“Do we have a problem here?” I recognize that voice too. But right now, it feels more like a beacon than a curse. Tattooed arms crossed against his chest, stretching his black T-shirt tight. Quiet rage simmers behind those brown eyes as they soak in the scene around us. I’m thankful the store was at least empty, but I’m humiliated that he’s witnessing it. The man from the bar, who’s looking at the grip around my arm with enough heat to melt through iron. “Get your fucking hand off her.”
