Free Sixpence & Whiskey by Heather R. Blair Page B

stern.
    “Why?” My throat is tight but I get the word out with some bite of my own. “I shot that bit of soul magic at you the other night.” Not that I’d come close to making contact.
    “That was different, you weren’t looking to hurt me. You were just flipping me off.” His lips twitch, then tighten. His eyes never leave mine. “This time I would’ve destroyed you. I can’t hold back when my existence is truly threatened, Seph. It’s instinctive, uncontrollable. Call it an automated shoot-to-kill defense system. If you’d directed that magic at me, you’d be dead.”
    I get what he’s saying. Like nature, elemental magic has a mind of its own. It doesn’t always listen to those who wield it. If Jack’s magic wanted me dead, there wouldn’t be much he could do to stop it.
    A foreboding shiver crawls down the back of my neck. “I might beat you.”
    His smile holds no warmth. “Oh, baby, I wish you could. But I made sure you couldn’t, remember?”
    As if I’d ever forget. My own hands tighten, nails digging into my palms. “I’m not that stupid girl anymore.”
    Something darkens in his face. “You were never stupid.”
    I laugh out loud. The sound slaps harshly against wet bricks and cement, sounding so bitter and full of pain, my stomach lurches.
    I don’t feel him move, but then he’s there, a heavy weight pressing me back into the wall, hard and full of heat, my wrists shackled in his hands. His lips brush my ear, warm breath raising goosebumps all over my suddenly shivering body. “Don’t blame yourself for what I did. Don’t ever fucking do that, princess.”
    Before I can say a word, Jack is gone. There is only wind skittering down an empty, rain-washed alley.
    I lean back against the wall, trying to hold my body up with shaking legs for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
    Now seems as good as time as any for a fucking drink.

11
    I’m in a shitty mood for most of the next day. No sleep and nasty encounters with ex-friends and ex-boyfriends will do that. Thankfully, my assistant manager has the early shift again today.  He’s one of three regular bartenders I have on tap, and the best (besides me, natch). I gave him the assistant manager title two and a half years ago. Best decision I ever made.
    Benjamin Collier is human and as ignorant of my world as a man can be. He’s a practical, feet-firmly-on-the-ground type of guy, and it’s kinda weird he works at a bar at all. But he’s great at it. Great at all the nitty-gritty bullshit that I’m not. Don’t get me wrong, I love this place and I love running it, even the paper pushing. But I’m all about the people, the schmoozing, the atmosphere, the booze. Benji lets me do more of the fun stuff.
    He passes the bar over to me at nine, and my mood finally starts to improve. I love slinging drinks. Then Syana walks in. I feel my tension ease even more at the sight of my bestie.
    She’s looking hot in her black leggings, white wool dress and fringy suede boots, but not as hot as the guy trailing her.
    He’s not particularly tall, though that’s relative, as he’s still got about half a foot on me. Perhaps five-eight, five-nine. Dark hair spills over shoulders that are lean but stretch the snug wine-colored Henley he’s sporting quite nicely. His eyes are black and sparkling with wickedness. I do like wicked men, though I’ve had my fill at the moment.
    Sy’s talking to him over her shoulder, hair swinging as she laughs at something he says. But he’s looking straight at me, and there’s something in his eyes I’m not sure I like.
    Then it’s gone. I dismiss the feeling as part of my lingering black mood.
    They stop in front of the only empty stool at the bar. It’s loud and rowdy, Saturday night coming down. Powderfinger on the jukebox, not the Neil Young song, the kick-ass Aussie band. There’s a sharp crack as someone playing pool in the loft gets in a solid break, and under it all, a low beeping from a