by Nicole James
As I backed down the ladder and folded it up, he said, “Not bad work, kid.”
I grinned at his condescension. Any other man, I’d have popped him in the mouth, hell, any other man and I wouldn’t have done the job for him in the first place. But Cullen was special.
“Where’s the ladder go?” I asked.
“Back here.” I followed him down the hall.
Cullen had always given me a father-figure kinda feeling every time I was around him. It started from the first night I’d met him and dragged his unconscious body out the door—the night a gangbanger robbed the place. He’d hit Cullen over the head, and then for some bullshit reason had set fire to the place. Luckily, I was passing by and ran inside in time to get Cullen and his daughter out the door, then jogged back into the pub and used the fire extinguisher to put out the fire.
Loud voices at the other end of the bar draw me from my memories. A gorgeous bartender is leaning over the counter, getting in the face of a customer.
“You ever try that crap again, buddy, you’ll be leaving here in handcuffs.”
“Why you getting so riled? It was just a pinch, babe. Don’t overreact.”
“You touch me or any other waitress in here again, I’ll hit you with the baseball bat I’ve got under the bar, understand, asshole?”
“Fuck you, bitch.” He stands and stalks toward the front door. I zero in on his face as he passes, committing it to memory. I ever see him again, he’ll have more to worry about than cutie’s baseball bat.
My eyes snap back to her. She’s young, barely old enough to be bartending, if I had to guess. Her skin is like peaches and cream, her hair is long and silky and the color of pale fire, and her eyes are clear azure blue. My gaze skates down her body—lean and willowy with soft curves—the kind I immediately want to run my palms over.
She plunges some dirty glasses into a sink full of suds, taking her anger out in the rough jerking motions. I can see she’s muttering to herself, and I can’t help the grin on my face.
Evidently, I sat on the wrong side of the bar.
I drain my beer and set it forward. The bartender working this side approaches.
“Want another?”
I nod and ask, “There a Michael Mooney workin’ here tonight?”
He huffs out a laugh, his eyes again dropping to my cut. “Sure. Michael is working tonight. Who’s asking?”
He needs to wipe that snarky look off his face before I come over the bar and do it for him. I make sure my expression conveys that. Something about the way he puts emphasis on the name has me curious, even as his question grates on my nerves. “I am,” I reply sarcastically.
His eyes narrow, but he turns to do my bidding like a good little peon, pausing beside the hot chick washing the glasses to murmur something in her ear. I’m too far away to hear it, but I see him gesture toward me.
Her eyes search me out and a stricken look passes over her face. I should be used to that reaction. I get it from a lot of people on the street when they see the cut and the patch. They become immediately struck with fear or disgust. See it time and time again.
But for some odd reason, it really irks me that I see it on cutie-pie’s face.
She wipes her hands and approaches me.
What the fuck? Is dickhead passing the job off to her? Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with me. That’s fine. I’d rather talk to this beauty any day.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her chin lifting even as her gaze drops to my cut and then beyond me. I twist to see what she’s looking at. There’s no one behind me. The pool tables are now empty, but I spot my bike through the plate glass window, its red paint gleaming under the streetlight. I turn back to her. Yeah, babe, that beauty is mine. I don’t have to tell her, though.
“I asked if I could I help you?”
“Sure, doll. Lookin’ for Michael Mooney. He in tonight?”
“That’s me. And it’s pronounced Mi-kay-la.”
“You?” I ask, sounding like a dumbstruck fool. I wasn’t ready for that, and it catches me by surprise. Now I understand dickhead’s smirk.
“Yes, me. What can I help you with?” She says it sweetly enough, but I get the feeling Miss Michaela Mooney doesn’t want to help me with anything. In fact, I don’t think she wants me in her bar at all.”
“You in charge now?”
“Yep.” Her answer is short and choppy and let’s me know she wants me gone. Sorry, babe. Not happening.
“You Cullen’s daughter?” I ask, thinking back to the child that was with him the night I pulled him from that fire ten years ago. Back then Vic ran the club, and people had a right to be terrified of us.
“Yes, one of them.”
“Let’s talk in the office,” I say, not so much as a suggestion, but a command that not many people would brook.
“Let’s not,” she snaps back, and I pause halfway off my stool. She’s a sassy little thing, and I can’t say I don’t like it. It almost makes me want to smile, but that would be the wrong foot to get off on with her. I need to set the tone of how this arrangement’s going to go between us, right from the start.
“You know why I’m here?”
“To throw your weight around, like your club does everywhere else in town?”
She’s one step from crossing the line with me, and I’d rather we’re not in a roomful of people when she does it. I lean across the bar.
“I knew your father. I respected him. Only reason I’m giving you that smartass comment and letting it slide. But you and me are going to talk. And we’re going to talk in your office. Now we can do that one of two ways: you walk back with me like an adult, or I haul you back there over my shoulder with your ass in the air. How you want to play this, angel?”
Michaela’s fuming, her face flushing red, her lips thinning. She raises her chin and snaps out, “Fine.”
She turns and heads toward the back and I follow, keeping pace with her down the bar until we get to the hallway. I pause and let her go ahead of me.
Once we reach the office and I close the door, Michaela immediately puts the desk between us, and I try to hold back the smile. I’ll give her that space—for now.
I move to a seat in front of it and sit. She lowers herself into the big red leather chair, looking small and so out of place. I’m used to seeing Cullen in it, so this is strange for me as well.
“Do you have a name?” Sarcasm drips from her words.
“You can call me Sly.”
“Sly?” She quirks a brow. “I’ll bet you are.”
“You’d be right.”
“I saw that red motorcycle at the cemetery. That was you, wasn’t it?”
I nod. She’s quick and observant, and I have to remind myself not to underestimate her. Dare I tell her the paint color is actually called Stiletto Red?
“Why were you there?”
“Pay my respects.”
Her beautifully arched brow quirks, and she lifts her pointed chin and huffs. “Right.”
“Told you, knew Cullen and respected him.”
“So, why are you here now?”
“To collect our payments, the bar’s behind two months now.”
“Payments? For what?” She’s pretending she doesn’t know, but something about her expression tells me she absolutely does. I’m sure Cullen didn’t tell her, but I heard there was a suicide note, and right now I’m wondering what was in it. My eyes drop to the desktop. There are papers everywhere, and that black ledger, the one Cullen always had on the desk. God knows what he wrote in it. Maybe she does know. Maybe she knows more than I want her to.
I decide I’ll be as straight with her as I can be. “Payments for the Uprising Security Plan.”
She smirks. “Right. And what does that do?
“Darlin’, we make sure your business stays nice and safe, just like all the businesses in town.”
“Protection money? Are you shitting me?”
“Let’s not call it that, sweetheart.”
&
nbsp; “What do you want to call it?”
“Let’s say it’s insurance and security all rolled up in one.”
“Oh, hell no. Get out. You won’t get one cent from me.” She jumps to her feet and points at the door.
I rise from the chair. “You’re a little spitfire, aren’t you? I like that.”
“Get out.”
“You want to make it in this town, and baby, I seriously doubt you got it in you—but you do?—you play the game.”
“Get out! I don’t need your brand of protection. Mooney’s will be just fine.”
I like this girl. I can’t help challenging her. Something in her demeanor leads me to believe that she’s not one to back down from a challenge. Something in my brain realizes if she fails, she may leave town, and suddenly the last thing I want is Michaela Mooney leaving town. If she succeeds, she’ll stay, and I really want her around. If I know human nature, I know that challenge will get her to respond. Years in prison taught me how to read people, and what I read in Michaela’s azure eyes is a response to me I’m not even sure she’s aware of, or if she is, she sure as hell doesn’t want to admit it. That’s okay. I can work with that. “You’re not your old man. Runnin’ this place, young as you are?” I shake my head. “You can’t do it. You won’t last a month in this game.”
She’s fuming now as she comes around the desk, putting herself within arm’s reach, her first mistake.
“The hell I won’t. Watch me.”
My eyes skate down her body. “Oh, I’ll be watchin’ all right.”
She goes to slap me, her second mistake, but I grab her arm before her palm reaches my face. The corner of my mouth pulls up. “Kitten, you’re in way over your head.”
Michaela tries to yank free, but I band my other arm tight around her waist and drag her against me, pinning her. She’s a feisty one; I’ll give her that. It’s hard to concentrate with her sexy-as-hell body pressed to mine. She goes soft against me, giving in, perhaps realizing that to struggle is no use.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, angel. Relax.”
She stills, but her breathing quickens and her pulse beats rapidly in the dip of her neck.
We stare into each other’s eyes. Her pupils dilate and my hold on her eases a bit. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and draws my attention.
I want nothing more than to taste those sweet plump lips. She’s got a freckle in the center of the bottom one, and I find that I want to run my tongue over it.
I lift my eyes to hers, only to find her gaze on my mouth.
The moment lasts just a few seconds, but long enough for me to know I’ve got to give her time and play this right. I relax my hold more, giving her a little space.
“Michaela, I think you’ll find that what the club has to offer might come in handy for you. This ain’t a job for a woman alone, especially late at night. You keep the deal your father had and the club’s just a phone call away if trouble comes around.”
“The only trouble I see coming around is you.”
“True, I can be more trouble than you want, but that’s not the way this has to be. That’s not what I want.”
“What do you want?”
My eyes again drop to her mouth and she pulls back, reading my thoughts easily enough. “I’m not part of any deal.”
I nod, giving her that, for now. “Your father was in to us for thirty-six hundred.”
“What?”
“I cut him some slack. Probably shouldn’t have, but he swore he’d have it the end of the month. That was before …” I don’t need to remind her what it was before. She lived it.
“What do you know about his death?” she asks, throwing me with the change of topic.
I frown before releasing her and stepping back. “Nothing, angel. I swear.”
There’s doubt in her eyes. I can’t blame her for it. She has absolutely no reason to trust me. I suddenly want to change that, but I’m just not sure how.
“I don’t believe it was suicide,” she whispers.
“Then who do you think killed him?”
“Maybe someone he owed money to.” She lifts her chin at me.
I shake my head. “Wasn’t us, got my word.”
“Your word? Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Yeah. I give it … it’s golden. You’ll learn that.”
“I have no intention of learning anything from you.”
I take in a deep breath and let it out. “Make you a deal. I’ll give you another month to get your payments all caught up.” I glance at the calendar on the wall. “That’ll give you until … well, look at that, Good Friday. Now that’s gotta be a good sign.”
“Or what?”
I can’t help touching her one last time. I lift my hand to her chin and I gently tilt her face up to mine. I stroke my thumb over the soft skin just below her mouth and she remains stock still, allowing it. That pulse flutters in her neck again.
I’m surprised; I half expected her to smack my hand away. I drop my arm and answer her. “Or you don’t want to know.”
She shoots an angry glare at me, but remains silent, which is a good judgment call on her part right now. We both realize she’s pushed me about as far as she should. I find it hot as hell, though, and visions of fucking her on Cullen’s desk flash through my dirty mind. I know I’m close to acting on it, or at least trying to. I’d never force her, but I’m good at persuasion, especially when hot-as-sin women are concerned.
I step back, yank a pen from the cup on her desk, and scribble my number down on the ink blotter. “You ever get in trouble and need me, there’s my number. Use it.”
Her brow arches. “I’ll never use it.”
I toss the pen down and walk out before I try to take what I want and smash those sassy lips under mine.
When I’m back out at my bike, I stare up at the building while I strap on my helmet.
Do I want this girl? Yeah, I do, but just how badly? Enough to complicate the fuck outta my world? Because that’s what she’s gonna do if I let her.
She’s got spirit and backbone, not to mention the sass she throws around that turns me the fuck on. But it’s more than that. It’s something I saw in her eyes, something I’m not even sure I can label, something that pinged back and forth between us.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking on my part, or maybe Miss Michaela Mooney is into bad boys. She may not even know it yet, but it’s there. I saw it, I felt it, and I’m betting she did too.
Question remains, do I want this girl? She’d be a complication I absolutely do not need right now. But since when have I ever let that stand in my way?
Eight
Michaela—
I’m still in the office when Phil comes back to tell me that the bar is closed up. I see the questions in his eyes, but he doesn’t ask, and I can’t help the sigh of relief. Last thing I want to do is explain any of what just happened between that damn infuriating man and myself.
Carlos comes in behind him with a brown paper bag. “Here, Michaela. Had some chicken tenders and fries leftover. Hate to see them go to waste. Put a container of my special sauce in there. Enjoy.”
“Thank you, Carlos. That’s sweet of you.”
He winks. “Gotta keep the boss lady happy. Besides, you’re too skinny.”
I grin and roll my eyes, and he leaves, whistling.
Phil head’s out, too, so I lock up behind him, then walk upstairs to the apartment and eat the food. It’s delicious and I’m starving.
After spending the night in a noisy bar, my apartment is too quiet. I wander into the living room and move to the window and stare outside. The street below is still; not a single car goes by while the traffic light at the end of the block changes from green to red for no one. Apparently, Uprising rolls up the sidewalks at one a.m.
I press my forehead to the glass and stare down at the spot where Sly’s bike was parked and imagine him standing down there, staring up at me. God, he was good-looking, and I was attracted to him in
a way I haven’t been since I was fourteen and had a crush on Mike Murkowski freshman year of high school.
But his visit was unsettling. I know I had my suspicions about where all that money went every month in Da’s ledger, but to have Sly boldly walk in and confirm it with no shame is overwhelming.
He’s not like the bikers from my memory of the night I hid in the supply closet and watched them beat my father.
I know in my head he wears the same patch as those men, but I didn’t get the vibe that he would actually hurt me. Maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe it’s just his good looks that are fooling me. Maybe he’s no different from those men at all.
Still, I can’t help remembering every detail about Sly: the way he smelled like leather and motor oil and fresh country air, like he’d been out riding tonight; the way his hard body felt when he pulled me tight against him; the way he stared into my eyes.
He has the most amazing light green eyes. I felt like they looked right into my soul and saw all my deepest secrets. I was drawn to him. Even Sly’s voice was addicting, low and soft with that sexy southern drawl.
Good God, Michaela, pull yourself together. He’s a filthy biker and possibly a criminal to boot. His club probably deals guns and drugs and who knows what else. Rumors have always flown around town about them. Most of the stories so outlandish, I have to believe they’re made up or at least exaggerated.
I bite my lip thinking about how I’m going to come up with that money. I’m not exactly clear on what the “or else” is, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to find out. If I try to stand up to him and his club, will he burn down the bar? Break my legs like some nineteen-twenties gangster? Worse?
Do I want to dare to find out?
Sly said he wasn’t going to hurt me, and he called me “angel,” but if I refuse to pay up at the end of the thirty days he’s given me, will his demeanor change?
When he held me close and stared down into my eyes, I swore he was going to kiss me. Something inside of me that I really don’t want to examine too closely was almost sorry when he didn’t. I lift my fingertips to my lips. No matter how hard I try, I can’t forget the way he brushed his thumb just under them and the way he stared at my mouth, like he was thinking of all the ways he wanted to put it to use.