Page 60 of Marked

Heavy music pumps through the speakers. It’s a small dive bar, but it’s packed with people in fetish wear. The black tank top and skirt I’m wearing helps me blend in enough that I’m comfortable, while Zack pushes his way through the crowd to the bar.

“Hey.” A man in a black leather halter top stops at the table. “You come all alone?” he asks lifting his chin in my direction.

“No. He’s getting me a drink.” I gesture toward the bar.

“He shouldn’t be leaving you all alone.” He leans over the table, close enough for the stench of his beer breath to roll over me. “You look like a girl who needs looking after.”

“I do?” I give a purposeful glance down at myself.

“Yeah. If you were mine, I wouldn’t let yousit here by yourself. I’d have you on my leash, at my side, at all times.” He winks, then licks the top row of his yellowing teeth. Someone drinks way too much coffee.

“I think maybe you should go.” I try to shoo him away like the annoying little fly he is, but he’s stubborn and won’t budge.

“See? You don’t even have the right respect for a Top.”

I laugh. “You aren’t my Top. The only thing you are is a pain in my ass. Now, go before he comes back, and you make him angry.”

He looks over his shoulder, probably checking if anyone’s headed our way.

Zack doesn’t work that way; he doesn’t come when you’re watching him. It’s when you don’t see him you should be worried.

But this asshole doesn’t know that.

Yet.

“I think maybe you’re lying about being here with someone.” He leans even further into the booth. “And do you know what I do to naughty girls who lie?”

He lifts his hand, like he’s going to touch me, but he stops just before his skin touches mine. His eyes, narrowed with fake dominance a moment ago, spread wide in pain. A soundless scream, and he’s yanked back from me.

Zack stands there, our drinks safely on the table, and the wannabe Top lies on the floor cradling his hand.

“It’s broken!” He finally finds his voice.

Zack drags him up to his feet and stares at the fingers bent in odd directions.

“Yep. They are.” He lets go of him with a shove.

The crowd is large enough that we’ve gone unnoticed. So far.

“I tried to warn him.” I reach over the table and pick up my drink.

“I’m sure he’s learned his lesson.” Zack picks up his beer.

“Fuck, Brad. Again?” Another man pops out of the crowd and stares at the bent fingers.

“This fucker broke my fingers,” he shouts, but the music just swallows up the noise.

“Your friend here tried to touch what wasn’t his,” Zack says.

The other guy looks at me, then at Zack, and blanches. Zack’s not dressed in any fetish clothing, just a black T-shirt and a pair of dark slacks. The tattoos on his forearms are all the information the man seems to need to make his decision. Best to leave us alone.

“Shit, they’re really broken.” He grabs Brad’s wrist. “Let’s get out of here. Sorry about him.” He pushes Brad to get going, but Brad is hurting pretty bad and is starting to cry. It takes a while for his friend to get him to the front door.

“You think security is going to come over now?” I ask when Zack slides into the booth beside me.

“There’s no security here.” He lays his arm over the back of the booth, draping his hand over my shoulder. “I like this shirt.”

I look down at myself and grin.

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