Chapter 4: Storm Warning
The rain was a relentless drumbeat against the pavement, turning the Brooklyn streets into rivers of reflected neon. Sloane had told herself she wouldn’t come back. For a whole week, she’d painted in a furious, distracted silence, the memory of his dismissal a cold stone in her gut. But the storm had felt like an omen, or an excuse, and now her damp jacket was dripping onto the speakeasy’s floorboards.
It was quieter than usual, the bad weather keeping the usual crowd away. And there he was. Behind the bar, but not working. A bottle of whiskey sat open in front of him, a single glass half-empty. His posture was all wrong—slumped, the elegant control he usually carried himself with completely gone.
She slid onto a stool, the wood cold even through her jeans. “Rough night?”
Kieran’s head lifted slowly. His green eyes were glazed, the pupils wide and dark. He looked her over, a slow, unfocused drag of his gaze that felt nothing like the way he’d looked at her in his loft. This was a dissection. “Look what the storm dragged in.”
“Charming as ever.” She nodded at the bottle. “Celebrating?”
“Something like that.” He poured another finger of amber liquid into his glass but didn’t drink it. He just stared at it. “What do you want, Sloane?”
“A drink would be a start. Maybe some of that famous hospitality.”
He gave a short, ugly laugh that had no humor in it. “Hospitality’s closed. You want a drink, get it yourself.” He pushed the bottle toward her. It slid, sloshing, stopping just before the edge of the bar.
She felt her own temper, a hot, quick spark. “What is your problem?”
“My problem?” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the bar, invading her space. The smell of whiskey was thick on his breath. “You. Parading in here with your judgment and your fucking art school questions. ‘Why don’t you show it, Kieran?’” His imitation of her voice was a cruel, slurred mockery. “It’s not for you. None of it is for you.”
She stood up, the stool screeching back. “You think I want your tragic artist routine? I came for a drink. My mistake.” She turned to leave, the humiliation a hot flush across her chest.
His hand shot out, fingers closing around her wrist. His grip was like iron. “You don’t get to walk away that easy.”
“Let go of me.”
He didn’t. Instead, he used his hold to pull her, not toward the door, but around the end of the bar. She stumbled, off-balance, her free hand catching on a stack of napkins and sending them fluttering to the floor. He backed her into the far wall, the one with the sprawling, dark mural of a dragon coiled around a moon. The plaster was cool and rough against her back.
“You wanted to see my art?” he growled, his face inches from hers. His body caged her in, all heat and tense muscle and the sharp scent of alcohol. “This is it. This is what it looks like. Messy. Ugly. You still like it?”
Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. Fear and a terrifying, sharp-edged thrill twisted together in her stomach. “You’re drunk.”
“Yeah. I am.” His other hand came up, palm flat against the wall beside her head. “And you’re still here.”
His mouth crashed down on hers. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. A punishment. There was no tenderness, only the brutal, claiming pressure of his lips, the taste of whiskey, the sharp nip of his teeth. She should have kneed him. She should have shoved him away. Instead, a raw, guttural sound ripped from her throat and her hands came up, not to push, but to fist in the fabric of his shirt, holding on as the world tilted.
He broke the kiss, breathing ragged, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes were wild, desperate. “Tell me to stop.”
She didn’t. She dragged his mouth back to hers.
It was a battle. A frenzy of hands and teeth and tearing fabric. He spun her around, pressing her front against the mural, his body a solid, immovable weight behind her. One hand fumbled with the button of her jeans, yanking them down her hips while his other arm banded across her chest, holding her still. His breath was hot against her neck.
“Is this what you wanted?” he rasped, his voice raw. “This version of me?”
She couldn’t form words. She could only press her forehead against the cool wall and nod, a sharp, frantic movement.
He entered her in one harsh, unyielding thrust. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the rumble of thunder outside. There was no gentle acclimation, no slow build. It was just force and friction, a brutal rhythm that shook her entire body. His hand slid from her chest to her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a possessive anchor in the storm of it.
Every push was an accusation. Every gasp was a confession. This wasn’t the careful, exploring passion of his loft. This was something stripped bare, all the polished charm and brooding mystery sandblasted away, leaving only the rotten, magnificent core of him. And she met it, match for match, her own nails digging into the arm wrapped around her, her hips pushing back against his, a silent scream of yes and more and is this all you have?
It was over quickly, a final, shuddering thrust that pulled a ragged groan from him. He slumped against her, his full weight pressing her into the wall, his breath hot and damp on her shoulder. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the fading echo of the storm.
Slowly, he loosened his hold. She felt him withdraw, the sudden cool air a shock. She leaned against the mural, her legs trembling, trying to catch her breath. She heard the soft rustle of him fixing his clothes.
When she finally turned around, he was looking at her, the drunken fury gone from his eyes, replaced by a hollow, devastated clarity. He looked at the wall behind her, at the smudge her damp skin had left on the dragon’s wing. He looked at her, her clothes in disarray, her lips swollen.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked utterly lost.
Without a word, he turned and walked away, disappearing through the door that led to the back, leaving her alone in the silent, smoky bar. Sloane slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, the rough wood grain digging into her palms. She pulled her knees to her chest, the physical ache deep inside her a testament to what had just happened. It had been violent. It had been ugly. And it had felt more real than anything else in her entire life.
The crumpled ball of the sketch he’d torn out of his book lay near the leg of the bar, forgotten. She stared at it, the paper stained with a drop of spilled whiskey, and knew with a terrifying certainty that nothing between them was over. It had only just begun.