This hellhole owned me. I was stuck here, with my bar.
“Ever think about running again?” he asked, his shoulders tense.
Cocking my head, I bit down on my tongue. His thoughts were way too similar to mine for comfort. “Why would I want to run now? I told you, I found a home in the Patriot.”
“But what if you could just leave Boston?” He caught my fingers. “What if you had enough money to leave this shit hole and the threat of Bitter Hill behind you? And you just . . . ran?”
I shook my head, my heart skipping a beat. “I don’t. And I can’t. I’m not going to lie; I’ve dreamt about starting over a few times. But I can’t.”
I couldn’t just abandon the bar. It held the only happy memories I’d ever known.
“Even if you had enough money to start new? To buy a house, and get a job, and live in a quaint little suburb in the safest town you could find? Get a blank passport and the number of a guy who could put your photo on it? Then you could go wherever you wanted.”
I let out a short laugh. He was living in dreamland, because I never had, and never would have, those things. “Where would that be?”
“I have no fucking clue.”
Shaking my head, I shot him a rueful smile. “Yeah, me, either. You know why?”
“No.” He shoved a hand through his hair and stood, bringing both the empty glasses into the kitchen. “Why?”
I followed him. “Because you and me weren’t meant for perfect lives in the perfect suburbs. We’re fighters. Survivors. Not gardeners.”
“But you could be.” He gripped the edge of the counter so tight I could see the whites of his knuckles and the hardening of his muscles. “You could be normal.”
I picked up the bottle of vodka. “But not you?”
“Nah. I’ll be lucky if I survive the week.” His voice tried for casual but didn’t pull it off.
“Wait, what?” I set it back down. “What do you mean?”
“Fuck. Forget I said that.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a fat envelope. He handed it to me, and I took it out of reflex. “Run, sweetheart. Take this and go.”
I closed my eyes and bit down hard on my tongue. Something twisted in my chest, and it hurt more than any blow I’d ever gotten. “Tell me you didn’t just hand me an envelope full of cash.”
He flexed his jaw. “And if I did?”
How many times had I dreamt of this? Of finding a butt-load of cash and running? God, I didn’t even know. But I didn’t want it from him. Not like this. I shoved it back, hitting him square in the chest with a whack. “Take it back. I don’t want it. And I’m not running away.”
He didn’t take the money. Instead, he leaned down till we were nose to nose and whispered, “I dare you, Heidi. I dare you to run.”
“No.” I slammed the envelope on the counter. “I’m not leaving my bar. Why are you asking me to? What’s going on?”
He stepped back and covered his face before dragging his hands down and letting out an exasperated sound. “You need to go, okay? Right now. Take the money and get out of here.”
Suddenly it made sense. He was trying to get rid of me without feeling guilty. So he threw money at me like I was some hooker from a corner. “Oh. So that’s what this is about? You want me gone?”
He nodded once. “Yes. You need to go.”
“Okay.” I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, tamping down any feelings of hurt. He’d warned me he was an asshole countless times, but I really hadn’t believed all his talk about keeping me safe was just bullshit. Guess I was wrong. “But you don’t have to throw money at me to get me to leave. I can take care of myself. Don’t worry—I won’t even ask for your help lugging my bags back to my apartment.”
I walked past him, but he caught my arm. His touch burned my skin, searing some deep part of me that would never recover. “That’s not what I meant, damn it. You don’t need to go home; you need to leave.”
“Okay, God, I am.” I jerked free. “I’m going.”
“No.” He gripped my shoulders and shook me slightly. “You’re not listening to me.”
I pushed his chest, and he stumbled backward. I’d obviously caught him off guard. “No, you’re not listening to me. I’m going. Right now. And where I go, and what I do, is none of your business anymore. You saved me, so thank you for that. But now I’ll take care of myself, like I always do. I happen to be quite good at it.”
“The hell you are.” He stepped in my path, towering over me. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and an angry vein pulsated in his neck. “The only way you’re walking out that door is if you’re leaving Boston.”
“I’m not leaving my bar,” I gritted out through my teeth. “So screw off, Lucky.”
The muscle ticked again. “Then you’re not going anywhere.”