Strange feelings

MIGUEL

The bar hummed with its usual chaos as I weaved through the tables, tray balanced in my hand, serving drinks to the same sorry bastards who stumbled in every night. Sweat clung to my skin but I kept moving, pouring shots, wiping down sticky surfaces, anything to keep my mind off last night.

But my eyes betrayed me. They flicked toward that dark corner again, the one swallowed by shadows where he always sat. I could still feel his stare crawling over me, even now when I saw nobody there. The stool was empty, the whiskey glass gone. My chest tightened. Good. Maybe he’d finally fucked off.

I couldn’t scrub it out of my head though. That bathroom. Him standing there with bloody knuckles, staring down at that crumpled drunk like he’d just squashed a roach. Contempt had burned in his eyes, while blood smeared the tiles like some fucked-up painting. 

I’d seen plenty of bar fights, plenty of assholes getting what they deserved, but that? That was different. He’d done it for me. Said it himself. And I hated how it stuck with me, how it rattled something loose I couldn’t shove back down.

I slammed a glass on a table a little too hard, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. The guy grunted something, but I was already moving, brushing past a swaying idiot who reeked of cheap cologne. 

My shift dragged on, the clock ticking slower than a dying pulse. Every time I turned, I half-expected to see him lurking, that heavy gaze pinning me in place. 

But… nothing. Just shadows. I told myself I didn’t care, that I was glad he was gone. Bullshit. The empty corner gnawed at me like a missing tooth I couldn’t stop tonguing.

Finally, after what seemed like years, I clocked out.

“I'm leaving!” I called out to my coworker as I tossed my apron behind the bar and stepped into the night, without waiting for his response. 

The air hit me hard, cool against my flushed skin. I pulled my jacket tighter, my boots scuffing the pavement as I started walking.

Then I heard it. Footsteps. Two sets, steady, closing in. My shoulders tensed as I glanced back. Two guys peeled out of nowhere, moving toward me with purpose. Suits, slicked hair, and the kind of swagger that screamed trouble. I stopped, my hands curling into fists, ready to swing if they tried anything.

One of them, a wiry bastard with a scar slicing his eyebrow, spoke first. “Our boss wants to see you.”

I snorted and stepped back. “Who the fuck’s your boss?”

The other one, broader with a jaw like a bulldog, nodded toward a black car parked across the street.

“Like I care about your freaking boss.” I stepped away from the men and made to continue on my merry way, brushing them off when the window rolled down. 

My breath locked in my throat. It was him. That same fucking guy from the bathroom, the one who’d been haunting the bar every night. He stepped out, unfolding from the car like a predator climbing out of a cage, and his men pulled back without a word.

He walked toward me, hands loose at his sides, but every step carried weight. Up close, he was bigger than I’d clocked before. His shoulders filled out a black shirt that hugged his biceps and arms tight. 

“I’m Salvatore,” he said, his voice low, smooth, like he was offering me something I didn’t ask for.

I crossed my arms. “Didn’t ask for your fucking name.” 

He didn’t flinch as I did expect. All he did was watch me with that steady gaze, his lips twitching like he found me amusing. “Fair enough.” He took a step closer, too close, and I tensed as he lifted a hand. “I owe you an apology. For pestering you.” His fingers brushed my cheek, light as a whisper, lingering on one of my curls that’d fallen loose. “These curls, though. They’re something else.”

An electric jolt shot through me, hot, like his touch lit a fuse I didn’t know I had. My brain screamed to move, to shove him off, but my body froze for half a second too long. 

Then instinct kicked in. I swung my fist, slamming into his chest. It was like punching a brick wall. It barely budged him. My knuckles stung as I yanked my knife from my pocket and flipped it open in one motion. I pressed the blade to his throat, panting hard, my breath clouding in the cold air.

His men lunged forward, reaching for their weapons, but Salvatore threw up a hand to stop them. “Back off,” he snapped. They froze and stepped back, their eyes darting between us.

I glared at him, my chest heaving as I kept the knife steady against his skin. His pulse thrummed calmly under the blade like he wasn’t fazed at all. 

Those eyes locked on mine, and fuck, it pissed me off more. “Stay the hell away from me,” I snarled, my voice raw, shaking with everything I wouldn’t let him see. “I don’t need your shit. I don’t need you.”

He didn’t move or even blink. He just stood there like he could wait me out forever. I pulled the knife back and shoved it into my pocket as I turned and bolted into the night. My boots pounded the pavement, the night swallowing me as I ran, my heart slamming against my ribs. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. But I felt that weight of him, like he’d branded me without even trying.

After a few seconds of running, I stopped finally and leaned against a brick wall, my breath ragged and my hands shaking as I dragged them through my hair. That touch. That fucking touch. It lingered like it was alive, buzzing under my skin, and I hated it. I hated him. 

I fucking hated how he’d gotten close enough to make me feel it.

I had told him to stay away. And I meant it. I could handle the drunks, the creeps, the long nights bleeding into longer days. I didn’t need some psycho in a tight shirt playing saviour or whatever the hell he thought he was doing.

“I need to get home,” I whispered to myself.