It’s 10.30 on a Saturday night and the Liberty Bar on Beacon Hill in Boston is packed with very fancy, very thirsty people. You and your fellow bartenders are pouring drinks non-stop for the folks at the bar and the waitstaff serving the lounge. You add a cherry to an Old Fashioned and put the glass on the sidebar with its mates. Kerry, one of the waitresses, puts the drinks on her tray and calls, “Thanks.” It’s pretty loud in here but you hear her, smile, and give her a brief salute before turning away to your next order. Kerry’s one of the good ones.
There’s a man signaling you a few seats down but before you go and ask him what he wants, you take a deep breath and wipe your hands on your apron, trying to focus on work and not what’s happened over the last 24 hours.
This isn’t your full-time gig. You’re a grad student at the Kennedy School at Harvard, focused on international security and terrorism. You worked for Booz Allen as a contractor at the Pentagon and State for four years after undergrad, then spent two years as a fellow at the European Union Institute for Security Studies in Paris. You came to Harvard to continue your EUISS research, which focuses on modern European terrorist groups with historical ties to the Nazi regime, and to teach Poli Sci 101 to a hall full of freshmen. It’s November and you’ll be done with your Masters next spring. You bartend on weekends to make some extra cash, as Harvard isn’t exactly generous to its grad assistants.
You approach the man down the bar and ask, “What can I get you?” “Dewars on the rocks,” he says, raising his voice over the noise. Excellent. An easy but expensive drink, and his kind-looking face says good tipper, although you never know with wealthy dudes in places like this.
As you pour the drink your mind drifts back to yesterday’s conference for the thousandth time. Kennedy held a conference on issues of global security yesterday afternoon, and many top scholars and military and intelligence officials had attended. The conference organizers had accepted your paper on linkages among neo-Nazi terrorist groups running drugs and laundered cash through key European ports, one of only three student presentations on the agenda. You were excited to give your paper (excellent CV fodder!) and discuss it in a panel, especially because you suspected, rightly, that your key conclusions would be controversial to many of the attendees.
Your paper, which not only proved linkages among the modern neo-Nazi groups but showed historical connections of a few of these groups to the original Third Reich, generated great interest among the attendees. Professors and intelligence practitioners alike questioned you about your conclusions, and all were forced to admit that your research was sound. As you quelled the doubts of the last naysayer (Colonel, Marine Intelligence), you looked out into the audience and saw an older man with greying blond hair, who hadn’t spoken through the entire session but nonetheless stared at you intently, as if memorizing your features.
This man had approached you in the hall after the panel discussion, and without saying hello or introducing himself, had grabbed your arm with surprising strength and hissed urgently, “How do you know all this?!?” You had been surprised but had calmly extricated your arm and said in a normal tone of voice, “Sir, my paper and sources are available in the online conference package.” And then your thesis advisor had come up and excitedly said to you, “Great job, let me introduce you to the Director of Homeland Security” and to your would-be attacker, “Excuse us, Mr. Pierce” as he dragged you away. Even as you moved away from him, though, you could feel Pierce’s eyes boring daggers into your back.
As you bring the Dewars to your customer, you wonder again about this “Mr. Pierce.” You googled him last night, but the only thing you found is that he’s the Vice Chairman of a large global manufacturing and defense conglomerate in New York, and sits on the board of several charities and other companies. Why he would be upset by an analysis of neo-Nazi activity in Europe is beyond you. You resolve to ask your adviser about it on Monday.
Your customer smiles and hands you a twenty, saying, “Keep the change.” You thank him and turn away, happy that your intuition was correct about him being a good tipper. After you’ve settled the bill in the register, you turn back to the bar to see if anyone needs another drink, and then your eye catches a new face a few chairs down.
And Sweet Baby Moses, what a face. Short dirty blond hair, twinkling blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones, and a jawline that makes you involuntarily lick your lips. All sitting on a neck and pair of shoulders that come straight out of a superhero comic. As you catch his eye, his eyes light up even more and his beautiful mouth tips up in a lopsided smile. A thrill grips your gut and you feel your face go hot as a brief, unbidden image enters your mind of that smile looking up at you from between your thighs. Holy shit.
Do you know this guy? You feel like you do, but then you feel like you’d remember someone this gorgeous, especially someone this gorgeous taking an interest in you. You smile back as your mind races. Someone from DC? It’s definitely not someone from Paris because this guy might as well have “USA!!” stamped across his forehead...although not in a terrible MAGA idiot way, he just looks American born and bred. His medium blue button down and khaki pants only contribute to the hometown boy vibe, and his sleeves are rolled up, showing an impressive pair of forearms. It’s clear Mr. America can find the gym.
You approach him, lean over a bit closer than you usually do, and say, “Hey there, welcome to Liberty. What can I get you?” You are never this flirty with customers but then again, you never have full-on Greek gods sitting at your bar. His eyes briefly widen, as if he can’t believe his luck that you’re talking to him, and he says through his smile, “I’ll have a Blanton’s, neat, please.”
Your smile broadens and you say, “Great choice. My favorite.” “
Is it now,” he raises his perfect eyebrows in response. “That’s quite the coincidence. I’d offer to buy one for you but you probably don’t drink on the job.”
He’s got the barest trace of an accent, but you can’t quite place it. Is it Boston? Brooklyn? You want to hear more. You say, “Thanks, but you’re right. Very astute. And quite the gentleman. Thanks for the offer.”
You grab the bottle of Blanton’s, pour a healthy three fingers, and pass the glass over. He picks it up and tips it toward you, saying “To your health” before taking a slug. He gives an appreciative little groan and says, “Good stuff.” The groan sends another thrill to your gut as you try very hard not to think of other ways you could pull that sound from his lips.
What is happening here? You’ve met plenty of other handsome dudes at this bar without wanting to tear their clothes off. But your instinct realizes that this guy is different, that he’s unlike any other handsome guy you’ve ever met. That he’s sexy as hell but also respectful and...dependable. And kind of...old-fashioned? You can rely on this guy. Feel safe with this guy. Where have you met this guy before?
“So, do you live here or are you in town for something, staying at the hotel...?” You ask as he sips his drink.
He shakes his head and says, “Nah, I’m just in town for the weekend, stayin’ somewhere else, but I heard this place was good for a drink.”
“You heard an overpriced hotel bar was good for a drink?” you say teasingly, glad your manager can’t hear you right now.
“Someone told me the bartenders here were...exceptional,” he teases back, staring at you with a glint in his eye. How many gut thrills can you have in one night? “Someone was right.”
“Well, we live to delight our customers with the best...service,” you reply, and delight inwardly at the way he blushes at the word “service.” The two of you are clicking in a perfect, and perfectly enjoyable, way. Somehow you know just what to say, just what buttons to push. It’s exhilarating.
A man down the bar signals for another drink and you say, “Excuse me” and turn reluctantly away. You get the other man his drink, feeling Mr. America’s eyes on you the entire time. You return to your very own homegrown deity just as he’s finishing his bourbon.
“Can I get you another one?” you ask, hoping to restart the flirty banter. Mr. Gorgeous is clearly about to say, “Yes” when his phone pings with a text. As he looks at it his expression changes, hardens with resolve and his eyebrows knit together.
“Everything OK?” you ask mildly. He looks back at you with a preoccupied smile and says, “Yeah. Uh. Yeah. Just...some unexpected news.” He reaches for his wallet. “I’ve gotta go for a bit,” he says, putting two twenties on the bar. “But,” he grabs your hand in both of his and looks earnestly into your face. “I’ll be back soon, OK? Really. I promise.” His hands are warm and strong, and you don’t really want them to let go of you. You are confused but you manage to say, “OK, sure. See you later.” He smiles at you, grabs his jacket, and walks off quickly toward the hotel lobby.
As soon as he’s out of sight you sag with disappointment and put his money in the till. You force yourself to confront your feelings. You had a connection with this guy, and now he’s gone. What happened? What was in that text? Your inner cynic tries to tell you it was an angry “get home now” from a wife or girlfriend, but that’s not it. He had something urgent to do, or something urgent to stop from happening. And he promised to come back, and something tells you he doesn’t make promises lightly. You hold onto that and feel more hopeful.
You sigh and turn around just as another customer takes Mr. America’s empty seat at the bar, looks you up and down, and signals you over. The difference between your new customer and your all-American flirting partner could not be more marked. New Guy at the Bar appears to be just as jacked as Mr. America, but he’s got dark hair and dark eyes and sports one of those brand new Altuzarra leather jackets that cost the earth. Where Mr. America seemed flirty but respectful, this guy already seems arrogant and domineering. Instead of “USA!!” he might just as well have “DOUCHEBAG!!” stamped on his forehead. You’ve met this type before; in fact, you meet it all the time, although your usual Saturday night jackhole isn’t so...built.
You take a deep breath, stretch up to your full height, approach the bar, and purposely don’t bend down as you say in your most impressive disappointed-teaching-assistant voice, “What can I get you.”
“Hey baby, I’ll have one cute bartender on the rocks,” he says, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. Ugh, a jerkwad who thinks he’s clever, you think, reflecting that he can’t even use an accurate adjective; at 5’10 and athletically built, you haven’t been called “cute” since before you hit puberty. You decide to ignore the come-on. “Would you like anything to drink?” you say, in an even stronger I-don’t-have-time-for-this-nonsense tone.
He looks annoyed for a second before composing himself and ordering a club soda with lime. Ugh, this guy. You are so not getting a tip. As you fill his glass, he asks in a provocative voice, “So, what’s a hottie like you doing working as a bartender?” You raise your eyebrows at him and say, flatly, “Serving drinks. Making a living.”
He responds, “Yeah, it’s a good look for you, trapped behind that bar. It makes you mind your own business and keeps you from sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” and then he stares at you with challenging eyes.
Now you’re angry AND confused. What the hell is he talking about? What is all this about “minding your own business”? You’ve never seen this guy before in your life and he’s totally acting like a stalker. You serve him his drink and make a seemingly meaningless gesture to your fellow bartender, Patrick, which is your pre-arranged signal for “I’m dealing with a dickhead, need backup.” Patrick, a lifelong resident of Southie with the accent, build, and temper to match, comes over and says to you, “Hey, we need more oranges from the backroom, can you take care of it.”
You silently exhale with relief and say, “Of course” to Patrick and “Please excuse me, sir, that’ll be $4.50” to the customer. As you head toward the storeroom, you notice that Sir Dickhead is handing Patrick a five and insisting on getting his change and not tipping, just as you suspected. You’re never wrong about these things.
When you return to the bar ten minutes later, Mr. Terrible is gone, thank the heavens above. But there’s no sign of Mr. Gorgeous either, and you have trouble hiding your disappointment. Something started with him, something fun and interesting and...important? Hmm. What could be important about flirting with a hot dude (OK, the hottest dude you’ve ever seen) in a bar? And you didn’t even find out his name. Oh well, maybe he’ll still be back later. You sigh and move forward to help Patrick - it’s after 11 now and the bar is even busier now, with a steady stream of hotel guests and tourists just getting out of the theater.
***
It’s now 1 AM and you are standing outside the delivery entrance of the Liberty Hotel off Fruit Street smoking a cigarette against the wall. The bar has quieted down considerably after the 11 PM rush and Patrick has shoved you out to take a break before you both close everything down at 2. You’re not really a smoker, but you keep a pack stashed in your inside coat pocket for those extra stressful nights at the bar. And tonight certainly qualifies.
Your mind is racing a mile a minute as you exhale the smoke and wrap your coat tighter around you. Your emotions are no calmer - inside, you careen between the excitement of your brief encounter with Mr. America (excitement and, let’s face it, disappointment - he never did come back) and the disgust of your brief interaction with Mr. Douchebag.
Disgust, and, you admit to yourself, unease. What that dickwad said still makes no sense to you, but you recognize it as a warning...and possibly even a threat. Does this somehow have something to do with your research? With your conference paper? Your research on neo-Nazis has brought you into contact with some dangerous and unsavory characters, but your status as an academic (even an academic with a security clearance) has generally protected you. You aren’t looking to arrest bad guys, just learn more about them.
But is it possible that your thesis topic is ruffling feathers in ominous places? You take another drag on your cigarette and think back to Pierce’s urgent tone at the conference yesterday, and Mr. Terrible’s menacing comments in the bar earlier tonight. Are they somehow connected? How they are connected, you have no idea, but you’re an analyst and that’s what you do, hypothesize connections and then find evidence for or against them. But why was Mr. Terrible in the bar? Why not at the university? You’ve never before seen anyone even remotely associated with the Kennedy School at the Liberty. Your day and evening jobs have never yet intersected in the year-plus that you’ve been working at the bar, but you concede that now they might be doing just that.
“Hey there, cute bartender, remember me?” And suddenly your fears and worries take flesh as Mr. Terrible appears from the shadows on your right and stands menacingly near you. You drop your cigarette and your heart leaps into your throat, but you try to remain calm as you say, “Hi, sir, this isn’t a customer area. If you want another drink you need to go around to the main entrance,” and gesture in that direction.
Mr. Douchebag just smirks and says, “So polite. I don’t want another drink. I want you. You’re going to come with me now so we can have a nice long chat.” He is not that much taller than you but he is much, much bigger. Now your heart is beating wildly and your mind is racing trying to figure a way out of this. You look around for help but the two of you are alone, and as if reading your thoughts Mr. Terrible laughs and says, “Yeah, the other bartender isn’t here to save you this time, sweetheart.”
He reaches out to grab your arm when a dark figure appears to your left maybe six or eight feet away and says in a casual drawl, “Hey, Brock, how’s it goin’? Can’t get enough harassing innocent people in your day job, so now you’re doin’ it in the middle of the night, too?”
It’s Mr. America, coming back, just as he promised, his Brooklyn? Boston? accent stronger than ever. As tall as Mr. Douchebag is, he is even taller. You are ridiculously happy to see him and just barely manage to avoid letting out a huge sigh of relief. You remind yourself that you’re still in danger, and you need to stay alert.
“Rogers,” spits Mr. Terrible, who is apparently named Brock. He growls, “You should stay out of business that doesn’t concern you.”
“Oh, this definitely concerns me, Brock. You more than anyone should know that I make anything about Hydra my business.”
At the mention of the word “Hydra” (Hydra? What is that? You’ve never heard it before in your life), Brock hisses between his teeth and seems to coil up like a spring. You realize that he’s going to try to grab you and leave before “Rogers” can intervene. Your fight-or-flight instinct surges up and you duck in an effort to avoid his grasp. As you drop towards the ground, his left arm extends and connects roughly with your forehead. The force of the blow sends you flailing backward and the back of your head hits the wall behind you. You see stars and the world tilts sideways as you sprawl to the ground.
As your head connects with the wall, Rogers springs forward and tackles Brock. He seems to have covered the eight feet between them in the blink of an eye, and you assume that hitting your head is playing tricks with your vision or with time because that’s not really humanly possible. Brock puts up an impressive fight, but within a few minutes Rogers lands a superhuman punch that puts him out cold on the pavement.
Rogers then kneels in front of you, and a torrent of words comes out of his mouth as he stares worriedly into your face.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Don’t try to move or get up. Just take it easy. Take a deep breath. That’s right. It’s okay, you’ll be okay. Just breathe.” He takes your arm and pushes up your sleeve to check your pulse. Despite the chill in the late autumn air, his hands are still toasty warm.
You look into his face, now only inches from yours. You are still a bit dizzy from hitting your head, but you have to try to ask him what’s going on. However, “Who...? What...? That man...who are you?” is the only thing you can force out of your mouth.
He gives you a dazzling smile and, still holding your wrist, says, “I’m Steve. I’m here to take care of you. But we have to get out of here now. Can you stand?” You smile weakly back and him and say, “Mmm-hmm.” He puts his arms around you and gently picks you up, handling all 5’10 of you as easily as if he were picking up an empty backpack.
His arms are still around you as you come to standing, and he stares into your face for a second before whispering, “God you’re gorgeous.” You stare back, say “You too,” and lean in to kiss him on his beautiful mouth. This is not like you at all, and maybe the smoking and the danger and the head injury have made you more reckless than usual, but somehow it just feels right. His lips are warm and soft and strong, and he kisses you back with the promise of a thousand more kisses to come. Kisses and...other things. The thought makes your knees even weaker than they already are.
You pull back reluctantly and look at him again. His face is pink with what might be embarrassment, but his pupils flare with what is definitely desire. “Wow,” he says softly, grinning. “A guy could get used to that.” But then his eye catches the unconscious Brock and he pulls away, puts his arm around your waist, and tells you, “We’ve really got to get out of here, and then I’ll get someone to take a look at your head.”
“But what about work...” you start to say, and he cuts you off. “You’re done for tonight. I’ve fixed it with Patrick and your manager. And besides, you’re in no condition to go back to the bar. Here, my friend’s got a car around the corner. We don’t want to be anywhere nearby when Brock wakes up. Do you have anything inside we need to get?” You shake your head (ouch) and reply, “No, everything’s in my pockets. I only bring the bare minimum to work.”
Your head is clearing in the cool night air, and your curiosity gets the better of you and before he can say anything, you ask, “Who is this Brock guy? I’ve never seen him before in my life. What did he want with me?”
Steve sighs and says, “He’s no one you want to mess with. He’s a bad dude. Works for Alexander Pierce...you know, the man who bothered you after the conference yesterday.”
And suddenly you remember where you’ve seen Steve’s face before. “You were at the conference!” you cry. “But you weren’t sitting in the seats in front, you were standing in the shadows at the back of the room...”
“Yes, I was there,” Steve cuts you off hastily. “I told you, it’s my job to look after you. But we’ve got to leave now. You need to come with me, get out of Boston for a while until it’s safe.”
You start to say, “But what about school...” but he cuts you off and says, “You need to take a brief sabbatical from Harvard. I’ve talked to your advisor and he agrees. He knows Pierce, he knows it’s never a good idea to be on his radar. School can wait. Your safety is more important.”
“...and my apartment? My stuff?”
“We can’t go back there right now. Brock’s got a man watching the place. But my friend got in without being seen and got your purse and your laptop and key papers along with a bag full of clothes and toiletries. The rest of your lease has been pre-paid so your landlord won’t ask any questions. You’ll be back at some point. And I know you’ve got some nice stuff, but it’s just stuff. It’s replaceable. You aren’t. You’re in danger and you need someone to look after you. Do you trust me?” And he turns and looks at you with such earnest urgency that your heart turns over in your side.
This is the important thing your instincts told you about earlier, when you were so disappointed when Steve had left the bar. You realize that that he’s a good guy, that he he’s here for you, that whatever happens, he’s in your corner. That he’s saved you already and is willing to keep risking himself to keep you safe. It’s overwhelming, and a big part of you can’t even believe that this is really happening, because you’re an academic not an operative for Pete’s sake. But his presence and his solicitude are enormously comforting, and even though you just met him, you do trust him.
You take a deep breath, smile at him and say, “Yes.” And this time it’s his turn to initiate the kiss, a very gentle one with just the faintest hint of tongue against your lower lip. He pulls back, smiles at you tenderly, and pushes a tendril of hair out of your face. But then the back of your skull throbs and you wince. His expression immediately turns concerned and he says, “Let’s get someone to look at your head.”
He helps you to walk as quickly as possible out of the hotel delivery area. “So this friend who got into my apartment...?” you start to ask.
Steve grins and says, “Yes, you’ll meet her in a minute. She’s...very well trained. Sorry about her breaking in, but it couldn’t be helped.”
You walk out of the loading zone entrance and see a non-descript dark sedan idling around the corner on Fruit Street. Steve helps you into the back seat and then slides in next to you, helping you with your seatbelt, bundling you up in a blanket, and then holding your hand protectively on his lap.
A beautiful redhead is in the driver’s seat, and she smiles warmly at you in the rearview mirror and says, “Hey, I’m Steve’s friend Natasha.” Then she turns a serious face to Steve.
“Just Rumlow?” she says curtly.
“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “He’s down. For now.”
“I wish you’d just finish it.” Her face is wooden but her eyes are murderous.
“You know I can’t do that, Nat.” “I know. But I could.”
“I know. But not now. Not yet.”
Your head throbs again and you touch it gingerly with your right hand. Natasha pulls the car away from the curb, looking forward but tossing “Minor head injury?” toward the back seat. When Steve says, “Uh-huh,” she says, “I’ll take a look when we get to Marshfield, and see if we need a doctor before we head out.”
Natasha turns right onto Charles Street and then takes some side roads, passing the County Jail and the Garden and looking constantly in the rearview mirror to make sure you’re not being followed. She drives fast and expertly, and you’re reminded that you’re in good hands now, though you’d never want to see that deadly expression of Natasha’s directed at you.
You sigh and lean back against the seat, but then sit up when your head protests. It hurts quite a bit and there’s a decent size egg but it’s not bleeding and there are no other symptoms of concussion. You feel pretty lucky, especially considering what could’ve happened back there behind the Liberty.
Steve reaches over and gently guides your head onto his huge but surprisingly comfortable shoulder. “Try to get some rest,” he says. “We’ll be at the airfield soon.” Then he pulls a phone out of his pocket and sends a quick text.
SGR
All set Buck, see you at Port Ewen tomorrow
The response is almost instantaneous.
JBB
Copy that, punk
“Who’s Buck?” you ask. Natasha snorts. Steve smiles, squeezes your hand, and presses several gentle kisses to your forehead. “You’ll meet him soon.”
You close your eyes, allowing yourself to relax into the warmth of the blanket and the giant man at your side. This isn’t at all where you thought you’d be at the end of this night, but you concede wryly that it has surpassed all your expectations. Within minutes you are dozing, lulled to sleep by sheer exhaustion. Natasha turns the car off the access road and pulls smoothly onto the ramp for 93 South.