Pistol

Chapter Sixteen

Pete led the way back through the bar, his fingers wound in Steph's as she trailed behind him. Twisted Princess. Jesus, the woman had spoken to a part of him he thought would never see the light of day again. It had been years since he'd been dominant over a sexual partner like that. And fuck, last time ended in tears for the poor girl he had taken home; not fully aware of what she had been in for.

But Steph. He sighed. Steph had taken the initiative. He didn't have to lead her there, she just ... went. If his princess wanted to keep that up, things could get very interesting. Very.

Pete gave her hand a squeeze before he let go to return to the server's side of the bar. She watched him as he walked through the divider, and gave him another smile which didn't quite reach her eyes. Something was wrong, and he hoped like hell it wasn't that she regretted what they'd done.

Because if he had a heart, that kind of rejection would crush it.

He snatched up two empty spirit bottles, and binned them on his way to the far end where Janie struggled with a large order. "Need a hand?"

She gave a glare that could strip paint, and looked back to the glasses lined up before her. "Sure. If you feel like pretending you actually work here."

Normally such a rude remark would have him lay down the law with her; remind her of her position in the pecking order. But shit, he'd had Steph, and his balls still hummed with the left-overs of a mind-shattering climax. How could he be angry under those circumstances?

Pete picked up the two empty beer glasses, and waggled them under Janie's nose.

"Red," she snapped.

He filled the vessels from the row of taps, and slid them onto the bar-top. His fingers jabbed merrily at the register as he tallied the total while Janie finished. His head lay in such a fluffy cloud that he seriously would have continued to smile had a team of terrorists torn through the place. That woman has yer nuts in her handbag already.

Fuck it. So what if she did? He was deliriously happy, and he needed the pretence of a magical life hereafter to block out the imminent shit-storm that would begin after his mother arrived. If that's what it takes to keep ya happy, then ya better plan on havin' Steph collared in yer house permanently. Was that what he actually did? Used Steph for a temporary bliss? He hoped not, but a part of him feared there was truth in his thought.

Because ya destroy. That's what ya do, that's what ya are, and you'll never change.

Ever.

In the blink of an eye his uncharacteristic happiness faded into the darkness of a storm. Trust his inner monologue to get the better of him—the little shit in there needed to learn when to shut up. He closed the register, and surveyed the bar. Drunken women wobbled across the illuminated dance floor, and over-confident men stood in packs; each eyed their next target. His gut soured at the knowledge Steph was out there, amongst those low-lives. He should be next to her. He should protect her from the creeps.

Pete laughed.

Why on earth had he thought that? The only person she was in danger from was him. Jesus, the woman had shown her self-preservation skills the night she was removed from the premises. He shook his head, and turned to the next patron.

"What ya after?" he called over the music.

A tall brunette eyed him blatantly from head to toe. Shivers jittered down his spine.

"Sex on the beach," she purred.

He snatched up a cocktail glass, and turned to grab the ingredients when her hesitant response caught his attention.