Page 1 of Bound by Passion (Ravage MC)

1

NYX

Bimbos thrummed with activity,people wanting to cut loose and bring in the weekend drunk, happy and, more than likely, very laid. Music blared from the speakers and drowned out the words of the patrons, putting me in my own world and allowing me to do my job robotically. This was the best part of each day, the escape to work. My past couldn’t chase me in my head. Here, I was ready to serve … all the drinks.

“Hey, Nyx!” Taylor called from the edge of the bar, grabbing my attention as I lifted my chin in acknowledgment. I made my way over and put my head down so my ear was closer to her. “Need a rum and Coke, fuzzy navel, Jamaican cowboy and a whiskey straight.”

Nodding, my hands moved of their own volition. I created the drinks requested and set them up on the tray one at a time. Being a seasoned bartender, my brain held so many different types of drinks, so no thought was needed. It was muscle memory at this point. Tell me a drink, and I could make it in a few seconds. Fancy, complicated, a single shot, all of it was right there for the picking.

“Thanks!” Taylor smiled wide, taking the tray after the final drink was placed on it.

The faster the waitresses turned over the drinks, the more money they made. Holding them up wasn’t an option. There was enough money here to be made for everyone. And the more customers drank, the more tips went in pockets, including my own. Which was the point of working, right? Making the dough to survive. Most importantly, the tips were cash— untraceable, untaxable, undisclosed.

“Hey!” was yelled in a condescending superior way I didn’t appreciate. It didn’t stop there, though. No, this fool kept on. “Yo, you deaf or stupid?”

My survival happened by reading people—a tone, a look, a sigh, every instinctual thing, involuntary movements, they mattered—and being in tune to every one of them saved my ass more than once. In this line of work, I tolerated a lot, but disrespect was not on the list of bullshit to put up with. I was a bartender, not a damn dog or shit on the bottom of no doubt his leather covered foot. Being talked down to was not acceptable treatment. I had swallowed enough chauvinistic bullshit to last a lifetime, and the tone from this man didn’t need to be added to the list.

Respect me. I respect you.

Don’t… Well, he didn’t want to find out.

Eyes lifting to the voice instantly, my brow quirked as I studied the fool. It was a silent challenge of sorts, me wondering if the guy was going to spout more ignorance out of his mouth to go along with his tone, or would he catch the unspoken hint and change his approach. The man appeared pissed off as his eyes narrowed at me, pinching so tight it gave me a headache. Somehow in his world, I was the culprit in his anger.

What the fuck did I do?

Well, I didn’t run over to him like a puppy in heat. Fuck that. No man would get that response from me.

“I need a Bud Light bottle.” The voice came at me.

No please. Just disdain. A demand. Entitled pricks didn’t sit right with me.

A retort was on the tip of my tongue, just begging to come out. The natural sarcasm that dripped from my veins was getting harder and harder to hold in over the time I’d been here. Especially working in a bar, the instinctive reactions to dish out what was thrown at me had become an internal battle. Suppressing who you really were, burying it low inside yourself was an intensely difficult daily challenge. However, it was necessary.

Head down. Do the job. Blend in. That was what I told myself thousands of times during each and every shift. Make no waves, and then the world wouldn’t come crashing down around me. Invisibility was key. The life of a chameleon, change and adapt to my surroundings, I had mastered it, mostly.

A hand slammed down on the bar top, making the bottles and glasses tremble and the sound caught attention from many of the people around us as they all turned to look, the noise level going down a touch.

The asshole stared at me, his lip curling with a snarl. Challenging me like a fucking alpha wolf trying to piss on me. Big mistake. I was not to be tamed.

My eyes narrowed as my body leaned his way just a bit, connecting gazes with him. “Do you want the bottle busted over your head? Or should I break it off and just shove it up your ass?” Not thinking of my surroundings or consequences, the retort slipped from my lips like a viper’s strike, ready to kill. Before, my mouth would land me in trouble, but it didn’t bother me. I didn’t live a life of regrets.

While first panic hit me, the wash of the real me wrapped around my body like a soft blanket. Damn, I missed her. The sarcastic woman who always had something to say. Who didn’t take a lick of shit from anyone. Had a backbone of steel.

Said what I wanted when I wanted.

Whatever happened, happened. I said what I needed to say and made no apologies about it.

Being submissive and quiet was wearing on me. Each day picking away at the fibers of my personality. Draining, exhausting, this façade I had to put on every time I left my house was taking a toll.

I wouldn’t be demeaned, demanded of, or put off by anyone. We all had this one life to live, and I didn’t need to take this man’s shit. Consequences be damned. Unfortunately, we were gaining more attention by the second.

“Bitch!” The man lunged over the bar, coming toward me.

Instincts took over. Grabbing a tray, I blocked the man’s touch by smashing his hands with the hard plastic. He had no idea I could break both of his wrists and not have a second thought about it. Take them both in my hand and crack. But I’d already let one cat out of the bag tonight. The rest of my tricks needed to stay hidden.

Secrets were just that. Secret. For me it was more important than ever to keep them inside.

Fuck. Did I just seriously fuck up?

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