Page 2 of Heart of a Rebel

When he takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest, I realize how broad he is. Wide shoulders that stretch the fabric of his fitted white T-shirt. Dark skin skittered with tattoo ink. A tapered waist, making it clear he’s solid muscle.

I swallow hard and hope he doesn’t notice that I’m off balance all of a sudden. Something about the way he’s towering in front of me, watching me with such intent, tells me he probably does.

“What?” I lean back and cross my arms, mirroring his posture to disguise whatever he’s stirring up inside me.

This bartender might think he’s big and tough, but he doesn’t make me nervous. Dealing with cocky and intimidating men is the story of my life. Between the revolving door of assholes my mom dates, handsy fans at concerts, and the band of horny men I associate myself with, I’ve seen it all.

The smallest smirk ticks in the corner of the bartender’s mouth. “This isn’t your usual scene.”

I shrug a shoulder. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes drop to my water, my notebook, then move slowly back up again, pausing ever so briefly at the flowers tattooed on my shoulder. “Wild guess.”

“Whatever you say.” I shake my head, uncrossing my arms and picking up my pencil.

I’m not sure who this guy thinks he is, but I’m not going to entertain him with wherever this conversation is going. If a distraction is what I was looking for, I would have followed Sebastian back to the table.

I start writing again, but the bartender doesn’t take the hint. I feel his eyes on me, watching me while I write, and it’s unnerving.

“How old are you?” he asks.

Placing my pencil down harder than I have to, I narrow my eyes and look up at him. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to ask a lady her age?”

“Comes with the job.” His eyes move to a bottle of whiskey on the bar, then back to me.

“I’m not drinking.”

“You’re sitting at the bar.”

“No shit.” I roll my eyes and reach into my back pocket, pulling out my ID. “Here. Happy?”

He takes my ID off the bar and reads it over, those cinnamon eyes flicking between me and my picture. Finally, he slides it back to me and plants both hands flat on the bar top in front of him.

“Happy birthday,” he tips his chin down, but his face doesn’t crack a smile. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

“I don’t know, should I?” I slide my ID into my back pocket.

“Twenty-one,” he points out. “Want me to pour you something a little stronger?”

I shake my head. “No thanks.”

Turning twenty-one loses its appeal when it doesn’t actually mark anything new in your life.

My mom wasn’tparent of the year, so I’ve known what it’s like to get drunk since I was thirteen. Then there’s the bar scene I’m already all too familiar with from the hundreds of shows we’ve played over the past few years. More of the same, and none of it is exciting.

It might be my birthday, but all I feel is the start of another year where I’ll be waiting for something to change. Into what? I still haven’t figured that out.

The bartender’s expression tightens like he’s trying to read me, and something about his stare traps me in his cage.

“Is that all?” I roll my shoulders back and try to figure out what it is about him that’s getting under my skin.

He nods, standing up tall.

“You’re new, right?” I ask him, which gets me a curious expression in return.

He nods once. Everything about him is sharp, quick, to the point.

And powerful.

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