Page 6 of Harley's Hex
“Our hands,” she repeated, biting off the words. “That’s the problem.”
Hex tilted his head, eyes narrowing just enough to make her chest tighten. “Nah,” he murmured. “That’s the best thing that’s happened to either of us. You just haven’t figured that out yet.” Before she could fire back her response, a loud crash came from the pool tables — a couple of guys shouting, and a few bottles hit the floor.
Harley exhaled sharply, grabbing a bar rag. “Duty calls.”
Hex followed, slow and deliberate, that half-grin still ghosting his mouth. “We’ll finish this later.”
She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “Count on it.” She knew that she was playing with fire, but she just didn’t care. She was tired of having him underfoot, undermining everything that she put in place around the bar. God, she was just tired, and she didn’t see things getting any better until Savage came back to the bar.
As she strode toward the noise, she could feel Hex watching her. She had caught him watching her on many occasions, and it usually made her hot—not that she’d tell him that. Savage might have asked Hex to help out around the bar, but Harley needed to be the one running the show. She didn’t show up at the hospital to tell Hex how to treat patients, and she expected the same courtesy, because she meant what she said to him—she’d go to Savage and tell him about the hell that the sexy biker had been putting her through. Harley would just leave off the part about liking every bit of trouble he was giving her, because that made her sound just plain crazy.
By the time the last customer stumbled out of the bar and the door shut behind him, Harley’s nerves were shot. The bar was quiet again, and she finally felt as though she could breathe.The only remaining noise was from the faint hum of the neon “Savage Hell” sign buzzing against the window and the low thump of bass from the music as the last song ended. She wiped down the counter for the third time, more for something to do than because it needed it.
Hex was still there—of course, he was. He stood near the door, watching her like he didn’t know how to stop. His presence filled the room—calm, solid, infuriating. She could feel him even when he didn’t say a word.
“You can go home,” she said finally, not looking up from wiping down the bar. “I’ve got the rest.”
He didn’t move. “You’re mad.”
“No, I’m tired,” she shot back, scrubbing at a spot that wasn’t there. “I just get grumpy when I’m tired.” That part was the truth, but he was right—she was mad. Hell, she was downright pissed at him, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that about her.
“No, you’re pretty damn angry,” he said, voice steady and accusing. She wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but she didn’t have the energy for another fight with Hex. And from the way he was still standing in the corner, smiling at her, he was waiting for her to give him a fight. Hex seemed to like sparring with her—although she had no idea why.
Harley glanced over at him again, and damn him, he was still smiling. Just a hint of it, enough to stir the heat already simmering low in her chest. “You really think everything’s a joke, don’t you?” she asked. Sure, she was poking the beast, and he’d probably take the bait, but she just couldn’t seem to help herself when it came to Hex and his sexy smirk.
He started walking toward her, slow and deliberate. “No. I just think you look better when you’re not scowling at me.”
She huffed, trying to hide the twitch of a smile that betrayed her. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” he said, stepping up to the bar, close enough that she could smell the clean leather of his cut and whiskey on him. “But I don’t quit easily.”
The air shifted, growing heavy now, as though it was charged by the electricity that hummed around them. Harley’s pulse picked up before she could stop. She set the rag down, trying not to notice how his eyes lingered on her hands and her mouth.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice lower than she meant it to be. “I told you to go home.”
“Like you said, I’m impossible. Why shouldn’t I be here?” he asked.
“Because,” she said, swallowing hard, “this isn’t smart.”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping into that quiet gravel that always hit somewhere deep inside of her. “Then tell me to go.” She opened her mouth, and damn it, nothing came out. He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t step back either. The space between them crackled, alive with every unspoken thing that had been building between them since the night that she found him standing behind her bar.
Harley’s fingers brushed his hand—just barely, but it was enough to set his soul on fire. The contact sent a shiver through her that she couldn’t seem to hide. Or maybe she didn’t want to hide her reaction to him.
“We shouldn’t do this,” she whispered, but it didn’t sound like she meant it.
His gaze softened. “Then stop me.” She still didn’t. For a heartbeat, everything else disappeared around the two of them, the hum of the neon sign, even the ache in her chest she’d carried since Savage went under the knife. There was only Hex.
Her voice broke the silence, quiet but sure. “Lock the door, Hex,” she breathed. He held her eyes, like he was giving her one last chance to change her mind, but she wouldn’t. She’d beenplaying with fire for so long now, she was ready to feel the burn. And she was pretty sure that Hex was going to scorch her.
Hex crossed the barroom, and when the lock clicked into place, the sound echoed through the empty bar, final and certain. A part of her was surprised that he had done as she asked, but another part of her knew that he wanted this as much as she did. And when he turned around to find him standing in front of her, Harley knew whatever came next wasn’t going to be a mistake—it was inevitable.
The sound of the lock clicking still echoed in the quiet bar. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Harley’s pulse thudded hard in her throat, her breath shallow, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name.
Hex didn’t rush her. He just stood there, steady, waiting — a man who’d seen too much of the world to play games. That steadiness drew her in more than anything else. She took a small step forward. Then another, and when she reached him, her fingers hesitated at the edge of his cut, brushing the leather. His hand came up slowly, tracing the line of her jaw, the rough pad of his thumb tilting her chin just enough for her to meet his eyes.
“Harley,” he said softly, her name grave with confession. And then he kissed her. It wasn’t careful, not really — it was hungry, restrained only by the years of self-control it took him to survive everything before this. The heat of it made her knees weak. Her hands gripped his vest, holding on like the ground might shift beneath her feet. He tasted like whiskey and something darker — something that made her want to forget the world outside that locked door. The kiss deepened, slower now, his mouth gentler,tracing her lips as if memorizing them. When he pulled back, their foreheads touched, both of them breathing hard.
“You sure?” he murmured, voice rough, eyes searching hers. She nodded, unable to find words. His hand slid into her hair, fingers tangling and drawing her closer again. She could feel the warmth of him, the tremor in her own chest answering him. Everything between them — all the banter, all the fights, all the wanting — burned down to this quiet, perfect gravity.
