The Alpha's Last Mate

Liv

The glass is chipped.

My old English professor would say it’s the perfect metaphor for my life. Chipped but not broken.

I smile wryly to myself. Those were better times. When I still had hope. Bright-eyed and filled with dreams about what my life would become.

None of it happened. All my dreams were shattered. One after the other, until there was nothing left. Just a hollowed out Liv-shaped shell.

I stare at the chip in that glass like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, ignoring the way the tumbler rocks slightly on the sticky table.

This is a proper hole-in-the-wall dive bar. And it just so happens that this is the exact place where my car ran out of gas. I tried to make it to the gas station with its bright neon sign just over the horizon, but I didn’t get that far. My car limped into the deserted parking lot, and that’s where it still is.

The plan was to ask for help because my cell phone’s battery died ages ago, but no one here seemed particularly friendly. Not the bartender, nor the sour-looking waitress who is probably the tallest woman I’ve ever seen, or the few day drinkers scattered throughout the bar.

So I just ordered the cheapest whisky they had, and sat down. I’ve been sitting in this spot, nursing the same rotgut whiskey for over an hour now.

Every so often, the Amazonian waitress shoots me a disapproving frown, but I don’t give a shit. I have bigger problems. I move my foot, at least I try to, and the sole of my boot sticks to the floor. It probably hasn’t been washed since I was born.

The smell of booze is strong enough to pickle my brain, but at least it’s quiet. I take a sip of the cheap whiskey. It burns like battery acid, landing in my stomach like a burning stone.

I feel nothing. Everything inside me has gone numb and dead.

I should be crying.

Or panicking.

Or begging the universe to send me a sign.

Instead, I’m sitting in a bar that smells like wet dog and fried onions, counting the last crumpled bills in my wallet and doing a mental tally of my bank account - I have enough for a motel room or a tank of gas, but not both.

This morning, I walked out of my life. I just packed up my shit and left.

I woke up to find Jason, my boyfriend, snoring loudly next to me and wondered what the hell I was doing with my fucking life.

I was in a dead-end job, working as a copy editor for a dying newspaper, dating a man who pretended that he was getting his music career off the ground, but was really using it as an excuse to get laid by everything he could impress with his mediocre talent.

He still reeked of alcohol after a night at the club. And suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I knew was that I had to get out of there.

So I packed what I could, loading my two suitcases and whatever else would fit into my rinky-dink car, and drove off with no clear plan for what comes next.

Now here I am, sitting in the kind of bar with a jukebox straight out of the sixties, the tables all wobble, and I’m surrounded by lonely daydrinkers.

It fits. I’m one of them now.

Out of nowhere, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, and a shiver runs down my spine like someone just walked over my grave. Unable to stop myself, I look up, searching for the disturbance in the force.

I find him almost right away. He’s sitting at the bar, a bottle in one big hand, staring into the ether like he wants to punch God in the face.

Yeah. I know that feeling.

Fuck, he’s big. Not gym-bro big. Built-from-the-bone big. His T-shirt strains over broad shoulders, his jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, and his forearms look like they could snap a man in half. And he does not look happy.

I keep sneaking glances at him. Every time I do, my stomach gives a little swoop like I’ve been caught doing something bad. But I can’t stop looking at him. There’s a kind of magnetism about him that defies words or explanation.

The bar is slowly starting to fill up. The music on the jukebox changes. Some kind of screamy metal song that grinds my nerves and assaults my eardrums.

That’s it. I’ve had enough.

I get up to leave. Two hours ago, this bar seemed relatively harmless. But now… it’s noisy, packed to the rafters, and the people who are coming in look dangerous. All leather and chains, some of them tattooed from head to toe.

The man at the bar shifts his gaze and looks straight at me. My heart does a little flip-flop that spells nothing but trouble, and my legs go a little numb. He brings the bottle to his lips and tips it over, his adam’s apple bopping up and down as he swallows.

I stare. Completely mesmerised.

Then someone shoves me hard enough that I lose my balance and fall forward across the table. The air whooshes from my lungs, and the still half full tumbler shatters under my weight, shards of glass tear my shirt to ribbons.

“Stop.” A calm, commanding voice silences the noisy bar.

Everyone freezes. No one speaks. The scratchy high-pitched yelling coming from the jukebox ends, and the silence is complete. Before I can even move, there’s a scrape of wood on wood. I turn my head and look at the big man who has gotten to his feet.

He looks more pissed than ever. If such a thing is even possible.

Without saying a word, he walks over to the guy who shoved me and punches him right in the kisser. The man grunts and wipes blood from his mouth.

I ready myself for a bar fight, every muscle getting ready to dodge and dive my way out of this place. The guy who shoved me mutters something and retreats into the shadows.

That was weird.

For just a second, the big man looks at me, his sharp blue eyes sparking in the gloomy bar. My heart jumps into my throat, my mouth runs dry while I wait for him to say something. But he just turns around, marches back to the bar, drops in his seat and opens another bottle of vodka like nothing happened.

Slowly, the bar comes back to life. The jukebox crackles, and a distorted scream accompanied by aggressive guitar riffs fill the bar once more.

Someone laughs, and then a woman in a tight leather skirt with her breasts hanging out begins to gyrate. Three men join her, their hands everywhere, groping her, grabbing her breasts, her ass.

“How’s it lookin’ sweetheart,” someone asks behind me. “Want ‘nother drink? I’ll pay.” He grins at me with yellow teeth, his watery eyes are filled with lust. He’s practically drooling. “Don’t get many of your sort in ‘ere.”

“Yeah?” I ask despite knowing that I really should leave. “What sort is that?”

“Classy like.”

I snort softly to myself. Classy.

Someone grabs the man and slams him head first into my table. Blood and glass spray everywhere.

The mysterious stranger is back, his hand on the other man’s neck. Mister Mysterio lifts the guy up and slams his head back down on the table. “She is not for you,” he says firmly.

“Hey,” I protest. “Woah. He’s harmless. There’s no need to beat the shit out of the poor guy.”

The stranger pins me in place with an icy gaze. “You should probably go,” he says in a low, deep, gritty voice.

I’ve had enough. This place is just too weird. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as I make my way through the bar. I hold my breath until I stumble out into the parking lot.

Air loudly explodes from my lungs, and I lean over to take in big gulps of fresh air.

The night is cool, but not cold, and thin mist rises up from the ground, swirling around my feet. Slowly, I walk over to my car with no idea what I’ll do next.

Everything is quiet except for the pop of the neon sign with the large arrow pointing to the bar, and the crunch of gravel under my boots.

Then I hear it. Footsteps. Heavy. Steady. And coming my way.

My pulse quickens, and I speed up a little, clutching the keys in my hand, holding out the one that opens my door. The footsteps stop when I reach my car. Despite my fear, I look over my shoulder.

And there he is… bathed in the bright red light of the neon sign.

My stomach coils tightly. Up close, he looks even bigger. His face, unmovable, is carved from marble, and even though he sways a little, there’s nothing soft about him.

“Seriously?” I snap, trying to be brave. “Did you come for a thank you?”

He doesn’t speak, but he keeps his eyes on me.

“Th- thank you,” I stutter. “You’ve done your good deed for the night. You protected me against the creep in the bar. You can go back to your bottle now.”

I blink, and he’s in front of me.

My breath catches in my throat and it sticks there. I start to back up, not stopping until I hit my car.

He presses his whole body against mine, his hand slamming against the roof of my car, right next to my head, trapping me.

He's a solid block of muscle, and scorching hot. The smell of vodka, smoke, and something wild clings to him.

“Whu- what do you want?” I hate the way my voice shakes.

Not a word. He leans in, so close I can see the dark stubble along his jaw, and the storm raging in his blue eyes.

He searches my face, and at long last he speaks in a low, smooth voice. “You really have no idea how much trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?”