Johnny

Chapter 3

Johnny

Alli moved through The Hollow like the only soft thing in a place built on hard edges. The clatter of glasses, the roughjokes, the smoky haze—all of it seemed to sharpen around her, making her quiet presence even more

pronounced. He watched as she navigated the crowded space, her movements graceful and deliberate.

She wasn't loud; she didn't "flirt with the regulars. She didn't yet know how to armor herself

against the kind of men who stared too long, their eyes lingering with a posses-siveness that made Johnny's jaw clench. He recognized the look, theunspoken claim, and it stirred a protective instinct within him. She just existed—quiet, warm, steady—and somehow

The simple, brutal fact of her age hit Johnny harder than any of the back-alley brawls he used to chase. A dull, sickening thud in his gut.

He tried to drink his whiskey, the amber liquid burning a path down his throat like liquid !re, but it did little to soothe the inferno that had taken root deepinside him. It just swirled around the edges, a temporary distraction.

He tried to stare at the bottles lining the back of the bar, the colorful labels blur-ring into meaningless shapes. Anything to avoid looking at her. Anythingto !nd some semblance of focus.

He tried to pretend he wasn't burning alive every time she walked past him, the scent of her soap and something sweeter, like honeysuckle blooming inthe sum-mer heat, clinging to the air around her like a damn halo. Each breath he took was a reminder, a slow torture.

But pretending had stopped working months ago, the charade crumbling with every stolen glance, every brush of skin. He was a goddamn liar to himself ifhe thought he could just switch it o#.

He already knew what she felt like beneath his hands.

Once you touched something that good, something that young and hungry and

reckless, it lived under your skin, a constant hum of awareness that vibrated through his bones. A low-level fever he couldn't shake.

He could still feel her—the wild quiver of her thighs clamped tight around his hips,

breathless moans stuttering against his skin, her voice cracking apart on his name like she

was confessing something sacred and forbidden all at once. The memory burned in his mind, vivid and raw: the !rst

time he took her on that battered pool table, the green felt rough against her back, the way her whole body shivered under his

hands, torn between fear and reckless need, clinging to his shoulders as if she might fall

apart without him holding her together. Her eyes wide, pupils blown, lost in the moment.

And then that second time, in the cramped front seat of his truck under a "icker-ing streetlamp,

windows fogged with heat and desperation, her body twisting under him—no hesitation this time, just a

raw, animal hunger that left him dizzy. The way she trembled, nails leaving half-moon marks on his

arms, her hips rolling up to meet him, a raw gasp torn from her throat as she

!nally gave

in again. Every time, she came apart in his hands like he was the only one who'd ever

made her feel that way, and he knew, with a sickening certainty, that he was.

He'd never been able to forget it—the way she wanted him: !erce, needy, almost

ashamed of it but unable to deny herself. The sound of her whispering his name in the

dark, the taste of her sweat, the way she always went silent just before everything broke, her eyes wide and vulnerable, searching his as if for answers he didn't have.

Those memories haunted him, sharper than any scar, deeper than any regret.

Even now, he could close his eyes

and see her there—every ragged breath, every tremble, every surrender to him, as if she

were made for his hands alone. She was eighteen.

Too young. Too soft.

Too everything he had no business touching. But Christ—he had touched her.

And now he couldn't stop thinking about it, the images playing on repeat in his mind like a broken record.

Not when she reached for a bottle and her shirt lifted just enough for him to see the curve

of her waist, the smooth line of her skin disappearing beneath the worn denim of her jeans. The innocent, unknowing invitation was a fresh torment.

Not when she leaned over the bar, her dark hair falling forward in a silken curtain, and he caught a "ash of skin low on her stomach, the ghost of a scar just visible

above the waistband. A tiny imperfection that only made her more real, more desirable.

Not when she laughed—the sound, light and carefree, pierced him like a shard of glass.

That breathy, warm sound escaped her lips, an unconscious invitation carried on the smoky air. It resonated within him, a low hum that vibrated through his bones. He watched the slight parting of her lips, the quickening of her breath, and knew, with a certainty that settled like lead in his gut, that she hadn't meant to make that sound. It was a secret, a slip, a glimpse behind the carefully constructed walls she kept so high.

And the worst part? She felt it too.

Every time their eyes met – across the crowded room, over the rim of a shared glance, even in the briefest of stolen moments – something tightened between them. Not a comfortable knot, but a hot, sharp, undeniable pull that hummed be-neath the surface of every word, every casual touch. It was adangerous current, a silent dare that threatened to drag them both under, into waters far too deep and treacherous for either of them to navigate.

She'd try to look away, a blush rising on her cheeks like the !rst hint of dawn, her

!ngers !dgeting with the damp rag in her hands. But her gaze always returned, drawn back to him with an almost painful intensity, like a moth "utteringhelp-lessly toward a "ame. It was as if she

forgot, just for a second, all the reasons why they weren't supposed to be doing this, why they should keep their distance, why a man like him shouldnever be al-lowed to get close to a woman like her.

Johnny didn't forget.

He tried damn hard not to. He was twenty-!ve.

Old enough to know better.

Old enough to have scars she didn't need to see, wounds that still throbbed with a dull, persistent ache – a pain he couldn't share, not without stainingher with the darkness that clung to him.

He had already done enough damage in his life to !ll a ledger, sins that haunted his nights and shadowed his days. He saw the echoes of his mistakes inthe faces of people he'd hurt, in the broken trust he couldn't repair. He wasn't about to add her to that list.

But she made him feel...

Christ, he didn't even have a word for it, a way to capture the whirlwind of emotions she stirred within him. It was a feeling that clawed at the carefullycon-structed walls around his heart, threatening to tear them down.

Alive, maybe. Like a dormant part of him was waking up, stretching after a long, dark sleep. The part of him that had been buried under layers of guiltand regret, the part he thought was gone forever.

Hungry, de!nitely. A deep, primal craving that gnawed at his insides, a hunger for something he couldn't name, something he knew he shouldn't want. It was a hunger that went beyond the physical, a yearning for connection, for acceptance, for something real.

Human, somehow. Grounded. Seen. In her eyes, he wasn't just a broken man with a shadowed past. He was... something more. Something worth looking at, worth smiling at, worth... wanting.

He sat on the barstool, wrestling with that ache in his chest, the need that threat-ened to consume him, the almost unbearable urge to reach out and touch her. He waslost in the internal battle when he felt Layla's presence before she

even crossed the threshold of the bar.

Heels sharp against the old wood "oor, each click a stilettoed threat, a calculated rhythm that announced her arrival like a queen entering her court.

Perfume thick and sweet enough to choke on, a cloying cloud of jasmine and something darker, more predatory – a musk that spoke of secrets and hidden desires.

Her presence heavy with an ownership she didn't deserve anymore, a claim she refused to relinquish. It was a weight that pressed down on him, a reminder of a past he was desperately trying to escape.

She walked straight toward him, hips swaying in that practiced way – a perform-ance honed over years of commanding attention, as if she expected

the room to tilt on its axis for her. Once, it probably did. Once, he let it, willingly surrendering to her allure.

But not tonight.

Because tonight, his eyes were already on someone else, his focus already stolen by a quiet, unassuming beauty who stood at the far end of the bar, wiping down thecounter with a gentle grace that belied the storm brewing inside him.

"Start without me?" she said, her voice low and husky, laced with a possessiveness that made his skin crawl. She leaned a hand on his shoulder, her touch a brand, a possessive claim as if she owned

the whole damn bar, and him with it. He could feel the heat of her hand through his shirt, the subtle pressure a reminder of the power she once held over him.

"You weren't invited," he said without looking at her, his voice "at and devoid of warmth, as cold and hard as the steel in his gaze. He refused to give her the satis-faction of a reaction, refused to let her see the turmoil she stirred within him.

She sti#ened, the air around her growing cold, the scent of her perfume turning sharp and bitter. "Someone's moody tonight."

He didn't

answer, didn't even blink. His gaze remained !xed on the far end of the bar, where a halo of soft light illuminated a cascade of honey-blonde hair, the strands catchingthe light like spun gold. He watched as Alli laughed at something one of the patrons said, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and a pang of protectiveness surged throughhim.

Layla shifted closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, a viper ready to strike. "What's her name again? The little bartender. Alli."

That did it.

His jaw "exed, the muscles bunching and releasing as he fought to keep the beast leashed. It wasn't the wild, reckless anger he used to unleash in

parking-lot brawls, fueled by cheap whiskey and a desperate need to prove him-self to a world that had never given him a damn thing. No, this wasdi#erent. Deeper. Darker. More possessive. A raw, protective instinct that scared him with its intensity. It clawed at his insides, threatening to erupt.

Layla smirked, a cruel glint sharpening her eyes. "She's eighteen, Johnny. You're twenty-!ve. She still blushes when someone

compliments her. You think she's ready for the shit that lives inside you?"

Each word was a carefully measured threat, a low growl that vibrated in the small space between them. "She's not yours to talk about."

"No?" Layla whispered, her voice a silken caress laced with venom. She leaned closer, her breath hot against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine despite himself. "But you were mine, weren't you?"

He turned then, slow and lethal, his eyes "at and hard as chips of obsidian. The air crackled with the force of his controlled rage. "I was never yours, Layla.You just got there !rst."

The venom in his voice silenced her like a slap. Her eyes widened, the cruel amusement "ickering and dying, replaced by a "icker of something else—regret? Hurt? He didn't care.

He didn't stay, didn't wait for the next poison-sweet thing she'd spit out, the next barb designed to wound. He walked

away—away from the past, away from the damage, toward the only thing in this bar that

made him feel like he wasn't drowning in the wreckage of his own life.

Alli was restocking the cooler, her hair falling over her face as she bent, the soft strands catching the light like spun gold. He stood there a

second, just breathing her in—soap, summer, something warm and innocent that he didn't deserve. Something clean in a world of !lth.

When she !nally noticed him, she startled a little, straightened too fast, her cheeks

"ushing in that way that made him want to back her against the counter and kiss her until

she forgot her own name, until the blush spread down her throat and painted her entire body with desire. The thought was a jolt, a lightning strike ofpure, raw need that made his hands clench.

"Rough night?" he murmured, his voice rough around the edges, a low rumble that vibrated through the air between them, a sound meant only for herears.

"It's a bar," she whispered back, brushing her hair behind her ear, her !ngers

lingering against her skin, as if she could still feel his touch there. "Every night is rough."

He stepped closer, closing the distance between

them until the air thrummed with unspoken tension. Too close.Close enough that she felt his heat, the simmering energy radiating o# him like a tangible force. She sucked in a breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, remembering the night before—the stolen glances, the lingering touches, the unspoken promises that hung heavy in the air between them.

She remembered his hands, the calluses rough against her skin, the way they trembled slightly before cupping her face, as if she were something precious, somethinghe was afraid to break.

His mouth, always tasting like smoke and something wilder, something that made her breath catch in her throat and her heart pound against her ribs.

She remembered that night behind The Hollow, pressed against the cool brick wall beside the dumpsters, the rough grit a sharp contrast to the heat "ooding her veins.Her legs

had trembled, wrapping around him, clinging as he held her as if she weighed nothing, as if he never wanted to let her go.

The way she'd bitten his shoulder, a desperate attempt to stay quiet, to swallow the moans threatening to spill into the humid night air and betray the secret they werebuilding. The taste of his skin, salty and hot, !lled her mouth, and she clung tighter.

The way she'd whispered, "Johnny, don't stop—please, don't stop," the words a plea, a confession, a surrender that had resonated in the depths of his soul.

He saw it all in her eyes now: the memory, the longing, the raw, untamed want. It was there, swirling beneath the surface like a storm gathering in the depths of the ocean.

He wanted her so badly he could barely breathe. The air was thick and heavy in his lungs, each inhale a cruel reminder of her scent – honeysuckle and something uniquelyher own, something that clung to his memory like Spanish moss to an ancient oak. He could almost taste her, the ghost of her lips still lingering on his, a phantomsensation that drove him close to the edge.

"Did you come here to forget?" she asked softly, her voice a low, husky murmur that sent shivers down his spine. It was a question that hung in the air between them,heavy with unspoken history and a desperate kind of hope.

He looked at her—really looked—past the shadows and the years, seeing the woman she was, the woman she'd always been, the woman he had foolishly tried to forget. The truth hit him like a shot of whiskey, burning its way down his throat and settling in his gut, a potent mix of regret and undeniable desire.

"No," he said, the word rough, honest, torn from his throat. "I came here because of you."

Her breath caught, a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch. Her eyes widened slightly, betraying the surprise that "ickered across her face. For a moment, he saw a "icker ofsomething else, something vulnerable, something that mirrored the

raw emotion churning inside him.

He stepped back, creating a sliver of distance between them, a desperate attempt to keep himself from doing something reckless. From grabbing her,pulling her close, kissing her right there in front of

everyone, consequences be damned. From ruining her the way he ruined every-thing he touched.

Johnny walked away, each step a battle against the magnetic pull that threatened to drag him back. His muscles were tense, coiled tight, screaming inprotest. But every nerve in his body stayed with her, a phantom ache, a burning reminder of what he was walking away from.

He already knew her touch, the way her !ngers traced patterns on his skin, light as a feather, sending sparks of electricity through his veins. He knew thesoft press of her lips, the way they tasted of sunshine and secrets.

He already knew her heat, the way her body trembled against his, the soft gasps escaping her lips like whispered prayers.

And the longing crawling through him wasn't new; it was a familiar ache, a con-stant companion that had haunted him for years.

It was memory, vivid and sharp, replaying in his mind like a worn-out !lm reel. It was hunger, raw and untamed, a beast clawing at the cage of his self-control.

It was the kind of want that never really went away, burrowing deep beneath the skin and festering, a constant reminder of what he couldn't have, what hedidn't deserve.