Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

back seat of Kal’s town car, folding his massive arms over his chest. The
bottom half of an anchor tattoo peeks beneath his shirt sleeve, and his eyes
are the most crystal clear blue I’ve ever seen.
I stand there stupidly for a second, getting lost in their translucence.
He clears his throat, waving a palm in front of my face. “Sorry, no minors
allowed. Dunkin’ is that way.”
Confused, I glance behind my shoulder to see if someone’s stepped up
behind me. A woman in a floral maxi dress passes by, chatting away on her
cell phone about some Hollywood scandal, but otherwise, there’s no one else
on this part of the sidewalk.
I look back at the bouncer, pushing my hair off my shoulder. “Um, no,
I’m not looking for Dunkin’. I was hoping I could wait inside at the bar?
I’m... trying to find someone, and I’m hoping they’ll show up if I stake this
place out long enough.”
“That’s loitering, and it’s strictly prohibited.”
His clipped, dismissive tone makes me bristle. “It’s actually not loitering,
because I’ve just told you my express purpose for wanting to hang around.”
The man looks at me and shrugs. “You enter the bar and don’t order a
drink, that’s loitering, according to business policy.”
“Okay, then I’ll order a drink.”
He snorts, but somehow his face remains still. “Sweetheart, if you think
I’m about to believe you’re over twenty-one, you’re a lot dumber than that
short little dress you have on makes you look.”
Fire bleeds into my soul as he hurls his insult, and I reach up, tying my
hair into a low knot at the back of my head. “Dress stays short so I have free
range to do this.”
My leg kicks up, my body shooting first, asking questions later, aiming
for his crotch. But then someone’s gripping my biceps and yanking me away,
twisting so I’m facing the street. I lock up when he grabs me, fear shooting so
suddenly through my gut that I almost double over from the way it seizes up.
“Whoa, whoa, what in the bloody hell’s going on here?” a vaguely
familiar British accent asks, the hands leaving my biceps almost as quickly as
they appear, like touching me burns him. I peek up, noting the full, dark
beard and the leather jacket, letting out a slight breath of relief when I realize
it’s the man from the back office the other day.
Wolfe something. Kal’s friend or confidante, the part owner of the bar.
Recoiling from his touch, I cross my arms over my chest and lean to the