Page 18 of The Grief We Hold

I can’t decide if the two customers fearfully accommodate these men or respect them. And I’ve seen what happens when men like this are crossed.

So, I’ll play nice. Well, maybe, niceenough.

Enough that I don’t make trouble for myself or Fen, but not so much that I get sucked into their vortex.

I grab the three mugs and place them on the table. “There you go. Can I get you guys any food?”

“We got one more coming, sweetheart.” The third man, Grudge, has colorful ink up the sides of his neck. I can see from his undercut that the tattoos go up onto his skull. It reminds me of a stained-glass window, but I can’t make out the image.

Smoke’s hand slips around my waist. “But you could come sit with us for a minute until he gets here.”

I pick becoming a statue out of the freeze, flight, or fight triumvirate.

“Get your hands off her.” The gruff voice behind me is now familiar.

Smoke’s hand tightens on my waist. “You calling dibs, Wraith?”

I look over my shoulder to Wraith. Looks like he just took a shower. Wet hair lies in tight spirals on his shoulders. His scruff is neatly trimmed, and he smells better than he has any right to.

He confuses me. I lay in bed thinking about how he cared for me when I was sick. How Fen was excited because of the way Wraith cut his lasagna. The actions all seem out of character, and yet…I have to admit, I barely know the man to know what’s in character or not.

What I do know is that he stirs something in me, even as his world scares me.

“Not calling anything. But she works for Ma and has a kid, and the look on her face tells me your fucking hand on her waist is unwanted. So, unless you want me to break the fucker, you’ll move your hand.”

Smoke grins as he releases me.

“Say sorry to Raven for putting your hands on her in her workplace,” Wraith says.

“It’s fine,” I say, but there is a betraying waver to my voice. “We’re good.”

“She says we’re good,” Smoke says. “Sit your grumpy ass down, Sarg.”

“Apologize.” There is no room for misunderstanding in Wraith’s tone.

Smoke looks at me. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

“Umm. It’s okay. Thank you.”

I turn to face Wraith, who is studying me curiously. “You should have taken another day off,” he says.

“If you can find me a job that pays me for not showing up, I’ll gladly take it. Now, are you going to sit and order, or should I give you all another five minutes?”

Butcher laughs. “Okay. Quit it, the pair of you. Wraith, do as the woman says and sit your ass down. And you”—he pointsright at me—“watch your mouth when you’re talking to one of my men.”

“Five minutes it is,” I say, and turn from the table.

“Stop her,” Butcher says to my retreating back.

A hand clamps around my wrist, and this time it’s Wraith. His grip is firm, but not so it hurts.

“I’ll give you a pass because you’re obviously new here,” Butcher says to me when I face the table again. “I ever walk in here, you clear this spot for me. If I talk to you, you most definitely don’t turn your fucking back on me. And you ever give me sarcasm like that again, I’ll get you fired from this job and make you unemployable in this town. Understood?”

I nod. Icy terror fills my veins that any words I might say next will inflame the situation.

“Everything alright over here?” Margie asks, hustling in front of me, pushing me ever so gently back.

I glance at Wraith, who looks over to Butcher before he tips his chin the tiniest fraction of a movement toward the storeroom. Hoping the gesture means what I thought it did, I step away.

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