Page 630 of Flirting with Darkness

“We’re closed,” Emily snaps, and I can see her near the entrance, a long shadow in her hand that must be the flashlight we keep stored behind the cash register.

The man steps inside, ignoring the fact our power is out and we’re clearly no longer open for business, which is stupid and maybe also slightly bizarre, but I’m too focused on the fact that he’s letting the door fall off his fingers. Letting the door fall shut, behind him.

And we’re all wrapped up in the black again.

Emily lets out a squeak and flicks on the flashlight, pulling in up to reveal the stranger’s face. He’s already right at the bar, almost as if he’d been able to cross eight feet of space in that blink of a moment.

“As I was saying, we don’t have power right now, so we can’t serve you,” she says, and while her voice retains its usual bitchy edge, it’s undeniably shaking. Her grip on the heavy, metal flashlight tells me she’s ready to use it as an improvised baseball bat the instant he comes a step closer.

“Did you hit it?”

The tall stranger’s voice is a purring rumble, husky and amused. In the cone of light that has thrown him into stark relief, he lifts his hand. His fist clenches, and he bangs hard on the bar-top counter. Emily shrieks, and the sound seems to echo through the entire room.

There’s a crackle above me, and a high-pitched whine that follows it that has me cringing, my eyes shutting tight.

The flashlight drops to the ground, tumbling end over end and sending slices of light across the ceiling and walls. It hits the floor with a crack, and the lights above flare on. The jukebox blares to life, beeping and booping in the background as we both stare at the strange would-be Fonzie.

“What a coincidence,” my sister says weakly. “Um—“ She inhales like a teakettle getting ready for a good screech, and that’s when I see it too. The stranger — his hood had been up, but now he’s pushing it back, shaggy, inky black hair has started to tumble into his eyes — and when he looks from Emily to me, I’m stuck to the floor.

Rooted here, like someone glued me or maybe I’ve become temporarily paralyzed, because this guy is disgustingly hot — the kind of man who sits in the VIP section of casinos and clubs, who exists folded into a bespoke suit across the covers and centerfolds of magazines — and you feel embarrassed just to be in the same space as him because you know that if he catches even a glimpse of you, he’ll see you for the ultimately inferior creature that you are.

Violently. Sharp. Cheekbones. He could shave ham paper-thin on them and please the most demanding of deli clients.

The thought of this bizarre, dangerous, handsome stranger rubbing meat on his face has a stupid giggle erupting out of my chest, and I clap my hand over my mouth.

Both he and my sister look at me. His eyes, crisp and golden in the light of the bar, remove themselves from my face… and drop to my chest.

And, uh. Stay there.

I swallow and cross my arms in front of me. Emily clears her throat, tossing me a glare.

“Go wipe the tables,” she snaps, and I grab my rag, ducking out from behind the bar and slipping to the furthest table away from them both, in the darkest corner of the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my sister tugging her shirt down as she leans on the countertop, fluttering her lashes at our dashing, mysterious stranger with a coy smile.

“Can I get you anything?”

“I’ll take a table,” he says, tone flat, and he turns away from her. And walks directly towards me.

His strides eat up the ground, consuming the space I’d so hurriedly put between us, and he’s before me in what feels like a single heartbeat. But couldn’t be…

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, as he gestures to the chair at the table I’ve just finished wiping.

“Uh. Um.” I stumble to tell him the simple ‘no’, because why is he even asking when the entire bar is empty, and it’s not likely that I’m going to sit down at this one chair all of a sudden and deny him access to it now that he’s asked, unless I’m literally like the world’s biggest jerk and—

“HEY!” I snap, as his gaze has fallen to my chest, his brow furrowing, eyes narrowing. “Up here, buddy!” I flick out my rag and slap him under the chin, the fabric licking uncomfortably at his skin. He jerks his head up, eyes flashing with anger, and he looks… shocked. That I’d dare to hit him, or fight back, ortalkback.

Those eyes. I tense up. They’re… gold. Not brown, not hazel, not amber — they’re actually golden, like they’re reflecting some sort of rich, warm light from deep within. And now they’re staring at me, as if he has never seen anything quite like what he does right now. His lips press together. Tightly

“Where did you get that?” he suddenly asks.

I glance down at the rag in my hand. “From, uh, from behind the bar—”

He scoffs at my answer, straightening his shoulders and drawing himself up to his full and impressive height. He towers over me — I feel it, sense it, like a heavy blanket of power radiating out of him. I take a step back, and fight the urge to swallow nervously. This isn’t my first rodeo, and he’s not the first bar patron to think he can intimidate me.

“No, I meant—”

“What can I get you?” I interrupt, turning away from him. “We’ve got two beers on tap, one dark, one light — which do you want?” I’m already walking away, ignoring the frustrated noise he makes in response. Maybe he’s already drunk, and that’s why his eyes look glassy. I’m not gonna get burned for over-serving, but that’s my sister’s problem, not mine. And given how bitchy Emi’s been to me today, maybe I wouldn’t mind getting her in a bit of trouble.

I’m not sure where this sudden streak of… rebellion has come from, because I don’t normally feel it burning beneath my breastbone, humming there with a soft vibration that’s new and not at all unwelcome. It feels odd, and wonderful.

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