Arranged love

EMILEE

I STAND AT the bar waiting for the bartender to look my way for me to order another drink. I know I’m not an eye-catching woman, but hello, over here, douche!

I have my tits out. What else do I need to do to get a fucking drink? Remove my shirt and throw it in his face? Stand on the bar and shake my ass?

The guy at the end of the bar has seemed to notice me. He keeps staring at me, and I’ve made it a point to avoid eye contact.

I’ve only been here for thirty minutes, and already, I’m tired of it. This week has been a week from hell, and I needed a moment to myself to clear my mind. At least that’s what I told myself. But it was just a lie. That house feels so much like a prison, and I needed out. I needed to get drunk and just get fresh air.

I’m getting neither of those.

My life has been decided for me. Well, at least until I can get away from George. And I’m not sure I can live it.

Not like this.

Not under his control.

In the past week, George has come to me one other time since the night I came home drunk and found out he fired my mother’s nurses. And that is two times too many. The only thing about it, is that he can’t last more than two minutes. And other than the first time, the other one I had plenty of notice, so I made sure to down a few bottles of whatever I could find. Afterward, I sit in my shower crying, hoping that he will drop dead and die like my father did. So far, luck is not on my side.

I pound my fist on the bar. “Hey, asshole. I need a drink …”

He nods at me, and I almost smile. “What can I get you?” he asks.

“A shot of vodka.” I’m not playing tonight. “Actually, make that three.” Who knows how long it’ll be until he returns?

He sets out to make my drinks, and I pull out my debit card.

Setting it in front of me, I slide my card across the bar. I down the first one as he runs my card. I’m setting the glass down when he comes back. “Your card was declined.”Property © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.

“What?” I frown. “Can you run it again? There must be some mistake.”

He shakes his head. “I ran it three times, ma’am. Insufficient funds,” he states as another guy hollers at him. “I’ll be back.” He walks away to help the other customer, and I slump against the bar.

Has George shut off my card? No. He can’t have that kind of access. Can he? I dig my cell out and send him a text.

Me: Did you turn off my card?

I’m tapping my heel on the floor as my phone vibrates with a response.

Motherfucker: All accounts have been frozen for the time being.

Me: What the fuck does that mean?

He reads it immediately, but this time, he chooses not to respond. No. No, this can’t be happening. Why would they freeze his accounts? Is the IRS investigating him? Is it some kind of protocol? Was my father in trouble with the law? A million questions run through my mind.

I run a hand through my hair and then start digging through my clutch. I find fifty dollars. Shit! What am I going to do for money? I thought I had time. There was fifteen thousand dollars in that account.

“All I’m saying is I would totally win,” a man says as he shoves his way through the crowd and comes to stand next to me.

I look up at him, and he’s every bit of six feet to my five feet six. With heels on, he still towers over me. He places his hands flat on the bar, and it causes the sleeves to his leather jacket to ride up. And I see black ink cover his skin, wrapping around his wrist like a second sleeve. His fingers drum the bar top, and I see a silver ring that has a skull on it with crossbones.

I’ve seen that before …

“I wouldn’t bet on you,” another guy says, coming to stand on the other side of him.

That voice sounded familiar …

The man next to me gasps. “I’m offended. You know, if we were in high school playing dodge ball, I would pick you to be on my team. Why do I feel like you wouldn’t choose me?” He pushes his bottom lip out that has a silver hoop in it.

“‘Cause I wouldn’t.” The friend snorts. “You’re short and too slow.” Then he lets out a whistle, and the bartender looks up at him. “Usual,” he calls out.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter to myself, glaring at the other guy. He’s taller and broader, but the guy standing next to me doesn’t allow me the best view of his face. He reaches into his back pocket and removes his wallet, pulling out a couple of hundred-dollar bills. I notice he too wears the same ring on his right hand. My heart starts to pick up.

He’s not wearing a jacket, so my eyes run up his ink covered muscular arm. His tattoos peek out from underneath his shirt, and a set of black wings wraps around his throat, crawling up the sides of his head where his hair is shaved close to the scalp. My eyes meet his and widen.

Holy shit!

My heart now skips a beat.

It can’t be.

His eyes slide my way. He looks away, but they slam back to me, and I see recognition dawn on his face. His blue eyes stare at mine with a look of annoyance. The same way he did in college.

Weston Mathews is standing next to me. I used to date … well, date isn’t the right word. I used to fuck his best friend. There was a group of four of them known as Kings. The Dark Kings-Bones, Titan, Cross, and Grave. Each one darker, more enticing. Titan, Cross, and Bones were all two years older than me. But Grave, Bones’s little brother, was only one year older than me.

The bartender walks up to them and hands him two shots of dark liquid. I’m not sure what it is, and he removes his eyes from mine.

I finally take in a shaky breath and drink my second shot.

I gotta get out of here. If Titan is here, then Bones isn’t far behind, and I can’t be around him. Not after what happened between us. I’ve heard stories about what kind of men they are today, and none of them are good.

He says something else to the bartender, and he looks at me and then nods. I swallow nervously and down the third, before digging the fifty out of my clutch and dropping it on the bar. I spin around to leave but run into someone. The guy I have successfully avoided who was standing at the end of the bar is now right here. In my space. Staring down at me.

“Hey, baby.” Dark blue eyes meet mine, and the stranger places his hands on my hips. I shove him back, but he doesn’t budge. Dick!

I go to walk around him, but he grabs my upper arm and pulls me to a stop. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

I yank my arm out of his hold, surprised that he let go, and the momentum has me falling back. Right into the side of Grave. Just my luck.

“What’s going on here?” Grave demands. His hands grip my hips, steadying me. Once he helps me to stand, he doesn’t let go.

I close my eyes and pray that I can get out of here before he recognizes me too. Please, God. I need luck on my side.

“Nothing,” the stranger answers. He’s half Grave’s size. Grave will murder him. He was a fighter in high school. He did it for sport. The douche’s eyes land on mine, and he winks at me.

I pull my lips back in disgust.

“I just wanted to know why you’ve been ignoring me,” the man asks.

I place my fingers behind my ear and lean my head forward like I didn’t hear what he has to say. Being the bitch that I can be. Too bad their music isn’t louder. At least then I’d have a legitimate excuse for ignoring the fucker.

His friend taps him on the shoulder. “Oh man, she’s deaf.” They laugh.