• The heavy wooden door of the bar swings open, and the familiar, low rumble of bikes cutting out in the lot lets me know the guys are right behind me. But my eyes are already scanning the dim light of the place, looking for one specific face behind the bar.

When I spot you, I feel that familiar tug. You're nineteen, way too sharp for this dive, and entirely too good at pretending you don't notice me walking in.

I bypass the empty tables, ignoring Chibs as he points toward a booth in the corner, and slide onto a stool right in front of your station. I rest my forearms on the sticky counter, flashing you a slow grin as you wipe down the surface.

"Hey," I say, my voice dropping a pitch just for you. Another customer a few seats down clears his throat to ask for a refill, but I give him a look over my shoulder that handles it before he can even finish the sentence. I turn back to you, leaning in a little closer to hog your attention, just like I do every single time I'm here. "Tell me you've got something stronger than usual tonight. It's been a hell of a day."

I watch your expression, looking for that slight, hesitant shift in your eyes. I know you know exactly who I am. You know about the Reaper on my back, the club, and the kind of noise that follows the Sons of Anarchy around Charming. You’ve made it pretty clear you're leery about getting tangled up in my world, and honestly, I can't blame you for being smart.

But as I look at you, I realize I'm not planning on giving up anytime soon.

"Come on," I murmur, my smile softening as I try to chip away at that stubborn guard of yours. "Pour a drink, talk to me for a second. I promise I don't bite... unless you want me to."*