This is clearly some kind of standoff. I’m not sure if I should be worried, scared, or on my way to getting the hell out of Dodge. But one thing’s for certain: Everyone in this bar knows Jack. And not in a friendly way.
“I wasn’t sure if we’d ever see you again,” the bartender continues. “Especially after…” He shrugs. “You know. But I was hoping we would.”
A tight smile pulls out Jack’s lips. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”
The legs of a chair screech as a tall man with a long, red scar down his cheek scoots out from a nearby table and stands. He slowly steps up to Jack, gets right in his face, and meets his gaze with violence in his eyes. Jack’s gray eyes stare back with matching danger.
“You want me to take care of this, Jonesy?” the scarred man says, his words tumbling over the bulge of chew wedged in his bottom lip as his eyes stay on Jack. He deftly slides a set of brass knuckles over his thick fingers before making a fist and cupping it into his other hand—and all the while, his eyes never leave Jack.
Yeah, Jack’s definitely not friends with these people.
A thread of nervousness weaves through the crowd as people here and there shift in their seats, waiting for the bartender—Jonesy, apparently—to answer.
But Jack speaks first. “You sure that’s a good idea, Murray?” he says to the scarred man. His voice is so low I can barely hear him as he nods at the thick red gash marking his opponent’s face. “Things didn’t work out well for you the last time you tried to ‘take care’ of me.”
The Murray guy snarls. “You son of a bitch—”
He lunges at Jack, plowing into his chest with the full force of his body weight, but Jack doesn’t budge. He simply grabs the guy by the throat, with one hand, and squeezes, his dark gray eyes glinting in the dim bar lights. Then he calmly says, “I suggest you back down.” Murray gurgles and sputters as Jack puts more pressure on his windpipe. “What do you think, Jonesy?” Jack’s gaze stays on Murray’s beet-red face.
My eyes widen in shock. What the…?
Is Jack really choking some biker guy right now? Is this really happening?
“I think you’ve made your point,” Jonesy says, slightly amused.
Jack releases Murray and the scarred man coughs and wheezes as he stumbles backward. “Fuck you, Oliver.”
I stare at Jack. Who the hell is this guy?
“I appreciate your eagerness, Murray,” Jonesy says to his lackey, “but you can stand down. I’m sure Jack isn’t here to cause any trouble. Are you, Jack?” The bartender’s dark eyes drift to me, still half-hidden behind Jack’s broad back, and flash with intrigue.
“That depends,” Jack says, shifting closer to me as he addresses the bartender. “Are you looking for trouble?”
An uneasy trickle makes its way down my back as I scan Jack’s face. Everything about him is suddenly unfamiliar, different. His body language. His tone. His entire demeanor. As if he’s just stepped into someone else’s personality.
Jonesy the bartender pulls his gaze away from me and curls a smile in Jack’s direction. “Not particularly.”
Jack lifts his chin. “Where’s Samson?”
Jonesy nods to a red door at the end of a dark hallway behind the bar. “The back.”
A muscle works in Jack’s jaw as he mutters a curse then looks at the bartender. “Well?” He exhales. “Are we good or not?”
Jonesy eyes him, then me, and a small smile tips the corners of his mouth. “We’re good.” He nods. “For now.”
Jack’s shoulders slightly relax as he shifts his stance, throws on a crooked grin, and says, “Then what’s a guy got to do to get a beer around here?”
Jonesy chuckles and the tension, still draining from Jack’s shoulders, seems to fall away from the crowd as the patrons go back to their chatter and drinks.
Jack steps up to the bar with me in tow and I try to ignore the many pairs of eyes glued on me. Not us. Me.
There are only a handful of females in the bar and I’m by far the youngest, which might explain why every guy in the place is looking at me like I’m a walking piece of prime rib. Jack notices this as well and makes no attempt at being covert about the warning glares he stabs at the gawking men. He places his large hand on my lower back, his fingers splayed, and keeps it there. A gesture of ownership, no doubt. But I let it slide because the many sets of greedy eyes slipping over my body make me slightly uncomfortable and Jack’s hand quells the shameless hunger of the onlookers, if only a smidge.
“Welcome home, Jack,” Jonesy says with a genuine smile as we stand at the counter. “We’ve missed you.”