Beneath His Touch

Chapter Seventeen

JAVAN

"Here's something special for you," Evans says, pouring the rich amber liquid into my glass, the swirl of it almost hypnotic under the dim lights. I watch it spin but shove it down my throat without a second thought. The burn is sharp, but it does little to quiet the noise in my head. The phone vibrates on the counter—Lidya's name flashes on the screen. I let it ring, my focus shifting to the music playing overhead—Taboo by Phy. The slow rhythm hums in the background, but I barely register it, lost in my own spiral of restless thoughts.

I don't know how long I've been swirling the glass, staring at the liquid, lost in the way it sloshes with every subtle movement. My mind's locked in an endless loop of frustration, half of me wishing Nick had let me have it—let my fist crash into his smug face—but the other half relieved that he didn't.

"The third sigh in a row, kid," Evans mutters, breaking the silence as he crushes ice behind the counter. I look up, meeting his gaze. His expression is calm, like he's been through enough to know exactly what's eating at me. "What's going on up there?"

I smirk half-heartedly, lifting my glass to my lips. "Same old. Dad issues."

He nods, as if he's heard it a thousand times, and drops two pieces of ice into my glass with a practiced flick of his wrist. The cold clinks against the glass, the sound oddly grounding in the haze of my thoughts. "It's been two years since you guys opened this place," he says thoughtfully, watching the ice settle. "I've been meaning to ask... did you have me pretend to be the owner because of your father?"

The question lingers between us, heavier than the drink in my hand. I stare into the glass, my breath escaping in a slow exhale. The alcohol barely burns now, just a smooth heat as I down the rest.

Evans doesn't relent, filling the silence as he tops up my drink. "Is it because you don't want the governor finding out? Is that what this is all about?"

Before I can answer, a familiar voice cuts through the tension. "You shouldn't be asking that."

I glance up just as Adam strides in, his presence commanding the room like always. He's dressed to the nines—black tux, red tie, every detail in place like he stepped straight out of a high-stakes poker game. His eyes meet mine with a flicker of amusement, and I can't help but let a smile tug at my lips, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all.

"Don't," Adam mutters, sliding into the seat beside me as Evans pours him a drink.

I glance over at his attire and raise an eyebrow. "What's with the suit?"

"Blind date," he sighs heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. "What else could it be?"

"That's your fourth one this week, right?" Evans chuckles from behind the bar, wiping down glasses.

"More like the sixth," I scoff, downing my glass in one go, letting the burn settle in my chest.

Adam loosens his tie, unbuttoning the top of his shirt as Evans steps away to tend to a trio of VIP clients. My gaze drifts to them—two mismatched figures. The girl stands out first, short but curvy, with a figure-hugging pair of ragged black jeans and a tight black crop top. Her eyes are sharp, wild, and we lock gazes for a brief moment before I shift mine. The older man beside her, clearly much too old to be anything but her father, is in a cheap, ill-fitted suit, looking out of place.

"Just stand up, head for the back, and she'll follow," Adam remarks casually, his voice low as he leans back in his seat. "You can tell she's got that hungry look, man. That ass is a work of art," he chuckles, spinning his drink lazily in his hand.

I can't help but laugh, but I shake my head and turn back to my empty glass.

"Not tonight, man. I'm not in the mood for any of that."