Page 11 of Stolen

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“Get a grip,” I mutter, making sure I have all the garbage off the floor and inside the dumpster before I head back inside.

I’m not in any rush. The tips have been nil and the customers are cranky and rude.

I hate this job. But what else can I do?

I close my eyes willing that feeling of being watched to just go away.

But it lingers.

Like someone’s breath on the back of my neck.

All night, I’ve had that crawling sensation.

Eyes tracking my movements, studying me.

Not in the way those barflies stare when they think I’m not looking.

No, this feels different.

Intense. Focused. Not leering. Searching.

I rub my arms and start to head back inside when the door bangs open again.

I freeze.

No.

Not them.

The two jerks from table nine—Tony and Bobby or whatever their names were—are stumbling into the alley like they’ve been waiting for a chance.

Loud. Laughing. Drunk in that smug, dangerous way some men get when they know nobody will stop them.

They’d been handsy all night.

One of themaccidentallygrazed my ass when I carried a drink to their table.

The other told me I had aporn star poutand asked what I did after closing.

My boss?

Please.

He told me tosmile moreand gave them free shots when they asked him when I was scheduled to work next, after I’d already told themno.

“Hey, sweetheart,” one of them slurs, swaying closer. “Forgot to tip you.”

“That’s okay. Better get back inside,” I snap, trying to keep my voice even. “Bar’s closing in twenty.”

“Just being friendly.” His hand reaches out, touches my face.

I frown and try to move away, but his friend is blocking the only exit.

His fingers grow bold, pressing firmly into my skin.

“Don’t be a bitch.”

Panic claws up my spine.

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