I’m so out of place, I feel tiny and insignificant. My clothes are cheap, but fuck it. They stole me, they knew who I was. I tip my head back and give them a haughty look as I stroll over to the table where Garrett is nursing a mug of what smells like coffee. Diesel is there too, his booted feet propped up on the glass table as he flips a lighter around in his hand.
Ryder heads over, placing a platter on the table and sitting down in the head chair, setting a napkin delicately in his lap. He’s in another suit today—a grey, pinstriped one with a fucking waistcoat, the material tightening around his impressive thighs as he leans back, sipping from a goddamn teacup.
He makes the thing look tiny, yet it seems to fit him somehow. His eyes watch me, analysing my every move as I stand there awkwardly before deciding to pick a chair and plop into it, very ungracefully. Slamming my own bare feet on the table, I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at him. “I want my boots back.”
Those boots cost me a small fortune and are one of the only things I’ve ever splurged on and bought for myself.
He sips from the cup and places it on a saucer on the table. It’s weirdly fascinating and kind of arousing, watching the man wrap his lips around such a dainty cup. Not that I’ll ever tell him that, asshole.
Diesel leans forward, his dark eyes watching me as he pushes his long, blond hair behind his ears. Like usual, Garrett ignores me.
Diesel is a fucking mad dog, Ryder is an arrogant asshole, and Kenzo is a charming psychopath…I can’t figure Garrett out. He seems to want to ignore my presence altogether. He doesn’t even look up at me. Kenzo sits next to me and grabs two mugs. “Coffee?”
“Dark,” I reply, and he pours it for me. I wrap my hands around the mug, wincing as my injured one aches.
Ryder notices, of course. I don’t think there is anything this man doesn’t notice. He has eyes like a hawk. “That serves you right for acting like a child and destroying your room.”
Did he just reprimand me…like a fucking kid? I have the urge to throw my coffee in his face, and he narrows his cold eyes like he knows my thoughts. “Do not test me. Because of your outburst, I have some people coming to fix the room today. You can’t be left alone, so you will stay with Kenzo.”
“A prison guard?” I laugh bitterly as I sip the coffee, which, annoyingly, is very fucking good.
“For your protection, and yes, to stop you from hurting yourself or trying to leave,” Ryder replies matter-of-factly, as he picks up his cutlery and starts to slice into his food. “Eat, you must be hungry.”
Then he ignores me like I’m nothing more than an annoyance. If that’s true, then why did he grab me? Is it because it was business to cover a debt? A warning to others? I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care.
Kenzo places food on my plate, a full English, but I feel too sick to eat. What do they think, that a fancy apartment and good food will make me stop trying to escape? Do they really just expect me to accept it?
Yes, I can tell they do. They are used to being obeyed, to people doing as they’re told.
“Is your hand still bleeding, pretty bird?” Diesel inquires, propping his chin on his hand as he watches me. It doesn’t escape me that Kenzo is between him and me.
They did it on purpose, but why? Why do they care what Diesel does to me? After all, they said I’m theirs to do with as they please. Ignoring him, I turn to Ryder, knowing he’s the one who has answers.
“My bar—” I start.
He lifts those cold eyes, freezing me in place. Most people watch you, but they don’t give you their full attention. Not Ryder, he locks you in place, analysing everything until I’m sure he knows there’s a bead of sweat dripping down my spine and my hands are shaking slightly in fear despite my bravado. He notes it all, watching me, using it against me. This is a man who likes complete control.
“What of it?” he challenges, his voice smooth and cultured. There is nothing rough about this man, everything is so perfect, but underneath all that…there is still a viper. A deadly, accurate snake.
“What will happen to it?” I ask.
“We’ll probably sell it or destroy it,” he answers unemotionally. Curling my fingers into my injured palm, I stop myself from lunging at him and trying to choke the bastard. That’s my bar.
Mine.
God, if Rich could see it now—it’s that thought that stops me. I promised to look after the place, to keep it running for him. I have to, even if it kills me.
“Please, please don’t.” I grit my teeth over the words, the only hint of weakness I will allow.
He sits back, his lips tilting up at the corner ever so slightly. “Fine, until we have decided what to do with it, I’ll allow your…associates to carry on business.”
I snort at his use of the word ‘associates.’ He means Cook and Travis. “Do they know what happened to me?”
He raises his eyebrow. “No, they think you had a family emergency and had to leave.”
I laugh, outright laugh, and he watches me. “Something funny?”
I can sense the others glancing between us, all sounds of eating stopping. Oh, Ryder doesn’t like not knowing something, at being the butt of a joke. “I have no family, they know that.” I snort.
“You have a father,” he replies in confusion.
“I disowned him years ago.” I shrug. “Everyone knows that.”
He nods, wiping his mouth with his napkin before folding it perfectly and placing it on the table. “I saw you were emancipated at seventeen.”
I lift my head then, wondering how. “How—”
He smiles then, and it’s so cold and evil, I actually shudder. Fuck. “We have our ways, love. I could find out anything about anyone. Give me a moment, and I’ll know the basics. An hour, I’ll know your life…” He leans close, his minty breath wafting across me, he smells like mint and wood. “Give me a day, and I can destroy you with everything I know.”
Tilting my head away, I keep my eyes locked on his, refusing to back down. “Fine, you know shit about me, who doesn’t? That doesn’t mean you know me.”
“No?” he counters, arching a brow as he sits back. Surprise enters his eyes at my refusal to concede, to be scared or intimidated, and I can imagine it’s a first. “Then let me enlighten you. You have broken nearly every bone in your body since you were three years old. Your father, probably, since he’s a drunk. Your mother was a drug addict who finally killed herself when you were fourteen. You walk like someone who can hold her own, you know how to fight. Most likely took some lessons. You own a gun which shows you have some…unsavoury friends. You aren’t afraid to run a dive bar, which shows you’re brave and slightly stupid. You don’t have a boyfriend, probably because of your glaring daddy issues—in fact, it seems you just have passing lovers. None who even know your full name, just the way you like it, keeping you in charge. How am I doing?”
“All right, apart from one,” I snarl, standing. “My mother didn’t kill herself. My father did that when he stuck the needle in her vein and pushed the plunger.”
I turn away and Diesel blocks my path. “Where are you going, Little Bird?”