Page 17 of Here In Your Arms

I glance down toward the spot and find his seat empty. “No,” I tell him, relief flooding my veins.

“Is he causing you trouble?” Tim asks.

“No.”

“You gonna tell me if he does?”

“Maybe,” I say, looking at him with a smirk.

Tim frowns at me. “He’s bad news, and the fact that we don’t know why he keeps coming back is concerning. Don’t fuck around with this, okay?”

I know exactly why he comes here, but I’m not sharing that knowledge. He hasn’t done anything yet and all it will do is cause a scene if I explain it to my coworkers and boss. Better to just leave it for now. I turn and put my hand on my hip, feigning confidence I don’t have.

“Okay, Tim, I’ll let you know if it’s a problem. Is that good?”

“Good enough, I guess,” he concedes. There’s a long pause before he keeps going. “You know, I know we don’t ever see each other outside of work, but I do consider you kind of a sister so you can always tell me if you need something, yeah?”

My eyes sting with tears, and I blink them back, taking a deep breath. I look at him with a genuine smile. “Thanks Tim. I’m glad I have you.”

He nudges my shoulder with his. “Now get to work, these emotions are gross.”

I throw my head back, laughing, and get back to filling orders from the system that have picked up as we get close to the end of Happy Hour. Everyone is trying to squeeze in their cheap drinks. I glance over and realize he’s here, and Tim already gave him a drink.

Shit. I was hoping he wouldn’t show up tonight.

Tim looks at me with meaning, making sure I’m doing okay, and I give him a nod. His drink finishes quickly, and I note that Tim is swamped taking orders from newcomers sitting at the bar, so I decide to bite the bullet and give him a refill. I take a steadying breath before heading his way to see which beer he was drinking tonight.

“Refill?” I ask him.

“What? No ‘hello’ for me?” he responds, his smooth voice crawling over my skin.

“What are you drinking?” I ask.

He gives me his drink order and I refill the beer for him, setting it down before reaching for his old glass. Before I know what’s happening, he grabs my wrist, his fingers biting into my skin. The contact throws my mind back.

I trip on the sidewalk, quickly righting myself after landing on a knee. I’m trying to keep up with him, his hand gripping my wrist as he storms his way to the car. My knee is stinging from my brief meeting with the sidewalk. The anger rolling off him is palpable and I’m wracking my brain, trying to remember what I did to cause this. I obviously did the wrong thing, but what was it this time?

“Would you keep up?” he snarls at me.

“I’m trying,” I gasp.

He stops suddenly, and I know I’ve done it this time. Shouldn’t have talked back. Fuck.

“Do you think I enjoy this?” he questions me, his face a cold mask of anger.

“N-No of course not,” I tell him.

“You know why this is happening?”

“Yes,” I tell him quietly.

“You know this is your fault, right?” I know he doesn’t want an answer, so I keep quiet. He drives his point home. “If you didn’t act so ridiculous in public, I wouldn’t have to do this.”

I debate if I should say anything, and his hand tightens on my wrist. I can feel my wrist being crushed but say nothing. I brought this on myself. I’ll take the consequences.

“Next time you think you know what I want, just remember that you don’t. You don’t speak for me, and you don’t speak for you. You don’t speak.”

I nod quickly. I remember now. I tried to correct the waiter when he repeated the order wrong. I know he doesn’t drink diet, and I didn’t want him to get the wrong thing. Next time I’ll just let the waiter repeat the order wrong. I shouldn’t have stepped in; I should just sit and be quiet like he told me.

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