaps in my direction for a scalding glance. “Why do you ask?”
