He lifted his gaze to her. And all the air sucked out of the room.
Steel gray eyes.
Pretty Boy.
She gasped and took an unthinking step backward. Oh, God. What is he doing here? Crystal forced herself to ease her posture. If she called any attention to herself right now, things could get bad. For both of them.
“I’ll have a beer, please. Whatever’s on tap. And Crystal?”
She almost asked how he knew her name, but then she remembered telling him when they’d spoken last night, when she thought she was helping someone who belonged here.
“Just breathe.”
She turned away, her brain sorting through a variety of choices. Tell. Run. Avoid. All of which were fraught with potentially negative consequences for her. If she told them she recognized this man from last night, it would reveal that she hadn’t told them everything she’d seen. Namely, the man’s face.
The man’s exquisitely handsome face. Chiseled jaw. Playful, full lips.
God, what was wrong with her? If he didn’t get his sexy ass out of here, they were going to be in deep shit.
Walker filled her order, chitchatting with her the whole time. His chatter helped calm her nerves. Just be cool. Nobody knows anything. Nobody sees anything. Just act natural. As her panic receded, anger rushed in. She’d helped him. She’d risked herself. Enough was enough. He had no freaking right to put her in any more danger than she was already in. She scrawled a note on a napkin and returned to the man’s booth with his beer.
“Here you go, sir.” She placed the napkin down first, waited until she was sure he saw her message—Leave now and don’t come back, then set the glass on top of it. “Will there be anything else?” She let every bit of the rage brewing inside her shine from her gaze.
It didn’t seem to faze him. “I’d like to talk to you, darlin’.”
She pasted a smile on her face and pretended the hint of Southern in his accent didn’t make her go warm. “Well, I wouldn’t like to talk to you.” She turned on her heel—
And he caught her hand in his and reeled her in against his side.
Crystal gasped at the contact, and her chest went tight with a growing panic borne of an old, horrible experience. Then her brain registered that he wasn’t hurting her, and he wasn’t trying anything else, and she managed to beat back her anxiety enough to hold it together.
He was damn lucky she was a waitress and not a dancer, because the club had a hands-off policy toward the latter. At least out on the floor. But the waitresses, her included, tolerated a pat on the ass or a hand on her thigh because flirting brought bigger tips. Every time.
Pretty Boy’s grasp probably looked playful from the outside, so Crystal forced herself to throw her head back and laugh like she was enjoying the attention. And, truth be told, between the unusual gentleness of his grip and the hardness of his muscles where they were pressed together, a flash of heat shot through her. Ridiculous. Dangerous. “You have no idea who you’re playing with,” she whispered, anger at herself mixing with her ire toward him.
“I need your help. And I think I can help you in return.”
She scoffed, leaned in closer, and prepared to let him know just what she thought about that—
“What happened to your cheek?” Anger slipped into his expression, sharpening the angles of his otherwise pretty face.
Well, shit. Not covered as well as she thought, then.
And why the heck would he care?
So, so gently, he stroked his knuckles over her cheekbone.
The tenderness of the gesture sent tingles through her belly. Bruno didn’t always hurt her, but he was almost never gentle, either.
Softness and compassion weren’t traits she was used to from a man. It was so foreign, she almost wasn’t sure how to respond. For a moment, she pressed into the touch, but then her brain restarted, and she jerked away. She tapped her finger on the napkin. “I don’t want to have to tell you again.”
Without waiting for him to reply, she turned and moved to another table that blessedly needed her assistance. She had to keep busy, act normal, laugh, and make the men feel special—and, above all else, avoid the gray-eyed man until he finally got the message. Or her shift ended. Thankfully, she wasn’t closing tonight and only had another hour to go. She could keep it together that long.
It was maybe the slowest hour of Crystal’s life.
Everywhere she moved, she felt the man’s gaze on her. The one time she gave in to the urge to look at him, he appeared absorbed in the dancers onstage, but somehow she knew it was an act.
Maybe it took an actor to know one?
The guy was watching her even when he didn’t appear to be. She would’ve sworn it. Prickles ran over her scalp. Her awareness of him was so intense, it permeated the air all around her. This man was dangerous in all kinds of ways she didn’t want to explore. Couldn’t even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t.
Then, ten minutes before the end of her shift, he threw a few bills on the table, shoved out of the booth, and strode across the club as if he weren’t Jimmy Church’s Number One Most Wanted.
And, God, if she’d thought his face handsome, the head-to-toe view was a total stunner. Tall, built, and all in black, the guy moved with a lethal grace that was quiet and powerful at the same time. She recognized the swagger a lot of the guys in the gang possessed, but his movements weren’t full of the posturing she often witnessed in the men around here. Like he was so bad-ass he had no need to prove it.
Crystal forced her gaze away and breathed a sigh of relief.
Thank God he’s gone.
She ignored the niggle of regret that settled into the pit of her stomach and made her way to clear his table and pocket his tip. At least for her troubles, Pretty Boy had left money—she could often keep a bigger portion of cash tips because the shift manager couldn’t track them with specificity, as opposed to the credit-card tips he could account for to the last penny. She wasn’t sure if the guy had been brave or stupid for returning after what he’d pulled the night before. All she knew was she hoped he didn’t ever return.
Niggle.
She groaned as she returned to the dressing room and changed out of the skimpy halter shirt and tiny skirt that just covered her ruined back but left her cleavage, midriff, and legs bare. Stepping into her jeans and flip-flops was like seeing an old friend. When she got out of this job, she might never wear heels again.
Crystal reveled in whatever crisis had kept Bruno away from the club tonight as she made her way out the door, across the parking lot, and into the dull red pickup that had been her father’s. Red, for the hair all three of the Dean women had had in common, not that she could remember much about her mom. She’d died in a car crash when Crystal had been so young her only real memory of the woman was her warm, happy smile. At least she’d managed to hang on to her mother’s sewing machine. Knowing that her mom’s hands had once worked at that needle made Crystal feel close to her every time she sat down to make her or Jenna a piece of clothing—one of Crystal’s few interests that had survived from before.
The engine started on a loud rumble, and Crystal’s hands gripped the wide steering wheel. The truck was so big it made her feel tiny, but a part of Crystal loved the fact that she owned a vehicle large enough to move all the important stuff she and Jenna owned. For when the time came to get away.
And it was coming. This year, she and Jenna were going to have the happiest Christmas ever. Because by then, they’d be somewhere new and far, far away.
In the grand scheme of things, eight months was nothing.