## Chapter 3: Closer
The Texas heat had nothing on the way Jace Bennet looked at me.
Three weeks since he'd first walked into The Rusty Spur, and I could feel his presence before I even saw him. It was like my body had developed some twisted radar for the man—my skin prickling, stomach tightening, pulse jumping in my throat. The kind of physical reaction I'd read about in romance novels but never believed was real.
I'd been serving drinks long enough to know when a man wanted something. But this felt different. Deeper. More dangerous.
Because Jace didn't just watch me when I worked. He *guarded* me.
"You dropping that tray or you planning to actually serve those beers sometime tonight?" Maria elbowed me as I stood frozen, caught in his line of sight again.
I blinked, realizing I'd been staring at the back corner booth where he always sat. Same spot every Tuesday and Friday. Like clockwork. Like he was punching in for a job.
"Sorry." I adjusted my grip on the tray, the cold bottles sweating against my palms. "Just tired."
"Uh-huh." Maria's knowing look made my cheeks burn. "That why you've been checking that corner every five minutes? 'Cause you're tired?"
I ignored her, weaving through the growing crowd toward the pool tables. The Rusty Spur was filling up fast for a Friday night, the air thick with cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, the jukebox pumping out classic rock that had me humming along despite everything.
The first indication that something had shifted came when I delivered drinks to the usual group of oil field workers. Tank and his buddies had been coming here for years, always a little rough with their jokes, occasionally grabby when they got too drunk. I'd learned to handle them—sharp tongue, quick feet, and the refusal to back down.
But tonight, when Tank reached out like he might cop a feel as I bent to collect their empties, he suddenly froze. His bloodshot eyes flicked toward the back corner, and the color drained from his weathered face.
"Sorry, Sadie," he mumbled, pulling his hand back like I'd burned him. "Didn't mean nothing by it."
I straightened slowly, following his gaze. Jace sat in his usual booth, one arm stretched along the back of the seat, looking for all the world like he was relaxed. But even from across the room, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers had curled into a loose fist.
He hadn't said a word. Hadn't moved. But somehow, everyone in The Rusty Spur knew exactly what would happen if Tank's hand had connected.
"You're good," I told Tank, my voice steadier than I felt. "Another round?"
"Nah, we're good. Thanks." He wouldn't meet my eyes, suddenly finding his half-empty beer fascinating.
I made my way back to the bar, my mind racing. This had been happening more and more. The regulars who used to crowd the bar when I worked, vying for attention, had suddenly developed better manners. The occasional drifter who wandered in looking for trouble suddenly remembered they had somewhere else to be.
All because of him.
"You gonna tell me what the hell is going on?" Maria cornered me behind the bar, her dark eyes flashing. "Duke's been asking questions."
My stomach dropped. Duke owned The Rusty Spur, and he had zero tolerance for drama that might affect his bottom line. "What kind of questions?"
"About your biker boyfriend. Whether he's causing trouble. Whether he's scaring off paying customers."
"He's not my boyfriend." The denial came automatically, but even as I said it, something twisted in my chest. "And he's not scaring anyone off."
"Darlin', that man sits in my bar like he owns the place, and every drunk cowboy in the county suddenly remembers his manners? That's not coincidence."
I grabbed a bar towel, needing something to do with my hands. "You complaining about customers behaving themselves?"
"I'm complaining about not knowing why." Maria studied my face. "You running from something, Sadie? Or someone?"
The question hit too close to home, and I busied myself wiping down bottles, my back to her. That was the problem with small towns and small bars—people noticed things. People asked questions.
"I'm going to take my break," I said instead of answering, untying my apron.
"It's only nine."
"I'll make it up later."
I pushed through the swinging door into the storage room, sucking in the relative cool air. My hands were shaking slightly as I pulled out my phone, checking for messages, calls, anything that might explain the tight feeling in my chest.
Nothing. Which should have made me feel better, but didn't.
Victor had been silent for too long.
I closed my eyes, leaning against the stack of beer cases. Three months. Three months since I'd run from Houston in the middle of the night, taking nothing but what I could fit in my ancient Honda and the cash I'd been skimming from my tips for six months. Three months of looking over my shoulder, of jumping at shadows, of learning to sleep with one eye open.
And now, in the middle of nowhere West Texas, I'd somehow managed to find exactly the kind of trouble I'd been trying to avoid.
Because Jace Bennet wasn't just some guy who liked cheap beer and country music. He wore danger like cologne, carried violence in the set of his shoulders. The leather vest I'd spotted that first night hadn't been lying—President, Iron Kings MC, West Texas Chapter.
I'd grown up around men like him. Hell, I'd dated men like him. I knew exactly how that story ended—with someone getting hurt. Usually someone like me.
But knowing something and feeling something were two very different things, and when I closed my eyes, I could still see the way he'd looked at me last Tuesday. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Like he was trying to see through every wall I'd built around myself.
My phone buzzed in my hand, and I nearly dropped it. Unknown number.
I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs. Victor had found burner phones before. Had people who could track anything. The last time he'd called, I'd made the mistake of answering, thinking it was safe.
The memory of his voice still crawled across my skin in the dark: *"You can run, Sarah, but you can't hide. I made you. I own you. And I'll find you."*
I let it go to voicemail, then immediately blocked the number. If it was important, they'd call back. If it was Victor...
I pushed away from the wall, checking my reflection in the small mirror by the time clock. My makeup was still intact, though my eyes looked a little wild. I smoothed down my hair, straightened my spine, and prepared to go back out there.
To him.
Because as much as I knew I should be terrified of Jace Bennet and the way he'd inserted himself into my life, there was a part of me—a stupid, reckless part—that felt safer knowing he was out there. Watching. Waiting.
That should have been my first warning sign.
The Rusty Spur felt different when I stepped back behind the bar. The energy had shifted, the way it did before a storm rolled in across the desert. I could feel eyes on me, conversations that stopped when I approached.
"What's going on?" I asked Maria, who was slamming drawers with more force than necessary.
"Your friend's been asking for you."
My gaze automatically went to the corner booth. Empty.
"Not there. Out back. Said he'd wait by your car." Maria's expression was unreadable. "You want me to tell Duke?"
I considered it. Duke kept a shotgun behind the bar and had no problem using it. But something told me Jace hadn't gone to all this trouble just to wait for me in the parking lot if he'd meant me harm.
"I'll handle it," I said, already moving toward the back exit.
"Sadie?" Maria caught my arm. "Be careful. These biker types... they're not like regular men. They play by different rules."
I wanted to tell her I knew. God, I knew better than anyone. Instead, I just nodded and pushed through the heavy door into the night.
The parking lot was lit by a single floodlight that buzzed like an angry insect. My Honda sat under it like a spotlight, looking even more pathetic than usual with its mismatched fenders and the duct tape holding the passenger window together.
Jace leaned against the driver's side door, arms crossed, looking like he belonged there. Like he belonged everywhere. The light caught on his dark hair, the sharp angles of his face, the predatory stillness that made something low in my belly clench.
"You're blocking my car." My voice came out steadier than I felt, and I was proud of that.
"We need to talk." He didn't move, didn't even uncross his arms. Just watched me with those pale gray eyes that seemed to catalog every detail.
"I have nothing to say to you."
"That's fine. I'll do the talking."
I stopped about ten feet away, close enough to see the way his jaw tightened when I wouldn't come closer. Close enough to smell the combination of leather and soap and something that was just him.
"How'd you know this was my car?" I asked, because I'd never told him. Had barely spoken to him at all.
"I know a lot of things about you, Sadie."
My name sounded different in his mouth. Slower. Like he was tasting it.
"You been checking up on me?" I kept my voice light, but my hands had curled into fists at my sides.
"I've been making sure you're safe."
The honest answer threw me off balance. Most men would have lied, made up some story about coincidence. But Jace Bennet didn't seem like the kind of man who wasted time with lies.
"Why?"
"Because something about you doesn't add up, and that makes me curious. And because three men who should know better than to touch what's not theirs have suddenly developed manners they never had before."
"What's not theirs?" I repeated, anger flaring hot in my chest. "I'm not anyone's."
This time he did move, pushing away from my car with the kind of controlled grace that reminded me of a predator. "No? Then why does every man in that bar move like he's walking on eggshells when you're around? Why does your boss keep checking the cameras like he's expecting trouble? Why do you sleep with a knife under your pillow?"
I went cold. All of it. The knife, the sleeping habits, the way I'd positioned my bed so I could see both the window and the door—things he shouldn't know. Things nobody should know.
"Been watching me pretty close, haven't you?" I kept my voice steady through sheer force of will. "That's called stalking. They have laws about that."
"Iron Kings don't concern themselves much with laws."
"Yeah, I've noticed." I met his stare, refusing to back down even though every instinct screamed at me to run. "What do you want, Jace?"
"I want to know what you're running from."
The direct hit made me flinch, and I saw the way his eyes sharpened, cataloging the reaction like evidence.
"You're good," I admitted. "I'll give you that. But you're wrong about me. I'm not running from anything."
"Darlin', I've been running from things since I was sixteen years old. I know the look. I know the way you check every face in a room when you walk in. I know the way you count exits like other women count calories."
"Maybe I'm just cautious."
"Maybe you're just full of shit." He moved closer, slow enough that I could have stepped back, but I held my ground. "Let me guess—abusive ex? Got tired of the beatings and decided to disappear?"
Close, but not close enough. And I wasn't about to correct him.
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know you flinch when men raise their voices, but you won't back down from a fight. I know you keep cash hidden around that shithole apartment like you're planning to bolt any second. I know you clock every stranger who walks into the bar like you're expecting them to come for you."
My heart was hammering so hard I was surprised he couldn't hear it. Because he'd gotten all of it right. Every detail. Which meant he'd been watching me for weeks. Closely.
"You want to know what I think?" he continued, circling me now like a shark. "I think you're smart enough to know that whatever you're running from is going to catch up to you eventually. And I think you're scared shitless about what happens when it does."
"Congratulations," I said, proud that my voice didn't shake. "You want a medal for your detective work?"
"I want to help you."
The words hung between us in the humid Texas night. Simple words, but they felt weighted with meaning I didn't understand.
"Why?" I asked again, because I needed to know. "Why would you care what happens to some bartender you don't even know?"
He stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I could see the silver threading through the gray, the tiny scar through his left eyebrow, the way his pulse beat steady and strong in his throat.
"Because you're mine," he said simply, like that settled it. "Have been since the first night you looked at me like I was the last thing you wanted and the only thing you needed."
"That's not how this works." But even as I said it, something in my chest twisted, because God help me, I'd felt it too. This pull between us that didn't make sense and couldn't lead anywhere good.
"That's exactly how this works." His voice had dropped lower, rougher. "I've claimed you, Sadie. Whether you know it yet or not. The question is whether you're going to let me keep you safe, or whether you're going to keep pretending you don't need anyone until it's too late."
"Claimed me?" I laughed, but it came out shaky. "What is this, the Stone Age? I don't belong to anyone."
"You do now." He reached out, fingers barely grazing my jaw, and I should have moved away. Should have slapped his hand down and told him exactly where he could shove his caveman routine.
Instead, I stood frozen as he traced the line of my cheekbone with his thumb, the calloused skin sending sparks through my entire body.
"You don't get to just decide—"
"I do when it keeps you breathing." His hand dropped, and the loss of contact felt like a physical thing. "Your ex—"
"Is none of your business."
"—is going to find you eventually. Men like that always do. Question is whether you want to be ready when he shows up, or whether you want to keep pretending you can handle this alone."
I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That I had it handled. That Victor wasn't my ex—he was my problem, my mistake, the man who'd decided I belonged to him after one date that never should have happened. But the words stuck in my throat, because Jace was looking at me like he already knew all my secrets and was waiting for me to catch up.
"I can't do this," I said finally. "Whatever this is. I don't have time for... for whatever you think this is going to be."
"You don't have time not to." He stepped back, and I could breathe again, though the night air felt colder without him close. "But I'm not going to force you. When you're ready to stop running, you know where to find me."
He turned to walk away, and I hated the way my body leaned toward him, like he'd become magnetic north without my permission.
"Jace." The name came out before I could stop it, and he paused, looking back at me. "What makes you think I'd ever want to be claimed by anyone?"
For the first time tonight, he smiled—not the practiced charm he used on customers, but something sharper. More real.
"Because you're still standing here," he said, "instead of getting in that piece of shit car and driving as far away from me as possible."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the darkness between the floodlights, leaving me alone with the taste of want in my mouth and the terrible knowledge that he was right.
I was still standing there, keys in hand, twenty minutes later when my phone buzzed again. Another unknown number. Then another. Then another.
Panic clawed at my throat as I fumbled with the door, my hands shaking too hard to get the key in the lock. Because I recognized the pattern—three calls in quick succession. Victor's signature. His way of letting me know he'd found me.
When the fourth call came through a different number, I answered on reflex, my voice barely a whisper. "What do you want?"
Silence stretched for a long moment, and I could hear traffic in the background. City traffic. Not the quiet hum of the desert.
"Sarah, baby. You sound scared." Victor's voice was smooth as aged whiskey, cultured and cold. "You shouldn't be scared of me. You know I'd never hurt you."
"You should have thought of that before you put me in the hospital."
"I put you in a private room with the best doctors money could buy. That's not hurting you, darling. That's taking care of what's mine."
"I'm not yours." My voice was stronger now, anger overriding fear. "I never was. I went on one date. One."
"One date was all it took. I saw it in your eyes. You knew it too, even then."
The thing about Victor Santiago was that he believed his own delusions. Believed them so completely that he'd built an entire fantasy around a woman he'd barely touched. Around a date that had ended with a polite handshake and my immediate decision to never see him again.
He hadn't taken rejection well.
"You need to leave me alone," I said, scanning the parking lot even though I knew Jace was long gone. "I'm calling the police."
He laughed, the sound making my skin crawl. "And tell them what? That a respected businessman called to check on a former employee? That's not harassment, darling. That's concern."
Former employee. Right. Because when I'd stopped returning his calls, stopped showing up at the upscale restaurant where we'd met, he'd bought the place. Fired me in the most polite, legal way possible. Made sure I couldn't get hired anywhere else in Houston without his permission.
"You can't keep doing this."
"Oh, Sarah. I can do whatever I want. Question is—how much longer are you going to make me chase you? Because I'm getting tired of the game. And when I get tired of games, I stop playing nice."
The line went dead, and I stood there in the buzzing fluorescence of the parking lot, my phone still pressed to my ear, heart hammering against my ribs.
Victor had found me.
How didn't matter. What mattered was time. How much I had left before he sent someone to collect me. Before the polite stalking became something else entirely.
I managed to get the car door open, hands shaking as I started the engine. The Honda coughed, sputtered, then caught, and I sat there for a moment with my forehead pressed to the steering wheel, trying to breathe around the panic.
Jace's words came back to me, mocking in their accuracy. *Question is whether you want to be ready when he shows up, or whether you want to keep pretending you can handle this alone.*
I couldn't stay here. Couldn't keep working at The Rusty Spur, couldn't keep pretending that Victor was just going to lose interest. Men like him didn't lose interest. They collected things—cars, houses, people—and kept them until they got bored or broken.
I put the car in gear, tires spitting gravel as I pulled out of the parking lot. My apartment was twenty minutes away, on the wrong side of town in a complex that advertised "affordable living" as a euphemism for "barely habitable." I'd picked it because it had decent sight lines and multiple exits. Because the manager took cash and didn't ask questions.
But as I drove through the quiet streets, checking my mirrors every few blocks, I realized I'd already made a decision. Maybe the moment Jace had touched my face. Maybe the moment I'd seen him sitting in that booth, looking at me like I was worth protecting.
Either way, I was done running alone.
I just hoped I wasn't jumping from one nightmare straight into another.
The blue sedan followed me for six blocks before I realized what was happening. Not close enough to be obvious, but close enough to let me know I was being watched. Letting me know that Victor's people were already here, already circling, already deciding when to make their move.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter and drove faster, my ancient Honda whining in protest. The desert stretched out on either side of the road, dark and endless. No streetlights out here. No houses. Just the long stretch of highway between the bar and whatever passed for civilization in this part of Texas.
In my rearview mirror, the sedan kept pace, a shadow moving through the darkness like a shark through deep water.
Victor had found me.
And I was running out of time.