Den of Vipers

by K.A. Knight

I stare at the four men in my doorway. They’re not my normal customers. One is wearing a suit that’s tailored perfectly to fit him and is probably worth more than the whole bar. The other three look like mean sons of a bitches. I’m pretty sure the one in the back is an actual giant, as he ducks his head to get through the door. And they’re all packing, I catch glimpses of the guns. So do my customers. The whole place clears, chairs scraping and falling to the floor in their rush to escape the newcomers. Cook pokes his head out, and I sigh. So this is them, the people hunting me. “Cook, go home,” I order, knowing I won’t be opening tonight. “Smart.” The one in the suit nods. His way too slick black hair is pushed back, styled flawlessly, long on top and short on the sides, so I have the insane urge to mess it up. But his eyes? They are black, cold, and calculating. They scan the room and me, noting everything. I bet if I asked, he could relay every single detail. His cheekbones are high and sharp, his jaw chiselled with stubble covering it, only framing his lush, plump lips. He’s tall, around six foot three, and his suit hugs his thick thighs and arms in the most tempting way. He’s just too perfect to look at, like a model. “Is this her?” One of them grins, strolling forward. His long blond hair is pushed behind pierced ears. Tattoos peek out of the top of his white shirt, which is partially tucked into ripped, faded jeans and black boots. His arms are huge and dotted with ...