Page 55 of Beyond the Bright Lights

“Can I help you?” I ask, feeding off Mylan’s anger.

Jensen averts his green eyes my way, a perfectly groomed brow arching.

“Ah, you must be the one and only Lana Young.” He holds out his hand. “Jensen Boliver, Tyler’s Team director.”

My breath hitches in surprise, almost as if I forgot the movie was still happening, despite spending every day with the leading man.

“Oh, hi. Yes, I’m Lana. Nice to meet you.”

I take his cold and clammy hand. Sweat lines his forehead. Why is he dressed for winter when it’s a furnace in here and even hotter outside?

After Jensen drops my greeting, he turns to scope out the place. I quickly wipe my palm on my skintight skirt before he pivots his big body back around to stare at Mylan, who refuses to look at him.

The tension between Mylan and Jensen is wound tight, like a rubber band pulled to its snapping point. Bruno stands at Mylan’s back, arms crossed, scowling at the movie director. He's ready to move in at any moment. Eloise sits on Mylan’s left, her blue eyes narrowed on the man, and I'm not sure who I'm more scared of, Bruno or Eloise.

“What can I get you tonight?” I ask, attempting to de-escalate whatever the hell this is.

Finally, finally, Jensen looks away from Mylan. “I’m not sticking around. Just came in to check on . . .” he waves his hand to Mylan before sweeping it around. “. . . to check out the local establishments.”

Ginger stops to gawk at the scene while everyone else in the bar is oblivious to what’s going on. I’ll admit, I don’t know what’s going on either.

Mylan’s going to say something. I’m worried that he’ll regret whatever words come out of his mouth. Or it’ll be caught on video and shared around the world.

“This establishment,” I begin, my voice conveying the same authoritative tone I use when drunks complain about getting cut off, "is amazingly busy tonight, so I’d appreciate it if you would either order something or head on out so paying customers can take your place.”

I’d never say that to a customer. Anyone can come to my bar and sit and not order a thing. But privileged assholes who come here just to agitate recovering alcoholics are not allowed to stay.

Jensen’s eyes tighten with fury as if he’s never been spoken to like that before. He's probably the one used to barking orders.

He points his thumb at Mylan. “You do realize that this man is an addict?”

I cross my arms. “Yes.”

“He got out of rehab, like a week ago.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then you’re aware he shouldn’t be here . . . at a bar . . . with alcohol?”

Mylan stands at this point and gets in Jensen’s face, nose to nose. Bruno takes hold of Mylan’s elbow, tugging him back but not away.

“Do it,” Jensen seethes. “Hit me. Hit me, so I can fire your sorry ass.”

I’ve never moved so fast in my life. I’m around the bar in between the two by the time Jensen is saying the word, ‘ass.’

“Mylan,” I whisper and place my palm on his chest. My touch brings him down from the anger fueling his actions. His eyes flutter before finding my concerned stare.

Immediate regret stares back at me.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” I say, moving my palm up to his cheek.

“Jesus Christ,” Jensen scoffs. “It’s worse than I thought.”

Before I can turn around to kick Jensen out of my bar, Bruno is on the move. He takes the man by the arm and drags him out.

“I’m sorry,” Mylan says, his voice wavering. “I . . . Jensen and I have history and . . .”

“Hey,” I interrupt. “If you weren’t going to punch him, I would have. So please, don’t feel bad at all.”

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