His Mission

Huge Mistake.

I step inside Rudy's bar and instantly feel out of place. I don't belong in a bar like this. The building is crammed with crowds of men. They clutch at their beers while their eyes are transfixed on the screens above them. A rugby match is playing and it causes several men to yell out loud at the television. Their erratic movements cause their beer to spill over the side. I grimace at the thought of walking over the sticky tiled floors. I spot a booth in the far back of the room. It's empty and away from the majority of the noise. As soon as I begin to approach it, I feel the stares lingering on me. The eyes drinking in my appearance causes a lump to form in the back of my throat. My footsteps speed up and I slide into the booth with a small sigh of relief. As soon as I'm seated, a man who appears to be in his late forties begins to approach me. There's a bottle of cider in his hands and a wicked smirk playing on his lips.

"Hello, sweetheart. Can I get you a drink?" He leers at me before leaning over the table. I shuffle as far back as I can go while trying to resist scowling at him in disgust. He smells like week old beer mixed with smoke. He reaches up to run his nicotine stained fingers through the grey stubble lining his chin. "No. I'm fine," I say firmly before tearing my eyes off him. His eyes linger on my chest so I wrap my leather jacket around my body tightly to hide my body. Disgust settles deep in the pit of my stomach. I'm young enough to be his daughter but that doesn't stop him from looking at me like I'm a piece of meat. Maybe coming here was a mistake.

"Can I get some space? I'm here to meet someone," I say to the man while trying to avoid eye contact. He releases a grunt of displeasement before stumbling on the balls of his feet. My phone begins to vibrate in my pocket with an incoming call, but I decide to keep my attention on the drunken stranger in front of me. My hand reaches into my pocket and I brush my fingers over the small pocket knife attached to my keys. It isn't much, but it's a weapon I can use if I need it.

"Come on, don't be like that. Let me buy you a drink," he demands. I inhale a deep breath before staring straight at him. "I don't want a drink. Leave me alone," I tell him firmly. His lips curl up in distaste and he begins grumbling under his breath. He places his free hand on top of the table before leaning down to me. His hot breath invades my personal space and I resist the urge to gag. "Do you think you're too good for me? Is that it?" The man questions me with narrowed eyes. I can feel my phone vibrating on a constant loop inside my pocket. It's probably Tobias trying to get hold of me. Chickening out of meeting Jones sounds appealing, but I decide against it. I've come all this way, I can't leave now without getting the answers I desperately crave.

"Can I help you?" A low voice calls out from behind the man. My skin prickles with ice when I recognize the voice. It's Jones. He's here and he's standing over the drunken man with a look of thunder on his face. The drunken man slowly turns around before tilting his head back to meet Jones' gaze. His eyes flash with recognition before growing wide with fear. "S-sorry. I was just leaving," the drunken man mutters before shuffling away from me. Does everybody fear Jones' presence? Jones glares in the direction of the drunken man before snapping his head at me.

"Did he give you any trouble?" Jones asks me abruptly. My lips settle in a thin line and I shake my head in protest. His shoulders sink slightly with relief. Why does he care about a stranger pestering me? Jones is dressed in a black zip up jacket with denim jeans. His tall height looms over me sitting in the booth and I wait for him to sit down or make the next move. His dark eyes connect with mine and a slow smile spreads across his face. The sight of his smile causes goosebumps to scatter down my arms.

"I wasn't sure you would come, Emily." Jones tells me before sliding into the booth opposite me. His eyes fill with a satisfied glint. I draw my arms toward me before dropping them in my lap. Being in his presence makes me incredibly uncomfortable. My hand slips into my pocket and I run circles over the tiny knife in an attempt to reassure myself. Would a tiny pocket knife be enough to scare away a man like Jones? Probably not. "Me either," I reply. My voice is quiet, lined with a hint of fear. I hate that. I hate displaying fear to a man like Jones who clearly thrives off it. I clear my throat before sitting up straight. I'm here for one reason only.