Bound For Me(2)

By: Natalie Anderson



The three guys stood at the end of the bar, leaning against the wood. Jerk, Double Jerk and Ultimate Jerk-off. They’d been there every night for days. Had eaten the same thing for dinner each night. Drunk the same drinks. Talked the same talk. The worst—Ultimate Jerk-off—stood center as always; loud and obnoxious. She’d booted him out of the exclusive bar on the weekend for lighting up his cigarette in the no-smoking restaurant area—it had been his final number in a litany of loud-ass actions.

He hadn’t forgiven her. And he was letting her know it. Letting the whole damn world know it.

“You know what she needs?” he asked his friends with a snide laugh.

“Yeah, me hard up her ass.” Jerk answered.

Charming.

“No,” Double Jerk answered. “Two at once.”

In his dreams.

“Three.” Ultimate Jerk-off, corrected them. “You guys can take front and back. I want her mouth.”

Delightful.

More jeering laughter.

“Bet you I could make her want it.” Ultimate added, his stage-whisper turning into a brash boast. “She’ll want it from me.”

Savannah lifted her head and looked right into the blue eyes of the unnaturally still, silent man opposite her.

If she’d thought she’d seen anger in his eyes before, now there was naked fury. Incandescent rage of the apocalyptic, no-one-left-standing variety.

The scary kind.

She lifted her chin higher, clenching her jaw.

No thanks.

His gaze flickered from her lips back up to her eyes. His narrowed. Slowly he pulled the hat from his head and put it on the bar beside his beer. Savannah snuck a breath to clear her fogging senses. His hair was shaved ultra-close. It was barely longer than the stubble on his jaw. He looked like he’d just escaped day one of basic training only he was beyond training, he looked like a master of lethal moves—like he was superhero strong—not just in a physical sense, but in terms of resolve.

“I’ll have her on her knees.” Ultimate Jerk-off elaborated loudly. “And I’ll pull her hair ’til she takes me so deep she chokes.”

For a split-second Savannah’s spirit wavered and she wished the ferocious-looking loner would get up and say something. Step in and tell them to shut the hell up. Save her the trouble.

But Savannah didn’t actually need anyone to save her. Never had. Never would. She took care of herself. She’d had to, so she knew how.

She straightened, pulling her shoulders back and pinning a bland look onto her face. As she turned towards the jerks, the loner grimly lifted his bottle to his lips.

Don’t let them see they’re getting to you.

She’d heard worse. Been treated worse. People had acted like she was invisible. She could pretend they were invisible.

Never show you’re upset.

She knew bullies. Knew what they wanted.

Never let them win.

She walked towards the three men, letting the heels of her knee-high boots strike loudly on the wooden floor so they’d be heard over the low music from the sound system. The asswipes never commented when any of the other bar staff were within earshot, so it was unusual for them to talk like this in front of another customer. Clearly they didn’t think the liftie deserved a second thought. Savannah figured they were wrong. Just as they were wrong about everything else.

“Is there anything more you need gentlemen?” she asked. “It’s closing time.”

“Oh you know what I need, doll.” Ultimate leaned over the bar.

“Yes, I do know,” Savannah answered coolly, resisting the instinct to back away. “But is there something more you’d like from the bar, or do you think you might have had enough already?”

The two guys either side of him laughed. There’d be a cat call, wolf whistle or way worse any second.

“I’ll never have had enough of anything you offer, darling.” Ultimate Jerk-off’s eyes narrowed on her. “But do you know what you need?”

She didn’t answer. There was no point.

Super-wealthy and with a warped sense of entitlement, these three had arrived in the elite Summerhill alpine resort to ski and party-on just over a week ago. Within five minutes of walking into St Clair’s restaurant and bar on their first night, Ultimate here had asked her out. She’d refused—politely but with chilly finality.

Just as she refused all those invitations.

That’s when things had gotten interesting. Seemed Ultimate didn’t like the word ‘no’. He’d started playing the prick, his invitations becoming more and more frequent and more and more obscene.

Her boss at the bar was aware, but hadn’t wanted to ban them—because, ‘boys will be boys’. And these ‘boys’ were wealthy, connected, large spending customers.

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