by Shandi Boyes
My nose screws up at the moldy smell lingering in the air when I enter the dingy space. I locate the shirts right where Maggie said they'd be. The shelves are rusty but perfectly adequate to hold shirts. After snagging the smallest size I can find, I fling off my tank top to replace it with my very first uniform.
It’s halfway slipped over my head when a male voice breaks through the silence surrounding me. “Oh shit, sorry.”
After fixing my shirt, I pivot to face the voice. A man with a shiny head is sheltering his hands with his eyes. If that isn’t confirmation enough he wasn’t sneaking a peek at my boobs through their lace bra, his gaze is fixated on the wall on his right. He’s so uneager to look, my ego gets unexpectedly bitch-slapped.
“It’s safe now.”
He lowers his hands before running his eyes over my shirt. The snug fit showcases my puppies in a flattering light, adding to the sexiness of my tiny shorts.
“Hi, I’m Ollie.”
When he offers me his hand to shake, I take in his features more diligently. His face has a substantial set of wrinkles, and the few strands of hair left on his head are gray. If I had to guess his age, I'd say he's at least mid-sixties. His Maverick shirt is similar to mine; it just hugs his midsection instead of his chest.
“Lola. Tonight is my first shift.”
Ollie nods like my newness explains everything. “There are bathrooms over there.” He points to a door with “Restroom” written across the front.
“Thanks.” I roll my eyes. It took me five seconds to switch my shirt, so why go all the way to the bathroom to do it? “What do you do here?” He doesn't have the height or build of the bouncers I've seen, so I would guess he's the cook.
“I’m the owner.”
My mouth dries when my jaw gapes. I am usually much better with first impressions, especially when it's the opposite sex. Warily smiling, Ollie dips his chin in farewell before entering an office concealed by a shelf of shirts—the same shirts I stripped in front of. Goddammit!
After stashing my purse in an empty locker, I dart back out to the bar. The first person I spot when exiting is Jacob. His eyes bulge out of his head when they land on my tight red shirt. “Jesus, Lola. Are you trying to kill me?” When he adjusts his crotch, I flash him a flirty grin. “Cock tease.”
"Don't ever forget it." Loving the boost of confidence his appreciative glare has given me, I strut to Maggie, who's unstacking glasses from a dishwasher concealed by the wooden bar top. "How can I help?"
When she peers up from the dishwasher, disbelief masks her face. "You could go and get dressed?"
I air slap her while giggling. My laughter halts when her eyes narrow so much, they’re close to closing, but I’m saved by a deep voice on my right. “Be nice, Maggie.”
Noah gives me a sneaky wink, revealing he has my back, although I doubt even he could save me from Maggie’s death stare. She’s a lot sterner than I expected.
Hoping to prove I belong here, I serve Noah as I would any other customer. “What can I get you?”
His plump lips turn upwards. “A beer would be great.”
“Beer. Great. Coming right up.” After clapping my sweaty hands together, I scan my side of the wood and leather bar, seeking the coolers. There’s beer on tap, but since I have no clue how to pull a beer, Noah will have to drink from a bottle tonight.
Several painstaking seconds later, Noah points toward the only section of the bar I haven’t searched. I mouth a quick thank you before bobbing down to retrieve a bottle of Bud Light. I crack off the cap on the countertop before setting it down in front of him. “That’ll be...” I stop talking, having no clue how much Mavs charges per bottle.
Laughing at my stunned expressed, Noah snatches his beer off the counter before making his way back to his bandmates.
“The band's drinks are on the house.” Maggie moves to stand next to me. My quick thinking proved I’m here to work, but her shoulders are still taut. “You’ve met Noah. The blond on his left is Nick. The dark-skinned cutie on his right is Marcus, and the one with the dreadlocks is Slater. They form Rise Up. They’re supplied with unlimited beer every Friday night.”
“Okay. Great.” I scan the members of Rise Up into my memory bank for future reference. It’s not a hard task. They’re all gorgeous. Not quite as handsome as Jacob, but they’re pretty darn close.
While wiping down the already spotless counter, Maggie says, “Tonight, you’ll serve premixed beverages. Then, over your next couple of shifts, I’ll teach you how to mix drinks.”
Her sentence barely finishes leaving her mouth when we’re hit by six thirsty patrons.
For the next four hours, I’m run off my feet. They’re aching; blisters are forming on my heels, and my muscles are screaming in pain. Anyone would swear I endured a marathon instead of a four-hour shift at a rundown bar. I’m exhausted. I had no clue a shit hole like Mavs was so popular. We’re only slowing down now since Rise Up has finished their set.
“You did well.” Maggie’s praise isn’t needed, but it’s nice to hear. She doesn’t seem the type to give unnecessary compliments, so it’s even more reason to pat myself on the back. “You’re right to head off. I’ll text you some extra shifts tomorrow.”
I hold back my squeal until I’m in the backroom, then, after gathering my purse, I hobble to the table Jacob and Rise Up have used the entire night. Unfortunately, they’re not alone. There are several heavy-breasted females seated with them.
Jacob doesn’t pay them any attention when I stop to stand next to him. “How’d you go?”
“Good.” Despite my aching feet, I smile. “Maggie is texting me some extra shifts.”
The pretty brunette seated next to Jacob glares at me, wrongly believing I’m her competition. I’m not, but there’s no need to get snarky. We woman should fix each other’s crowns instead of destroying them over a man.
I realize how two-faced I am when the unnamed brunette claws Jacob's thigh. He's as unprepared for her friendliness as I am for the emotions attacking me. I've never been jealous, but if I were asked to place my hand on the Bible and swear I'm not seconds from scratching the brunette's eyes out, I wouldn't be able to do it.
I’m not afraid my hand will be scorched from being placed on a religious artifact.
I just hate lying.
Chapter Eight
Jacob
I swivel my barstool, facing my back to the brunette who just tried to stake her claim in front of a woman she’ll never win against. Two weeks ago, I would have jumped to the numerous pleas in her eyes. Tonight...not a chance in hell. There’s only one girl I’ve got in my sights. It’s the one pretending she isn’t annoyed by the many daggers she’s been hit with tonight. Not just from girls jealous of all the attention she gets—but from Maggie as well.
Maggie can be a little stern, but it’s her way of keeping those she cares about on the straight and narrow. I've overheard many stories about her younger years. She had—and still does have—a wild side, so I’m confident any conflict of interest between her and Lola is simply a clash of personalities. They’re too similar to get along.
Noticing Lola seems a little flat on her feet, I ask, “Are you ready to head out?”
"Yes." She gives me a look, one I don't know her well enough to read. "My feet are killing me."
I cringe when she removes her black stiletto with a hiss. There’s a massive blister on the back of her ankle. “Remind me to wear more suitable shoes next time.”
Nodding, my eyes drift to Noah. “You ready?”
I get hit with the same deadly glare Lola got when she arrived at our table. It isn’t coming from Noah. It’s from the blonde who’s been vying for his attention all night. She’s more pissed than Noah was when I forgot to tell him I couldn’t drive him home tonight until he already had a few beers under his belt.
With Nick and Marcus having plans, and Slater’s only mode of transport his motorbike, Noah either leaves with us or rides bitch on the back of Slater�
�s bike. There’s no way he’ll do that, so he jumps to his feet. “Yep. I’m good to go.”
He downs the remainder of his beer, then slips on his leather jacket. Much to the blonde’s dismay, he leaves her side without so much of a goodbye. She shouldn’t be shocked. He’s not known for affectionate behavior.
Our drive to Lola’s house is made in silence. Neither Lola or Noah have murmured a peep. Their behavior is so out of character, I feel like I've been zapped to an alternative universe—even more so when my arrival at Lola's house coincides with her inviting me inside.
I eye her curiously, confused as fuck. She’s adamant we’ll never be a couple, yet she’s inviting me into her home.
What the fuck?
Earlier tonight, I sat in my car, honking like an ass to assure I maintained the “friends zone” she wants. I was itching to pick her up at her door as my dad taught me to, but since that isn’t something a friend does for a friend, I kept my ass planted in my seat. It was a fucking hard feat—especially when I saw her teeny tiny shorts.
I like Lola, so I’m more than eager to be her friend, but we’ve fucked. That’s not something I can merely forget. Three lifetimes would pass before I’d forget how scrumptious her lips taste, much less how good her heat felt wrapped around my cock.
While licking my lips, hoping to find a morsel of her cherry lip gloss on my mouth, I shift my eyes to Noah to seek his opinion on Lola's offer. He nods, giving me the go-ahead. He's good like this. He's not a fan of dating, but he isn't a cockblocker either.
As we enter Lola's cozy living room, the vibe shifts from playful to teasing. A current always bristles between Lola and me, but it’s stronger now that we're in her private domain.
After gesturing for me to sit on a hideous floral armchair, Lola plants her backside on the arm of my chair. There are another five spots she could take up, but she’d rather share a seat with me.
I like that—I like that a lot.
Wanting to gauge her true response, I place a hand on her thigh. Is she messing with me, or does she want to mess with me? When she doesn’t flinch against my touch, I ask, “Are you drunk?” quiet enough Noah won’t hear me. “Did you fall over and hit your head? You do realize I’m not my brother, right?”
Giggling, she slaps my chest. “Seriously, Jacob.”
I eye her as if to say, yeah, I’m serious. I’m as confused as fuck right now. “Is this because I called you a cock tease? I don’t regret it, but if this is the outcome, please let me know so I can say it as often as possible.”
“Maybe…?” My cock flexes against my zipper when she straddles my lap. “Or maybe I just want you to kiss me. Can we do that without fifty questions? Or shall we divulge our entire medical history first—?”
I cut off her question by slicing my tongue across her lips. If she wants me to kiss her, she doesn’t need to ask me twice. This girl has lips so sinful, they should belong to the devil.
After a few minutes making out, Lola flips our embrace on its head for the second time tonight. She pulls back with a huff, her mood the complete opposite of mine. I’m seconds from mauling her like a hungry lion, whereas she’s giving me silent marching orders. With a nudge of her head to her front door, she breathes out, “Thanks for the lift.”
I snarl at her, declaring I don’t appreciate the severe case of blue balls she just handed me before glancing at Noah over her shoulder. “We better head out. You ready?”
My disappointment about leaving is evident in my tone, but Noah misses it because he’s eager to stop watching us suck face. “Sure am.” He shifts on his feet to face Lola, his brows joining when he notices her in my lap. “Is it okay if I hit the can before we leave?”
Lola flashes me a beaming grin before cranking her head back to Noah. "Sure, it's down the hall on the left."
I balk when her instructions conclude with her mouth returning to mine. Her rapid shifts in personality have me wondering if she has some kind of mental disorder.
When Noah enters the hallway, Lola un-suctions herself from my lips, then stands. After tugging down her shorts from the height they gained to straddle my lap, she drags her finger over her kiss-swollen lips. Her eyes are dazzling with lust, but there’s something more than desire brightening them. I just wish I knew her well enough to know what it is.
"What are you up to?"
When she twirls to face me with a mammoth smile planted on her face, I tug on my dick, begging for him to calm down. She doesn't miss the grab of my crotch, but she's got other matters on her mind right now.
“I told Noah the bathroom is on the left.”
I remain quiet, waiting for her to elaborate. When she leaves me hanging, I say, “So...?”
“The bathroom is on the right; my sister’s room is on the left.” She rubs her hands together, feigning an innocence she’ll never pull off. “Now watch the sparks fly.”
Although pissed she used me as a ploy to get Noah and her sister to meet, I'm not overly angry. The hunger I've been craving the past week was just fulfilled. Now I need to work out how to get her matchmaking to fix the rock behind my zipper.
Noah is so quiet the first half of our drive home, I grow worried he’s discovered Lola’s ploy to force him and her sister to meet—even more so when he asks, “What do you know about Lola’s sister, Emily?”
The unease in his voice settles my nerves. I’ve never heard him use this tone before. He seems generally interested in my reply, like everything he’s ever worked for is precariously balanced on my answer.
With my brows arched and my smile genuine, my eyes drift from the road to him. When he notices my goading look, his jaw tightens. “Get fucked.”
He plays it cool for the remainder of our trip, only speaking once I pull into the driveway of our home. “Could you ask Lola for Emily’s number?”
I step into the role I was born to play by shaking my head. “Nope, not happening.”
“Why not?” His short reply can’t hide the quiver in his jaw.
“Because you don’t date, and Lola said Emily is a dating type of girl.”
When I clamber out of my seat, Noah mimics my moves. He slams his door shut before sprinting up the path to catch up with me. His eagerness exposes how interested he is. “I didn’t say I wanted to date her; I just wouldn’t mind getting to know her a little better.”
His cool, calm demeanor isn't fooling anyone. Sweat is beading on his temples, and his pupils are massive. He's more than eager. He's shitting bricks.
Happy for him to sweat it out a little longer, I murmur, “I don’t know... it’s risky. She seems like a real nice girl.” When his nostrils flare like he’s seconds from decking me, I put him out of his misery. “Alright, I’ll ask Lola for her number.”
He drops his eyes to my jean pocket, encouraging me to hurry the fuck up.
“Jesus, calm down; no need to get your panties in a twist.” Laughing, I yank my cell from my pocket and text Lola.
Me: Noah wants Emily’s number
She must be waiting by her phone because her reply is quick.
Lola: I friggin knew it! It’s 555 315 4558
Me: See ya on Tuesday?
Lola: Yep!
Noah stores Emily’s number in his phone when I recite it to him.
Now that I’ve done him a favor, it’s time for him to help me out. “Do you have any plans next week?”
He places his phone in his pocket before raising his wide eyes to me. “Nope, why?”
“Remember that prank we’ve done a couple of times? Lola needs driving lessons, so I thought I’d conduct them at the State Forest, you know, for safety and all.” I waggle my brows, hoping he’ll get the drift without me needing to spell it out for him.
He catches on rather quickly. “Name the time and the place. Just don’t do it on a Friday.”
After slapping my shoulder, he climbs the stairs of our home. I enjoy the cool night for a couple of seconds longer, praying my ruse will work its magic on Lola, because I ca
n't stop thinking about the one and only time we've slept together.
Chapter Nine
Jacob
After Hank finishes taping my knuckles, he steps back. “You’re good to go.”
I jump up from my seat to warm up my muscles for my debut fight. Tonight’s event is being held in a rundown gym on the outskirts of town. Hank said I have to start at the bottom rung before working my way up. Once I get a few wins under my belt, the locations and prize money should improve—I hope.
I haven’t told anyone about my match tonight. I don’t know why. I think it’s because fighting is the only thing I do for myself, so I’m not willing to share my passion just yet. That or I’m afraid of getting my ass kicked in front of my friends. With how hard nerves pummel me during my confession, I’d say it is the latter.
Tonight, my competitor is a local fighter who goes by the name "The Terminator." He's been fighting the past year professionally. Hank isn't concerned about my lack of experience. He wouldn't have put me in the octagon if he didn't believe I was ready.
When a middle-aged man announces it’s time for my fight, I yank my long-sleeve shirt over my head before shadowing Hank into the hub of the old gym. The tangy scent of blood filters into my nose when we break through the corridor. A cage sits in the middle of the abandoned space with numerous black steel chairs lining its edges. The early fight time means people are just starting to flow into the cobweb-filled area.
When I enter the cage, butterflies tap dance in my stomach. Out of all the careers in the world, I picked one that requires my fists. Picking up on my uneasiness, Hank tries to settle it from the sidelines. “You’ve got this, Jacob.”
His reply ends just as my opponent enters the cage. He’s as built as me but a head shorter. His red shorts are so skin-tight, I’m not convinced they aren’t underwear, and he’s wearing brand name shoes. A chuckle rumbles in my chest, amused by his outfit selection. Upon hearing my laughter, Hank’s eyes slit as he motions for me to quit chuckling. I give it my best shot, but nothing works. I’m fighting a fucking tool.