by Lacey Black
“Thank you,” she replies quickly, offering me a small grin.
With a nod, I turn to Dustin, pat him on the shoulder, and return to my domain, my gut heavier than it was when I came out here. I push through the door and find chaos erupting around me. Doug is trying to keep up on the grill, but he just doesn’t have the expertise to systematically move that many burgers in a short amount of time.
He’s not me.
I jump right back in, barking orders and doing everything I can to get caught back up. I was only out in the dining room for five minutes, but all hell broke loose in that short amount of time. This is why I hate leaving anyone else in charge in my absence. Yes, they manage, but no one runs this kitchen like I do.
Time to put Lyndee out of my head and do my thing.
Ha! Fat chance of that, buster.
***
Once the kitchen has been completely closed down, the restaurant long empty, and the bar hopping, I finally make my way over to where the action is. The moment I saddle up to the end of the bar, Walker has a bottle in his hand and the top off. “Busy night,” I say, taking my first long pull of beer of the night.
“Yep. He draws more and more of a crowd,” my friend replies, nodding to where Jameson plays guitar on the small one-step stage in the corner of the room.
This is the time where the bar is somewhat quiet, patrons enjoying his weekend acoustic sessions. Friday and Saturday nights, our friend plays. Crazy to think it started as just a way for him to practice whatever song he was working on, but now, he’s a big part of the draw. Burgers, beer, and damn good music.
I glance around and find every seat filled, including some with familiar faces. As in, ones I’ve met up with well after the bar closed. Shit, I think there’s even a small group sitting together that all looks very familiar. When I get a few waves and red-stained grins promising dirty favors later, I look away. Any other night, I’d eagerly anticipate one of them coming over with a proposition, but tonight, well, I’m just not feeling it and kinda hoping no one approaches me.
“This is exactly why I refused to dip my quill in company ink, man.”
I look up and smack directly into Walker’s laughing gaze. “Shut the fuck up.”
That only makes him laugh even harder. He dries a few glasses and sets them on the shelf behind him. When he turns back around, he tosses the towel over his shoulder and leans in. “There comes a point in every man’s life where the endless supply of willing women gets old.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, chugging half my beer because I, in fact, know exactly what he’s talking about, or alluding to, at least. Maybe I should say who.
He’s way off base, though.
No way am I ready to commit my cock to one woman for the rest of my life.
Ain’t happening.
Just because he cut off his balls when he met Mallory and willingly handed them over to her doesn’t mean I’m going to do the same. He thinks just because he’s happy, everyone else should be too. Well, forget that. I’m more than happy living the single life, hooking up like always.
Keep telling yourself that.
Walker just grins. “Jameson and Isaac told me you knew the woman across the street from college. She’s the one who had your panties in a bunch back then, right?”
I gape at my friend. “What? That didn’t happen,” I argue, but my too-observant friend just shakes his head. The bastard makes a damn good bartender, or therapist as they’re often referred to. “You guys never even met Lyndee.”
“True, we didn’t, but we witnessed how agitated you’d get after those classes and how competitive you were with her. We may not have met her, but she made an impression on us, only because she made one on you.”
Bastard. He’s just standing there, all smug and righteous, like he knows everything about me. “Whatever,” I mumble, finishing off my beer in one more swallow.
Walker just laughs again as he reaches down and grabs a fresh bottle, pops the top, and slides it in front of me. “You want to hear what I think?”
“Don’t you have a job to do?” I practically growl.
“Yeah.”
“Then go do it and forget about analyzing something that doesn’t deserve a second thought. I’m not into her, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve barely even thought of her,” I insist, the lie rolling off my tongue like turpentine.
Now, he’s practically doubling over with laughter. “If you say so.” He sobers, clears his throat and leans in. “Good to know you’re not interested, because there’s a lady at the table over there that hasn’t taken her eyes off you since you walked in and sat down. I guess since you’re not hung up on anyone else, you might as well go over there and buy her a drink.” He turns and heads down the bar to start making drinks, leaving his words hanging over me like a horrible headache.
I glance over my shoulder and spy a brunette with smoky makeup in a booth along the wall. Her friends’ attention is pointed at Jameson, but hers is directed at me. She sips a martini and gives me a grin. I know that smile. It’s one a woman gives a man when she’s interested in a shag.
Keeping my eyes on her, I turn a little and bring my drink to my lips. I watch her observe me, knowing this is exactly what I need to do to push Lyndee out of my mind. I’ve been all over the damn place since Monday when I discovered she was opening across the street. She invades my thoughts, day and night, and I’m tired of her fucking with my head. I thought maybe sleeping with her was the perfect solution, but by Wednesday morning, I had talked myself out of that. It was a horrible idea.
The brunette nibbles on her plump bottom lip. Normally, I’d find it sexy, but tonight, it feels forced and overdone. Why do all women bite their lip? I mean, Lyndee did it Monday afternoon when I was there, but not like this. She wasn’t trying to draw attention in that seductive way.
Forget about Lyndee.
I scan what I can see of her appearance, which is from the chest up. Tight red shirt with ample amounts of cleavage pouring out of the V-neck shirt. Lyndee wore a V-neck the other day too, but hers was a bit more tasteful. Not nearly as tight, nor were her tits popping out of the top like her shirt was two sizes too small.
Goddammit.
Just as Jameson finishes his set, the energy in the room starts to pick up. Everyone knows what’s about to happen, and to be honest, I’m still shocked it does. It’s a tradition on Friday and Saturday nights that dates back to the very first weekend we were open.
At eleven on the dot, Jameson sets his guitar down and everyone watches as Walker heads for the jukebox. With bated breath, we wait for tonight’s song selection. I slip behind the bar and pour a shot, like one of us does every time this happens. Tonight, I choose tequila, something he’s not a huge fan of. Serves him right for meddling in my business like a fucking girl.
Finally, the song starts, and the crowd goes wild. The familiar opening melody of “Looks That Kill” blares through the speakers, and the brunette catches my attention. She’s grinning like I chose that song just for her.
The entire bar starts to belt out the Mötley Crüe song as my friend makes his way back to the bar. He heads for the center, places his hands on the top, and hoists himself up. And yes, every patron is egging him on. Walker starts to dance, shaking his hips and ass like it’s his fucking job, and I guess, it is. That first night, we all had way too much to drink, celebrating our opening and praying for success, and I have no idea why he ended up on the bar at eleven o’clock, but he did.
And it was epic.
So ever since, we salute our favorite band with one of their songs at the stroke of eleven. Word spread so fast about the dance that it was expected, patrons coming from all over to observe the craziness by my friend.
I’ll never forget the night his girlfriend witnessed his bar top dance for the first time. I thought for sure he was toast, their relationship over, but do you know what? She laughed and egged him on. Didn’t complain about the panties thrown behind t
he bar or the numbers slipped into his palm. It takes a strong woman to not get jealous and pissed, but she saw instantly what we all knew.
Walker was pussy-whipped.
No way was he going to step out on Mallory, not then or now. He’s so deliriously in love with her you get a toothache from watching them.
So even though he’s on the bar, dancing and thrusting his hips like he starred in Magic Mike, we all know he’s only going home with one woman, and she isn’t in this room. She’s at their shared home with her daughter, waiting up with a glass of wine for her man to get home. I’ve never understood the appeal, but I guess I can see how less drama and headaches can be appealing.
“Hey, you.” I turn to see the brunette from the booth sliding between my stool and the one next to me, her tits pressed firmly against my arm.
“Hi,” I reply, giving her one of my trademark panty-dropping smiles.
She moves her martini glass to her lips with her right hand and practically purrs, “Mona.” She reaches out her left hand for me to take, her long, fake nails painted a deep red color, but that’s not what catches my attention. No, my eyes are riveted on the huge sparkly diamond ring on her left finger.
“Jasper,” I croak, staring at what looks like an engagement ring and its accompanying thin platinum band.
Fuck.
When my eyebrows draw together in question, she just shrugs her shoulders. “I’m in town for the weekend with some friends.” She glances at her own ring. “He knows I like to have fun,” she says, leaning into my personal space, her red lips dangerously close to my ear. “And you look like someone I can have fun with.”
I can’t help but smirk. Oh, I’m definitely the fun kinda guy, but my eyes just keep going back to that damn ring. I don’t make a habit of sleeping with married women. Oh, it’s happened before, but both times were accidents. Neither was wearing a ring, and they both conveniently left that part out of our introductions.
But now, even though she’s gorgeous and giving me those fuck-me eyes, seeing that damn ring is like being doused with a bucket of ice water. Well, that and the fact I can’t help but picture Lyndee. Her light makeup is such a stark contrast to the woman beside me. She has a natural beauty she doesn’t have to accentuate with smoky eye shadow and layers of mascara.
Dammit. Stop. Thinking. About. Lyndee.
Mona drains the rest of her drink and sets her empty glass down beside me. A shadow falls over us, and when I look up, I find one of my best friends still on the bar. His gaze is curious and holds a hint of irritation as he crouches down and grabs the shot glass, throwing it back and draining the contents. I can’t help a smug smile as he pulls a face and sets the glass back down, daggers aimed directly at me like bullets from a gun.
Serves him right.
Mona smashes her tits against my arm and leans into my side. “So, are you going to buy me a drink before we head back to my hotel room, or should we just leave now?” I can smell the gin on her breath.
Normally, a forward woman is hot as fuck, but I just can’t seem to get into her advances. Everything about this is…wrong. And I don’t mean to sound like a dick. She’s stunning and that wicked gleam in her eyes is no doubt promising a night of naughty bedroom fun, but I’m just not feeling it tonight.
“Sorry, love, but I’m not available this evening.”
Lies. I’m available.
Mona pouts. Like actually juts out her bottom lip and whines. “No.” She draws out that single reply as if it has fourteen syllables, grating on my nerves instantly. I’ve never understood why people do that whiny shit. I mean, even Lizzie doesn’t whine like that, and she’s three.
“’Fraid so, darling, but enjoy your night,” I reply, sliding off my stool and heading for the back hallway, beer bottle in hand.
If I’m choosing to not get laid, there’s only one other escape for me. I make my way back to my kitchen and prepare to dirty everything I just cleaned. As I flip on the lights, an idea pops in my head. I’ll bake a pie. Walker can take it to his great aunt’s house tomorrow. Aunt Edna will hate it, only because she knows my pecan pie is better than hers, which makes me grin. I’ve gone round and round with the older black woman on many occasions, only because it’s so much fun to get her going.
Pecan pie.
Of course you’re making one. It’s the only thing you haven’t been able to best Lyndee at.
Well, stand back, Lyndee Gibson. I’m about to blow your socks off with the best damn pecan pie recipe out there. Your reign at the top is officially over.
Chapter Eight
Lyndee
I’m a mess. A stressed, freaked out mess.
I’ve been at the bakery since before the sun rose, anxious to get a jump on the product I’ll feature during tomorrow’s grand opening. I’ve baked breads, pies, cookies, and cakes. I have the dough ready to go in the fridge for tomorrow morning’s pastries. I recleaned the coffee pot and made sure napkin holders and other necessities are filled to the brim. Hell, I’ve even triple-checked to make sure the oven was properly hooked up and the refrigerator was operational. As tired as I am, and knowing I have to get up super early tomorrow, I just can’t seem to make myself go home.
I took Dustin home two hours ago. He was exhausted and ready to relax, though it was a hard sell to get him to leave. He wanted to stay if I was staying, but I knew he had reached his limit. He was willingly using the wheelchair, his motions more stiff than usual. He had been here early with me both yesterday and today, and it was taxing on him. Now, he’s watching television in his room and probably on his second frozen pizza.
When I glance at the clock, I see it’s after nine. I need to go home. Three in the morning is going to be here before I know it, and the last thing I want is to fall asleep while rolling the dough. Though, I don’t foresee that happening. I imagine I’ll be too amped up on adrenaline and caffeine. I probably won’t even realize I’m tired.
A knock on the front door grabs my attention.
Holy shit, someone’s at the door. Should I go out there? What if they’re here to kill me?
Seriously, Lyndee? You think most murderers knock on the front door to grab your attention? Why not just use the back door where they’re not standing directly beneath a streetlight?
Setting my towel down on the island, I slowly head to the front and peek around the doorway. My breathing hitches and surprise sweeps through my exhausted extremities. What is he doing here?
Jasper gives me a tentative wave. “Hey,” he says through the glass.
My feet carry me to the entrance, and I unlock the door. “Hi.”
He runs a hand through his messy hair. “I was just…well, I was leaving work and saw your lights on in the kitchen.”
I’m only slightly hesitant as I step back and grant him access. “Oh, yeah,” I respond, locking the door behind him. “I really need to go home and get some sleep, but…”
He turns around, his hands shoved in the pockets of his dark blue jeans, and gives me a grin. “But…you’re too amped up to sleep. I get it.”
I sigh and sag into the first chair I can find. “Yeah. I’m exhausted, but I can’t seem to shut my mind off.”
He nods in understanding. “Right before we opened Burgers and Brew, I swore anything that could go wrong was going to happen. I even called an electrician to double-check all the appliances, which was crazy since all of them were brand new and I’d been using them for two weeks to train the staff.”
I give him a tired smile. “I completely understand that.”
“Well, I’m sure everything is going to be fine tomorrow.”
“I hope,” I whisper, glancing down at his shoes. He’s incredibly casual this time. Instead of the pressed slacks and polo shirt, he’s wearing a pair of worn boots, jeans, and a hoodie sweatshirt beneath an old brown leather coat.
The room is filled with silence, but it’s surprisingly not awkward. I find myself just taking him in, noticing how he’s starting to relax against the co
unter, and realize I’m relaxing too. Back in school, our exchanges were always tense and full of electricity. I always thought it was because of some unspoken competition we seemed to constantly be engaged in, but now I’m not so sure. Looking back, it feels…sexual.
Yeah, I’m definitely exhausted.
“Did I ever tell you how I met my friends?” he asks, the softest smile playing on his full lips.
I shake my head. I know they met in college, Isaac mentioned it to me in conversation, but don’t know the story. I mean, it’s not like we were friends back then and actually told each other those kinds of things. No, we were competitors, and competitors didn’t exactly share personal information that could potentially be used against us.
“Well, Walker and Jameson were friends from high school. Jameson didn’t actually go to college, but he was always visiting Walker on the weekends. We met at a frat party at the beginning of our senior year and hit it off. We were all standing around bitching about the horrible rap music pumping through the house. Turns out, we were all fans of Mötley Crüe, so we’d get together and drink a few beers, play cards, and listen to them.
“A year later, we ended up at this dive bar across town. You know the kind they feature in murder mystery shows where catching the killer is going to be a bitch because of all the DNA covering everything?”
I can feel myself making a horrified face, and his laughter only confirms it.
“Yeah, I know. For someone who cleaned his kitchen at least two times a day, being there was not a picnic for me. But Jameson and Walker got pulled into a billiards game, so we hung out for a while.
“Anyway, Jameson ended up with a baggie of weed. I had smoked it a few times, but never really saw the appeal. We ended up in the dingy bathroom, passing a joint like a couple of cool twenty-two-year-olds,” he says, shaking his head at the memory. “It was just the three of us in that nasty bathroom with a half-smoked joint when Numbers walked in to use the john.”