Page 1 of Fated to Him

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DELILAH

He’s back.

The bikers in leather jackets with padded shoulders skirt around his table. College students who thought they were good with one more shot until they got to their feet weave and stumble as they take the long way to the exit.

He sits at a small, scarred wooden table in the Hellwood Brewery, a grimy bar in Ellis Wood, Ohio, and no one dares to go near him.

It’s the way he studies the world—and me—from the edge of the dance floor.

His eyes are beautiful, a gray-green mix I’ve never seen before. And his hair. Chin length, dark, and a little wild, just like his penetrating gaze.

For the three nights since I stepped off a bus in search of a job and heard the local drinking spot was hiring, he’s sat at one of my tables.

Watching me.

“You’re new,” says the guy I’m serving, distracting me from the man wearing dark gray flannel and denim. As I change my grip on my small black tray, my customer focuses on my name badge. “Della. I’m Jerry.”

It’s Delilah Stacey. I’ve been Della since I left home at sixteen, which was eight years ago. Now, only my bosses call me Delilah when I fill in the paperwork they need before I start my job.

Truth be told, I kind of miss being Delilah.

Or maybe it’s having a home and a place to belong that I miss the most.

“I’m new,” I echo, placing an ice-cold Bud in front of him. The table rocks because, apparently, that’s all it takes to make a table rock in the Hellwood Brewery. “Enjoy your night.”

But I’m distracted. I’m always distracted.

Because of him.

Malakhi Gabriel, according to the locals.

He lives on a big plot of land with about twenty others at the edge of town. No one is sure what he does there, just that he doesn’t need to work. Neither do all the people he lives with.

They keep to themselves, making the odd trip to town to pick up supplies. They must be doing okay for themselves, or at least Malakhi is. His jeans are clean, and his dark-gray shirt is still new-looking, not like something he’s had for a while and washed over and over.

Jerry’s eyes slide to my hair.

Most nights, I tie it back. I was running late tonight, so stuffing myself into a pair of skinny black jeans, a black t-shirt with the bar’s logo splashed on one boob, and combat boots took priority.

Once I’d done that, all I had time to do was run a brush through my hair, twist an elastic around it to keep it out of my face, and I was out the door. Five minutes late.

I wait for Jerry to comment on my gray-tipped hair. Real or fake? Or how it bears a striking similarity to a skunk. Or a wolf’s tail. Everyone does eventually. I could dye it. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it, but I’ve already changed my name to separate who I was eight years ago from who I am now. I didn’t want to change my hair as well.

“Your hair is unusual.” Jerry doesn’t take the Bud Light he ordered.

I really wish he would. At ten on a Friday night, what else is he in a bar to do if not to drink?

“I saw a wolf with the same color in a documentary once,” Jerry continues. “It was a rabid, mangy thing they had to put down.”

See? People cannot help themselves.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Malakhi’s hand tightening around the long neck of his Corona. I’ve never seen him raise a bottle to his lips, and when I clear his table, the bottle is full, the beer flat.

“Sure is.” I smile and turn to walk back to the other side of the bar, where I’m in no danger of someone grabbing my ass.

“How do you like our town, Della?” Jerry grins.

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