The Perfect Bait

Chapter 3:

Eva – POV

The flickering neon sign above the dive bar hums faintly in the night air. It’s just past 9 p.m., but May’s chill makes it feel closer to midnight. I eye the entrance like it’s a trap waiting to spring. Shithole, I think. Exactly the kind of place a man like Zach Albery would haunt.

I adjust the hem of my twelve-inch leather skirt, tug my half-buttoned shirt down to tease the edge of my bra, and push my chest forward. I look like a drunk teenager—vulnerable, easy prey. Perfect.

Inside, the stench hits me instantly—tobacco, stale sweat, and cheap whiskey. The dim lighting does nothing to hide the filth. My eyes scan the space: one exit behind the bar, another by the bathrooms. Not much room for escape, but then again, I never run.

A few patrons glance up as I approach the bar. One of them—a tall guy in a wrinkled T-shirt and an overinflated ego—locks eyes with me. He’s on his feet before I can order.

“Hey, little doll,” he purrs, grabbing my shoulder like he owns it. “Where’s the fire?”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say sweetly, peeling his fingers off me.

He clutches his chest in mock pain. “Ouch. Don’t break my heart. Come on, just a drink.”

I keep the polite smile on my lips, but my patience wears thin. “Sorry, dear. I’m not here for you. Maybe next time… if you learn some manners.”

His face twists. “You’re spoiling my fun, little bitch,” he snarls, grabbing my wrist hard.

I calculate how to make a scene small enough not to ruin the night’s plan when a voice cuts through the tension.

“NO. MEANS. NO. Dude.”

Another hand—firm and rough—grabs mine and yanks me free.

My uninvited suitor steps back, growling low like a kicked dog. I turn to see my rescuer—and my target—standing between us.

Zach Albery.

“You alright?” he asks, not recognizing me, not sensing me. That’s new. Most men take one look and run the other way, screaming about monsters. But not him. He sees a girl in need of saving.

He starts walking toward the exit. “This isn’t a place for girls like you. I’ll call you a cab.”

“Zach,” I call, stopping him in his tracks. “Wait. Can’t we have a drink first? I came a long way, and I’m really thirsty.”

He turns, surprise flickering in his tired eyes. “Are you serious?”

I nod and gesture toward the bar. He hesitates, then follows. I choose to empty seats, and the gesture him to take one.

I order for both of us. “Whiskey, no ice. And a vodka orange.”

He raises a brow but doesn’t protest. I slide a bill across the bar and take in the man beside me. Tall, maybe 6’2”, with a weather-beaten face and haunted brown eyes. His hair, prematurely white, pokes out from under a black cowboy hat. He wears a worn leather jacket, black jeans, and combat boots. The kind of man who’s fought demons—and probably lost more than he won.

He downs his drink in one shot.

“I’m tired,” he mutters, voice gravelly. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

He turns to look at me squarely for the first time. “Thanks for the drink. If you’re really who I think you are… let’s get this over with.”

I meet his gaze and nod. The game is up, and he knows it.

We stand. He walks ahead of me toward the exit, and I follow—his silent shadow.