Until Twyla

by Fox, Ella

  Until Twyla

  Ella Fox

  UNTIL TWYLA

  Copyright © 2019 by ELLA FOX

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Published by Boom Factory Publishing, LLC.

  Ella Fox CONTRIBUTOR to the Original Works was granted permission by Aurora Rose Reynolds, ORIGINAL AUTHOR, to use the copyrighted characters and/ or worlds created by Aurora Rose Reynolds in the Original Work; all copyright protection to the characters and/ or worlds of Aurora Rose Reynolds in the Original Works are and shall continue to be retained by Aurora Rose Reynolds. You can find all of Aurora Rose Reynolds Original Works on most major retailers.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.

  Edited by Gemma Rowlands

  Cover by Kari March Design

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Ella Fox

  Happily Ever Alpha World books

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Twyla

  I’m doing my best not to make it obvious that I’m currently leaning against the bar for some much needed relief while I wait for Todd, the owner and head bartender of the Starlight Bar, to finish making the four mixed drinks I need for table twelve. It’s my third night working here and my feet are killing me in a way they never have before. The first two nights I worked were weeknights. In comparison to tonight, they were a cakewalk. This is my first Friday night and I’m pretty sure I’m in hell. I was foolishly confident that the transition from waitressing at Amici’s, a casual Italian restaurant I worked at for the last seven months, to waitressing at a busy bar would be smooth. I couldn’t have been more wrong. My feet hurt so badly I’m not sure how I’m still standing, and I’m mentally kicking myself for not understanding just how difficult the changeover from black sneakers to high heels would be.

  The worst part is that I have no option to change into comfortable shoes since the dress code at the Starlight is set in stone. A crisp white button down blouse, a pair of fitted black pants, and black stilettos with a four-inch heel are the mandatory uniform, no exceptions. Right now, I’d kill for the plain black sneakers I wore at Amici’s but I need to get used to the heels since the restaurant closed when the owners of retired

  “Twyla, order’s up,” Todd barks.

  I force a smile, thank him, and do my best to pretend that his aggressiveness isn’t off-putting. Once I have the drinks onto my tray, I head back to table twelve. “Here you go, ladies. Two Moscow mules, a Negroni, and a Shirley Temple with a double shot of vodka mixed in,” I say as I lay down cocktail napkins that are imprinted with the Starlight logo. Each of them nods once but none of them say a word or even glance in my direction since they’re all focused on the other side of the bar, giggling like a bunch of college girls at their first frat party.

  I grimace as I realize what they’re looking at. I wish I could tell them that the group of assholes they’re drooling over isn’t worth it, but I’m keeping my mouth shut because I need this job. The swarm of preppy-looking wannabes the girls are looking at are nightmare customers, and having to deal with them is making my head hurt nearly as bad as my feet do. The group of roughly fifteen guys and ten girls descended on the bar about two hours ago and since then, they’ve basically taken over. More people from their group have filtered in over the course of the night and each one is more annoying than the last.

  Reminding myself that every time Todd sees me standing still he gives me the stink eye, I force myself to move on and check on the rest of my tables to see who needs refills. With each step my feet seem to protest, the pinch of my shoes nearly unbearable. I went into the bathroom earlier and made little beds of toilet paper in the soles, hoping that would help with the pain, but it hasn’t made a bit of difference. Glancing at the Budweiser clock on the wall, I sigh. Three hours and nine minutes until I’m off for the night and right now I am counting that time by the seconds.

  I keep telling myself that Dolly Parton has worn high heels every single day for decades and somehow she isn’t permanently hobbled. If she can do it every day I can handle five nights a week… right?

  Right.

  I hope.

  * * *

  I’m ready to cry. The discomfort of these shoes is so extreme I swear it might be killing me. We just did last call, which means in fifteen minutes the bar closes for the night and I can take off these goddamn heels. I’ll be doing wipe down in my bare feet and if Todd even tries to get me to do it in heels, he’ll regret it. I’m in so much pain I’m barely able to get from point A to point B and I’m wondering how I can possibly work tomorrow night. Unless someone from Hogwarts shows up and waves a magic wand over my feet there’s no way they’re going to feel better anytime soon. The blisters that have formed where the back of the shoes rubs against my skin are only getting worse by the minute, which means the Pinterest hack I found last night that required cutting down a panty liner to fit the back of the shoes wasn’t worth my time.

  The pain is to a point now that I’m ignoring one of the rules, which is why I’m currently sitting on one of the barstools while I wait for Todd to finish making the shots I need for the preppy assholes back in the pool table area. I’ve died a little inside every time I’ve had to take and deliver their orders because they’re loud, crude, entitled jerks. They talk a lot of shit and make a lot of unwanted comments and the tips they toss out in the most demeaning ways possible don’t make up for their behavior even a little bit.

  “Twyla, are you gonna take this order or what?”

  I turn and find the four beers and nine lemon drop shots I ordered sitting on the copper bar top, ready to go. “Sorry about that,” I tell Todd as I arrange it all on my tray. He grunts something unintelligible and walks away. I know he’s salty that I sat down while I waited for the drinks but he has no idea of the agony I’m in. He wouldn’t though, since he’s wearing a pair of black Chucks.

  When I stand from the stool my feet scream in protest like I just landed on a pile of nails. Biting down on my lip to hold back a curse, I pick up the tray and head toward the pool table area. I’m glad the crowd in this part of the bar has thinned out so much because without a ton of people around I can limp toward the rear of the bar unnoticed. To offset the pain I’m walking on the outside of my feet whenever possible, which is harder than it otherwise might be because I’m in high heels.

  The closer I get to the back area the more I wish I didn’t have to serve these idiots. They’re so loud and obnoxious I want to scream. The only reason I’m still serving them is that when I questioned whether I should cut them off Todd was furious. “For fuck’s sake, keep your lips zipped and serve the drinks. You weren’t hired to police the customers.”

  When I told Amy, another of the waitresses, what Todd said to me she tsk-tskd and patted my arm. “Honey, you just pissed in the wind. Those assholes are here every weekend and they spend a fortune on the top shelf booze. If Todd stopped serving them, they’d stop coming in and spending money the way they
do. The bar would lose a lot.”

  When she put it like that, I got it. Still, I don’t like the way Todd spoke to me, but that’s going to have to be a problem for another day. Nearing the arched entry to the pool table section, I take a breath and remind myself that the night is almost over. Pinning a smile on my face, I head toward the bar-height counter that runs the length of the wall to the right of the pool tables.

  My progress is slowed by a group of guys talking loudly about poker. Clearing my throat, I say, “Excuse me.”

  Three of the four guys step to the side without even looking at me. Instead of following their lead the fourth guy, a smarmy looking douche in a melon colored Polo shirt, turns and faces me. Looking me over, he gives me what I’m sure he thinks is a sexy grin. Spoiler: it’s not. It’s cocky and obnoxious.

  “You’re a sexy little number,” he says.

  Gritting my teeth, I pretend I didn’t hear him and focus on taking the final ten or so steps to the counter so I can put these drinks down, get the money from the people who ordered drinks, and get the hell out of here.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” melon shirt asks, loud enough for people in space to hear him. “I said you’re hot.”

  I barely keep myself from cringing as I force myself to mutter, “Thanks.” Anxious to get away from this asshole, I pick up the pace.

  I’ve only gone two more steps when a hand locks onto the crook of my arm.

  “Hey,” the guy says, his voice far too loud for my liking. “I just fucking told you you’re hot. You need to thank me for complimenting you.”

  The grip of his hand on my arm and the tone of his voice causes my fight or flight response to kick in. I yank my arm out of his grip and then let out a horrified squeak as my tray starts listing to the right. My breath catches in my throat as I try to right it, but glass clinks against glass as the bottles of beer bump together, bounce off each other, and then smack into the small plastic cups that each have a lemon drop shot in it. I frantically scramble to stop what’s happening but the drinks spill all over the place regardless of my effort. There’s a symphony of curses as the liquid cascades from the cups, but I’m barely cognizant of that. This is because the last beer on the tray just fell back in my direction and ice cold liquid is pouring down the front of me. That a good amount of it winds up in my heels is really the icing on the cake.

  “You stupid bitch! You just got vodka on my fucking Sperrys!”

  My eyes go wide when I look up and find melon shirt looking at me with a thunderous expression. He curses again as he reaches out and grabs both of my arms. When he shakes me, I let go of the tray entirely.

  “You’re going to pay for these fucking shoes you snobby bitch!”

  Stunned and more than a little freaked out, I yank back, kicking at his legs as I yell for him to let me go. My right shoe is so full of the booze that spilled from my tray that it goes flying, leaving me with one shoe on and one off. With no choice but to stand on one foot like a damn flamingo, I kick at the asshole manhandling me. “Get off!” I screech. He lets out a maniacal laugh as he does just that, shoving me away from him as he lets go. I fall back onto my ass with a thud I feel in my tailbone. Near tears, I take the one shoe I have left off and dump the liquid that’s collected in it. As I do, the asshole who just ruined my entire night is grabbed by the back of the shirt and yanked backward.

  “Get your fucking hands off of me, bro!” melon shirt wails.

  Pushing myself up from the floor, I watch as the hottest guy I’ve ever seen spins melon shirt like he’s a bit of weightless fluff. “Do you fuckin’ touch women like that often you piece of shit?” hot guy thunders.

  Even though I’m soaking wet—not in a good way—covered in beer and lemon drop shots, shoeless—this is actually not a bad thing—and on the verge of bursting into tears or throwing my hands in the air and quitting, I’m completely transfixed by the hot guy. He’s about six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, and muscular but lean. The way the black tee he’s wearing clings to his sexy arms is drool-worthy. It shouldn’t be so hot that the expression on his face is one of anger, but it totally is. His chiseled features are commanding. In combination with the hot-as-hell air of authority that emanates from him, he’s literally breathtaking.

  “I asked you a question,” he grates, his focus on melon shirt.

  Holy crap, for a second there I forgot about the douche who just manhandled me. Hot guy has got me way too distracted.

  “I said let me go, asshole!”

  Instead of stepping in to help, melon shirt’s group of friends are frantically waving their arms as they tell him to shut the hell up. “Blaine, he’s a fuckin’ cop!” someone in the room yells.

  Hot guy smirks menacingly at Blaine, whose face has just turned a nasty shade of green. “Your friends are right. You can go ahead and call me Officer Asshole, and if you think grabbing women the way you just did is okay, your family should start preparing themselves to visit your dumb ass in prison.”

  Blaine’s face turns from green to stark white. “It’s cool, bro! I was just… uh, fucking around. Yeah, I was fucking around with her. You read the situation wrong. She’s my friend.”

  When hot cop turns his attention to me and our eyes meet I gasp. Something thunderous happens inside of me, and it’s hands down the craziest sensation I’ve ever had in my life. It isn’t unpleasant at all, but it’s so extreme that I’m half wondering how it didn’t put me back down on my ass. His deep blue eyes widen as if he’s also feeling something but that goes away when he shakes his head like he needs to clear it.

  “Was I reading the situation wrong?” he asks.

  Unlike how he’s been speaking to Blaine, his voice is kind when he asks the question. His voice is perfect, deep and a bit gravely, and my body responds in a way it never has before. He’s a stranger to me, yet I’ve never been more attracted to someone in my life. I stare up at him in silence as I try to figure out what it is about him that makes me feel the way I do.

  “Babe,” he prods, his voice gruff. “Gonna need an answer. Is this prepster fuck your friend?”

  “Hey!” Blaine whines.

  “Shut it,” hot cop snaps.

  He doesn’t take his eyes off of me as he waits for my answer. It dawns on me that I need to say something. Blaine is out of his mind if he thinks I’m going to lie for him.

  Clearing my throat I say, “He’s a—”

  “Is there a problem here, Twyla?” Todd asks as he steps next to me.

  My shoulders sag and I hold back a groan. His warning tone is as subtle as a garbage truck driving through a China shop. Forcing myself to look away from hot cop, I look up at Todd. His tone of voice isn’t the only warning sign he’s giving off. The expression on his face sends a clear message—throw Blaine under the bus and I’ll be out of a job. Sighing, I turn back to hot cop.

  “It’s fine,” I murmur. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Hot cop raises his brows and pins me with a look. “Didn’t seem like everything was fine to me,” he says. “Say the word and I’ll have a car down here to arrest this fool in under five minutes.”

  I startle when Todd claps his hands together. “Come on, that’s enough of this. It’s just about closing time and I damn sure don’t need any problems.”

  Hot cop turns his attention to Todd. Narrowing his eyes, he studies him. “So you’re good with customers getting rough with your waitresses?”

  Todd looks damn near apoplectic, and I just know keeping this job is going to be next to impossible. Dammit. At least my resume is current.

  “Of course I’m not good with it,” he snaps, “but this is my bar and I’m the one responsible for taking care of problems here. My waitress says it’s fine, which means it’s fine. Unless you’re going to start arresting people—and I notice you aren’t in uniform, which means you aren’t rolling with cuffs—I think everyone needs to walk away.”

  Hot cop brings his attention back to me. “It’s your call, babe.” />
  Todd’s eyes may as well be lasers because I can feel the heat and anger radiating from them against the side of my face. I already know I’m going to need to find a new job—I can’t have him blackballing me all around town.

  “It’s really okay.”

  Everything about hot cop says that he wants to argue, but he really doesn’t have a choice. After he lets go of Blaine, he glares down at him. “In the future, keep your goddamn hands off women.”

  When the officer turns back to me, I feel the heat of a blush on my cheeks. Licking my lips I say, “Thank y—”

  “Not paying you to stand around. Put your shoes on, grab those beer bottles off the floor and head back to the bar,” Todd interrupts. “I’ll put a replacement order together for what got spilled here—”

  “You already did last call and it doesn’t look to me like anyone here needs to drink more,” hot cop comments.

  “We owe them drinks,” Todd argues.

  “Go ahead and let him serve them,” a gruff voice says from behind me. “Leo’s on shift, I’ll just text him and let him know he needs to come on down with a breathalyzer.”

  When I look over my shoulder, I see a heavily tattooed man with his arms crossed over his chest surveying the scene with narrowed eyes. Just those few words from him and the room starts clearing out fast. I guess the preppy gang isn’t down with the idea of being breathalyzed.

  “Fine,” Todd snaps. “No more drinks.”

  It wasn’t even necessary for him to say that considering people are leaving. I think he did it to save face— not that it worked.

  “Twyla,” he barks, startling me. “Go wipe down the empty tables in the main area— I’ll take care of the shit you spilled back here.”