Rum and Notes

by Elise Faber

  Holy fuck, why had I waited? Of course, I hadn’t known what was on the supposedly shy little Brooke’s laptop. Wouldn’t have guessed if I’d been given a thousand opportunities to do so.

  It was dirty.

  It was hot.

  It was—

  “Kace! Get your ass back in here!” Brent, my fellow bartender on duty that evening, yelled.

  Tucking the credit card into my pocket, I headed back into the bar and focused on getting through the rest of the night. This was my sixth day on in a row, and I was ready to have the next four off. I wanted to sleep, to fuck, and to sleep.

  In that order.

  Or maybe to fuck, to sleep, then to fuck again, but I’d take what I could get.

  It was after last call that evening, after I’d closed down the registers, helped the servers clean up, made sure the inventory for the next week was set when my cell rang.

  I wanted it to be Brooke, even though that wasn’t possible.

  Instead, it was Heather O’Keith.

  Brilliant businesswoman, sister of the owner of Bobby’s bar, and the pain in the ass reason I’d worked the last six nights in a row.

  “Do you know what time it is?” I said, instead of answering like a normal polite person.

  Well, it was after three in the morning.

  “It’s lunchtime here,” she said breezily as I flicked off the lights and locked the exterior door on the way to my car. “I just wanted to,” she continued, talking over me when I started in with a muttered grumble about lunchtime, “say thank you for saving the day, since my asshole of a brother has fallen off the radar again.”

  Bobby was the namesake of Bobby’s Bar and, point blank, he was an asshole.

  Mainly because he was a flake and kept making his sister, who was supposed to have been merely a silent partner in the bar, step up and all but run the business.

  “It’s not a problem,” I muttered, unlocking the driver’s side door and getting in.

  “It is a problem,” she said. “But the problem will be a lot better from now on.” A beat. “I bought Bobby out. We’ll keep his name on the front of the building, though that will be the extent of it.” Her voice dropped to a mutter. “Since that seems to be all he ever wanted anyway.”

  “We’ll?” I asked, assuming she meant herself and Clay Steele, the man who’d swept the notoriously hard-to-tame Heather off her heels the previous year. From what I’d heard through the bar gossip train, and I’d heard a whole hell of a lot because it was scarily efficient, she’d put up quite a fight before she’d succumbed to Clay’s patented charm.

  “Yes, we’ll,” she said and then declared as breezily as she’d previously mentioned it was lunchtime, “once you agree to become a permanent partner with me.”

  I froze, finger reaching for the button to start the ignition of my car.

  “Um, what?”

  “You’re the best manager I have,” she said. “You’ve pulled more extra shifts than any other employee there.”

  “I—”

  “And even if you weren’t just reliable, you’re good at the job, you’ve been doing more than your fair share, and you’re the kind of employee I want to keep around.”

  “I—”

  “So I propose this,” she said. “I propose a ten percent stake in the business as a signing bonus and an additional ten percent each of the next four years, maxing out at a fifty percent share of the company—”

  “Heather,” I interrupted when she would have continued to go on. “Are you freaking insane?”

  A pause then, “I’m not going to dignify that with a response. I’ve emailed you a contract. Take a look and tell me what you think.”

  “Heather,” I began again.

  “Bye, Kace. I’ll give you seventy-two hours to consider your response.” Another beat of silence. “I trust you’ll make the right decision.”

  Then she hung up.

  I sat in stunned silence until an ambulance drove by with its siren blaring. That jarred me into action, and I pressed the button to start my car before driving home in a fog. Partly because it was really fucking late and partly because why in the hell had Heather O’Keith offered to go into business with me?

  Ten percent, right off the bat.

  Fifty percent in four years.

  Fifty. Percent.

  I knew how much Bobby’s made in a month because I’d balanced the books more than a handful of times, had done inventory and ordered too many times to count, not to mention payroll and all of the other day-to-day tasks that came with running a restaurant.

  All of it, even though I’d only been hired as a bartender.

  But I wasn’t the type of guy to stand by and watch things go to shit just because it wasn’t technically in my job description.

  Which might have seriously paid off that evening.

  Fifty percent.

  Fifty fucking percent was a whole hell of a lot when I’d never had anything at all.

  Four

  Brooke

  I’d put it off for as long as I could.

  But it had been five days and I never carried much cash. Worse, I didn’t remember my pin to my ATM card. Ridiculous and totally immature—what kind of grown woman didn’t know the pin to her ATM card? I could remember the ages, hair color, eye color, even the middle names and birthdays of all my characters, but recalling those four numbers in the correct order was impossible.

  So, it was either go into the bank and withdraw cash in person—which meant, ugh, people—or it was time to go back to the bar and retrieve the one credit card I owned.

  Also, ugh, but I had a plan.

  One that involved going into the bar at a time that Kace didn’t work.

  He was on from evening to close, or so I’d assumed, since he’d been there every time I’d gone in to burn the midnight oil and stayed there no matter how late I’d been pecking away at my laptop.

  So my plan was to go into the bar at midday.

  Lunchtime barhopping was perhaps not the best expression of my character, but it beat having to look into Kace’s eyes and witness the knowledge of me basing the hero in my story after him there.

  Including his giant penis.

  Which, in fairness, was based more on my hope as a woman of Earth and less on my actual knowledge of said body part.

  Though he had worn a really tight pair of jeans that one time . . .

  Rolling my eyes, I straightened my shoulders and forced myself to pull open the door to Bobby’s and walk into the bar. The front room was empty, so I moved down the hall to the space in the back.

  He wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t—

  Oh my fucking god, he was there.

  I froze, the long stretch of hall behind me, nowhere to hide.

  Kace hadn’t seen me yet, his eyes were on a stack of papers he held in front of him, silently reading as he walked toward me. He wore a black leather jacket over a pale blue T-shirt that complemented his eyes. I whipped around silently, started hustling back into the front room of the bar. If I could just make it there, I could run, escape. Hell, I could hide under the table.

  I had no shame at this point.

  I could not face the man who starred in my book . . . along with my every fantasy over the last months.

  Hot and dirty fantasies and the scene he’d eavesdropped on—was it technically eavesdropping if he’d read it? Perhaps eavesreading was more apt. Anyway, he’d seen something he shouldn’t have, and it had been extra hot and extra dirty and, fuck me, I’d been imagining Kace doing all those things to me as I’d written it.

  I hustled down the hall, thankful for my sneakers and their stealth. Almost there. Almost there—

  “Brooke.”

  Shit.

  So much for stealth. Fuck it; I was going for speed.

  I hurried for the front door and—

  Warm fingers on my arm. Hot breath in my ear.

  “Where you going, honey?”

  His touc
h did something to me, made the nerves fly away, along with my filter. “Not your honey. Not your baby,” I gritted out. “Let me go.”

  “Sweetheart—”

  “Oh my fucking God!” I shrieked.

  Yes, a shriek. Yes, it was loud. But, for the love of Pete, this man just wouldn’t stop. I spun to face him, tugging free of his grasp. “You are freaking unbelievable. You know that? And that isn’t a compliment,” I snapped when he grinned. “That is an expression of extreme dislike and annoyance.”

  He shrugged. “Dislike and annoyance are only a hairsbreadth away from anger, and I kind of like you angry, sugar pie.”

  Sugar pie?

  Sugar. Pie.

  My skin tightened, my spine lifted, my chin rose, and my lips parted—

  “Fuck, you’re pretty.”

  The biting retort that had been on the tip of my tongue whooshed away like so much smoke and I stood there, blinking at him like an idiot.

  He smirked. “Especially when you blush like that.”

  My mouth opened and closed, a la a gaping fish. Cute, that. I sucked in a breath, focusing, pulling up my memories of him calling me baby and honey, sweetheart and sugar pie, trying to remember that I didn’t like it. Because I definitely found them objectionable and too familiar and I did not enjoy the endearments brushing down my skin in his slightly rough voice, just like his calloused fingers trailed along my cheek—

  Wait. My cheek?

  His fingers were stroking my cheek?

  Seriously. What in the hell was wrong with me?

  I jumped back, narrowed my eyes, and decided to finally pull my head out of my ass. Breathing through my mouth so I wouldn’t be distracted by the spicy deliciousness of his scent, I tucked away the irritation, pushed down the desire, and focused on the task at hand.

  People were evil—especially Kace and his panty-melting smirk—which meant I needed my credit card.

  Once I retrieved it I was leaving, going back to my apartment to watch Pride and Prejudice, and pretend that in an alternate life I was Elizabeth Bennett and I was always authentic, always myself, that I didn’t care what anyone else thought about me—especially annoying men—and that, most importantly, I actually stood up for myself.

  “I’ve come for my credit card,” I declared.

  Yes, declared, and rather imperiously, I thought happily.

  Because I definitely needed imperiousness when dealing with Kace.

  He burst out laughing.

  “You’ve come . . . for your . . . card?” He bent over, a huge grin on his face, chuckles washing over me as dangerously as his touch.

  “Hilarious,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest and continuing to glare.

  It took him several long minutes to gain control, time that I spent searching the bar and trying to find any other employee who might be able to help me. Anyone I could deal with who was not the beautiful, impossible, pain in the ass in front of me.

  Anyone.

  Alas, the bar remained empty, no one emerging from behind it or drifting down the hall, and because it wasn’t yet noon, customers weren’t exactly pouring in through the front door.

  Finally, Kace’s laughter cut off and he straightened, eyes locked on me. “Card’s in the safe,” he murmured. “Come on.” Then he turned and strode back down the hall, leaving me to follow him. I didn’t want to, really didn’t want to, but what choice did I have? I’d come for the card. He was leading me to the card.

  I just tried to not watch his ass on the way.

  Also note, I failed because it was a really nice ass.

  He pushed through a door marked Private, and I trailed him into a small office. It was dark and dingy, a worn desk piled high with papers taking up the majority of the space. A dirty window allowed a minimal amount of light into the room, but it only served to highlight how dusty every surface was.

  Kace caught my eye. “It looks worse than it is.”

  I just raised a brow in response, not buying that for a second.

  He smirked, turned and crouched down, fingers working the buttons of the safe, and my way-too-dirty mind liked the way he worked those, wished he were working my button like that and—

  There was a beep, and the safe door swung open.

  He reached in, fumbled for a few seconds, then stood and handed me my card. “There you go, Brooke McAlister.”

  I took it, shoved it into my purse. “Thanks,” I grumbled and started for the door.

  “I read your books.”

  My feet stopped moving. “What?”

  “I read your stuff.” His lips twitched. “I liked.”

  Never more than at that moment had I wished I wrote under a pen name. But I didn’t. I wrote under my real name because I was too lazy and unorganized to keep track of more than my own name.

  I shook my head. “You’ve read one of my books?”

  Kace nodded. “Three actually. You’re funny, sweetheart.”

  “Which three?” I asked.

  His brows drew down. “What?”

  “Which three books did you read?”

  Please, not the Sullivan Series, I thought. Anything but those.

  “Um.” Blue eyes went unfocused as he thought. “They were like fire names. Heat, Flame, and—”

  “Burn,” I murmured, horror washing over me.

  “Yeah.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. I liked them, babe.”

  “Oh God,” I groaned.

  He came closer. “You’re funny,” he said again. “And I’m not much of a reader, but those scenes you wrote? Hot as hell.”

  I shook my head. Nope. This was not actually happening.

  “Also kind of like the male characters.”

  That was it. I thunked my head against the door. I should have canceled the card, got a new one. Forget that I had the number memorized—it was only sixteen digits. I could do that again, no problem.

  “Especially the ones with blue eyes and tattoos.”

  Another thunk.

  “I should have just gone to the bank,” I muttered, then stifled a sigh and straightened my shoulders. “Thanks for reading. I’m glad you enjoyed them. I-I’m just going to leave and—”

  He brushed past me, leaving me no choice but to follow him back down the hall, but when we got to the front door and I reached for it, he placed his palm on the worn wood to hold it in place. “Baby.”

  My shoulders went stiff. “Not your—”

  “Baby,” he finished, blue eyes twinkling. “Got that.” A beat. “Come back tonight. Your drinks are on me.”

  I huffed. “I’m good. Thanks.”

  His fingers plucked into my purse, tugged out my card, but before I could react to that, my lips barely parting in protest, he’d pushed me out the front door and onto the sidewalk.

  The bright sunlight outside was why I didn’t react quickly, why I didn’t yank the door back open before I heard the click of the lock engaging.

  Definitely that and not the fact that Kace had put his hand on my stomach to push me out. Also, definitely not because the feel of his palm through the thin fabric of my shirt had made me stupid, not to mention wet.

  And absolutely not because I wanted to head back to the bar that night, that I wanted him to buy me drinks and touch me again and not on my stomach.

  Because that would be stupid.

  Royally stupid.

  Beyond stupid.

  And yet, for the first time in my life, I wanted to be stupid.

  Five

  Brooke

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I muttered, nine hours later, pushing through the crowd in the front of Bobby’s and making my way down the wood-paneled hallway.

  I made it as far as the doorway before my nerves got the better of me. I could see the crowd inside, an open chair at the end of the bar that was secluded and pushed into a corner, just like I preferred. Less chance for human interaction and closer to a wall plug so my laptop wouldn’t be at risk of dying. It also—
<
br />   “Shit,” I muttered, darting to the side so I wouldn’t get creamed by a couple who was really enjoying their night and thus took no notice of a slightly frumpy, definitely awkward author propping up the frame. I stumbled out of the way, tripping over my own feet, and probably off balance because I hadn’t brought my backpack, but I didn’t take a header, didn’t wipe out on the slightly sticky—ick—wooden floor because warm hands caught my shoulders and steadied me.

  My breath hitched.

  Kace.

  Except when I glanced over my shoulder, it wasn’t Kace.

  No. Where Kace was dark hair and olive skin, gorgeous in a Mediterranean way, this man belonged on the cover of a magazine. Deep coffee-colored eyes, lush lips, and giving off serious Idris Elba vibes—and not the Cats version, but the gate-keeping Thor version with the smoldering looks and panty-melting vibes. Anywho, I digress, but the man in front of me was pure sex and his palms were gentle as they brushed up and down my arms.

  “You okay, darlin’?” he asked.

  And a hint of a southern accent. Hot damn. Move over Kace. This was my next hero.

  That was for damn sure.

  I nodded, not even giving him lip for the use of the endearment. It didn’t mean anything, not like Kace’s use of sweetheart and baby and all the rest. I don’t know how I knew that. But it was some instinct in me, aided by the fact that this man’s voice dripped honey. Him slipping in a darlin’ here or there was just part of him, part of the southern charm, part of the whole package.

  Totally normal.

  Unlike me, who was staring at him like an insane person.

  “Thank you,” I murmured and stepped away.

  He leaned back against the doorway and crossed his arms. “Seen you around here a lot, darlin’,” he murmured. “Just haven’t seen much of that pretty face.”

  A charmer, but it was reading as so light and superficial that I didn’t get nervous for a change. Instead, I smiled and shrugged. “It’s got a good vibe for my work.”

  The sleeves of his T-shirt rode up when he flexed and as pretty as the lines of his tattoo were floating up his ebony skin, his tats couldn’t compare to Kace’s.

  His arm moved again, exposing more of his bicep, and I stopped breathing.