When I dare to glance back at him, he’s still watching me, and he’s got that look on his face that I recognize all too well. I see it every time McBane rides up in here looking to score. It’s a hunger, a lust that has nothing to do with Delia and everything to do with me.
Dread curls in the pit of my stomach and I tell myself I’m going to ignore it, pretend I don’t notice the weight of his gaze on me as I wipe down the counter. I keep an eye on Delia; she’s handling herself very well, asking each man for his order and not rising to any of their barbed comments or implied threats. When one of the bastards flips through the menu and asks where she’s listed on the thing, I twist the towel in my hand to curb the anger that eats at me inside.