There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(53)

A group of twenty-something guys down at the end of the bar keep shouting for more shots. Based on the matching polo shirts and their extraordinarily boring conversation, I’m guessing they work for some biotech firm.

I bring them another round of B-52s.

“Hey,” one bleary-eyed guy says, grabbing my arm. “Can you do a blow job?”

His friends all snicker.

“What about a slippery nipple?” his buddy says.

They’re not the first geniuses to realize that some shots have dirty names.

“Do you actually want either of those?” I say.

A dozen more people are shouting for me all down the bar, and I don’t really have time for stupid jokes.

“What’s your rush?” the first guy says. “We’re tipping you, aren’t we?”

He throws a handful of crumpled bills at me, mostly ones. Half the bills land in my ice well, which really pisses me off because money is filthy—I’m gonna have to dump that ice and fill the well up fresh.

“Thanks,” I say, weighting that word with about ten pounds of sarcasm.

“Fuck you, bitch,” the second guy sneers.

I look him up and down. “Nah. I don’t do charity work.”

It takes him a second to get it, but his friends’ howls tip him off that it’s definitely an insult.

I’ve already turned away, so I don’t hear whatever he shouts back at me.

I dump the ice and run to the back to grab a fresh batch. I’m hoping by the time I get back, those idiots will have found somewhere else to congregate. Unfortunately, when I return, puffing and sweating under the weight of the ice bin, they’re still clustered in the same spot. Mr. Blue Polo Shirt glowers at me.

I pour the ice into the well, pointedly ignoring him. Then I turn to set down the empty bin.

The moment I bend over, I feel a sharp slap on my ass. I wheel around, catching Blue Shirt on top of the bar.

I’m about to shout for Tony, our bouncer, but Cole is faster. I barely have time to open my mouth before he’s appeared behind Blue Shirt like a pale grim reaper. He doesn’t grab the guy’s shoulder—doesn’t even offer a warning. Faster than I can blink, he snatches up the closest beer bottle and smashes it across the back of Blue Shirt’s skull.

Blue Shirt jolts, his eyes rolling back in his head. He collapses, hitting the side of his head on the barstool on his way down.

His friend, the one who threw the money at me, gives a strangled yell. He rushes at Cole, not realizing that Cole is still holding the neck of the shattered bottle.

Cole slashes him across the face, opening up his cheek from ear to jaw. Blood splashes across the oak bar and into my fresh ice.

The other polo shirts gape at Cole, none too eager to jump into the fray.

I’m likewise staring in shock.

It’s not only the violence that stuns us. It’s the eerie speed with which Cole moves and the cold indifference on his face. I know he’s angry because I know what it looks like when something pisses him off. To anyone else, he might as well be a statue for all the emotion he shows.

He faces the other men, still holding the smooth neck of the bottle, its glinting points wickedly sharp and darkly wet.

“Come on,” he says, quietly. “Where’s all the courage you had five minutes ago? Or were you cowards all along?”

This time, I’m faster than the polo shirts. I jump over the bar, grabbing Cole by the arm.

“Let’s go!” I shout, yanking at him. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

His body is stiff as steel. He’s still staring at the other men, daring them to take a step toward him.

“COME ON!” I bellow, dragging him away.

I pull him all the way outside, into the thick fog, and then several blocks down the street, expecting to hear the sound of sirens any minute.

“What were you thinking?” I cry when I finally catch my breath. “You could have killed that guy!”

“I hope I did,” Cole says.

I turn to stare at him, gasping in the thin, damp air.

“You can’t mean that.”

“Absolutely I do. He disrespected you. Put his hands on you. I’d kill him for much less.”

I can’t believe how calm he is right now. The blood on his hands looks black as pitch on the shadowed street. He’s still holding the neck of the broken beer bottle. Cradling it lightly in his fingers, the way I’d hold a paintbrush. As if it’s a tool of his trade. An instrument of his art.

Cole sees me staring. He tosses the broken bottle aside, allowing it to shatter in the gutter with a high, musical sound.

“Why?” I ask him quietly. “Why do you care how some guy in a bar behaves toward me?”

“I told you,” he says, stepping close to me as he always does, so I’m forced to look up at him. So my heart pounds in my ears so loudly that I can hardly make out his words. “I’ve acquired you, Mara, like a painting, like a sculpture. Anyone who tries to damage what’s mine will face consequences.”

“I’m an object to you?”

“You’re valuable.”

That’s not an answer. Not really.

“I don’t need your protection,” I tell him. “I handle guys like that every day at work.”

“Not anymore,” Cole says. “I’m guessing you’re fired.”