“I don’t either.” My unblinking gaze holds hers. I gave her my name; now I expect her to give hers just as freely.
She finishes her second beer. “Buy me another drink, and maybe I’ll tell you.”
I finish my drink and slam it down on the bar. She jumps at the sound the glass makes as it hits the rough wood.
She startles easily.
I don’t say a word, but I know Blake got my silent order loud and clear. Get me another drink and bring one for the girl.
Two minutes later, half of her burger is gone, and Blake brings another bourbon for me and another beer for her.
“Name,” I command, my voice low and rumbling. I won’t wait for her to follow an order. I need her to follow my demand as much as I need to drink this glass of bourbon.
She smirks. “Impatient?”
I grab her wrist as it loosely holds a fry inches from her mouth.
Her eyes widen for a millisecond before she regains her control. She’s afraid of me. Or at least she doesn’t like strange men gripping her wrist.
I lean forward, and my teeth snap a bite of the french fry she’s still grasping.
She frowns and her body radiates anger as if me taking a bite of her fry is the greatest sin I’ve committed so far.
“Jocelyn.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Jocelyn what?”
She shakes her head. “Enzo what?”
I growl, but it’s so low I’m not sure it was audible.
“Jocelyn,” I say again. It’s a pretty name. A strong name, but for some reason, it doesn’t fit the girl in front of me. I’m sure she goes by a nickname. Maybe Josie, or Jose, or Lynn. But I haven’t earned her nickname. The one that only her family and friends call her. And she hasn’t earned more than a first name from me.
“So Jocelyn, what are you really doing in my bar?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Your bar, huh?”
“Yes, my bar. Everything I enter becomes mine.”
Jocelyn coughs at my words—choking slightly on the piece of burger stuck in her now dry throat.
She winces as she finally swallows the piece down, but doesn’t immediately grab for her beer to relieve her throat. This girl is used to dealing with pain. It barely fazes her. And apparently speaking words to me is more important than dealing with her discomfort.
“Yours?” She drags her teeth across her bottom lip, and my dick, along with the rest of my body hardens to stone.
“You may own everything you enter, but I control everything I touch.” Her hand moves to my glass sitting on the edge of the bar. Her finger lazily traces around the rim of the thick glass just as I had done before. And then her
finger dips into the center, pulling up a drop of whiskey before she brings her finger to her mouth and sucks her finger dry.
I groan.
She purrs in response as if drawing me closer to her. She’s playing with fire.
I grab another fry off her plate and bite off the end with my mouth, needing to regain my composure and at least the illusion of control. This twig of girl can’t control me. She has no power over me. Even my father, the ruthless man he is, can’t tame me.