“Jesus, Mackenzie, you scared the shit out of me.” Scotty drew in a deep, shaking breath and moved to put the prep table between them.
The scents of chicken and spices mingled with cigar smoke in the heavy air of the kitchen. Circles of sweat stained the underarms of Scotty’s T-shirt. He cast a nervous glance from Randy to the back door as if judging the distance. An inch-long ash quivered at the tip of his cigar. Randy stared at it, fascinated, waiting for it to drop into the fryer.
“Dude, that shit cannot be sanitary,” he said with a shake of his head, wrinkling his nose. “How the hell do you pass inspection?" He lifted a French fry to his nose, shuddered, and dropped it back on the plate.
“The cook walked out an hour ago,” Scotty said. “Food won’t cook itself. And I’ve got a full house out there tonight.” The hooded eyes glanced warily toward the door again.
With a long sigh, Randy leaned against the counter behind him and scrutinized Scotty. In his experience, there were only two kinds of men. Those who stood their ground and those who ran. Scotty, despite his beer belly and double chin, was definitely a runner. Given half a chance, he’d be a mile down the road as soon as Randy blinked an eye. To dispel any notions of escape, Randy shook his head in mute warning.
“So what’s up?” Scotty asked, wiping the perspiration from his shining crown with a dishtowel.
“You know what’s up,” Randy said, voice even and direct. He placed a hand on the counter, inches from the knife block, and tapped a finger on the granite. Scotty's gaze flicked from the knife block to Randy’s face and back to the door.
Intimidation and subterfuge, no matter how effective, were a highly unpleasant necessity of the job. Some mornings he could barely look his reflection in the eye. It was the reason he hadn’t shaved in three days. The bristly hairs itched something fierce. His fingernails rasped through the stubble along his jaw, soothing the itch.
Scotty stared at him, frozen in place with the cigar ash growing longer by the second. “You said I had until the end of the night,” he said in a voice thick with distress. “It's still early. You said…”
Randy shook his head and leveled his gaze on Scotty, taking in the puffy face, broken blood vessels around the knobby nose, and the bloodshot eyes. “Dude, you’ve really let yourself go. Have you thought about going to the gym? You should stop by Raoul's sometime. I’d be happy to help you set up a workout program. Maybe do a little sparring?”
“I’ve got a bad back,” Scotty stammered, “and bad knees."
Randy shrugged. “Just a suggestion. Think about it.”
“I don’t have your money.” The confession burst from Scotty’s lips like a gunshot, comical in its desperation. “But I can get it if you give me another chance.”
Randy shook his head and tried to hide a smile. This was going to be so easy. The long, slender boning knife slid from the wooden block with an ominous hiss. He ran a fingertip along the blade. Of course, he had no intention of using it, but Scotty didn’t know that. Sometimes having the reputation of a badass paid big dividends.
“So what are were going to do about this?” Randy asked, balancing the flat side of the blade on the tip of his finger. “I can't keep carrying you, Scotty. It’s bad for business, and I have a reputation to uphold. If word gets out that I let you slide on your bets…”
“I know,” Scotty said. Sweat poured in rivulets over the round cheeks. One drop clung to the end of his bulbous nose, quivering in indecision.
“Looks like you’re doing pretty good out there.” Randy jerked his head in the direction of the bar. “What will you bring in tonight? A couple grand? More?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Scotty stammered. “I've got overhead and staff to pay. And rent is due this week. You know how expensive it is to run a bar.”
By the time Scotty finished his last remark, Randy was halfway around the prep table, close enough to place a hand on the man’s meaty shoulder. He squeezed the tender place where neck and shoulder meet with enough pressure to make Scotty wince.
“Tell you what,” Randy said. “I like you, man. Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement that’ll make us both happy.”
By the time Karly returned to the floor, resolve firmly in place, Randy had resumed residence in the corner booth. The weight of his stare kept pulling Karly’s gaze in his direction. She bit her lower lip and studied the long, lean figure. The bold black lines of a tribal tattoo snaked up his left arm. A dark green T-shirt stretched across an impressive set of pecs and broad shoulders. The stubborn set of his square jaw and five o’clock shadow defined him as a bad boy, but the sensitive set of his mouth gave him intriguing depth.
Brimming with curiosity and the need for distraction from Emma’s predicament, she grabbed a menu and made a beeline for him. When she stopped in front of his table, the motion of his fingers drew her gaze. Through long, powerful fingers, he twirled a plastic butane lighter. Under and over. Under and over. Like a lion twitching its tail, watching and waiting for its prey.
“Can I get you something?” she asked. The lamp above his booth highlighted the warm copper-and-bronze strands of his dark hair.
He ceased twirling the lighter and tapped it on the tabletop, drawing her attention to forearms thick with sinew and veins, dusted with reddish hair. “Karly, right?” The husky rasp of his voice caught her off guard. It was deep and rough like sandpaper, with enough grit to stir a girl up then smooth her back down. “You’re Ally’s friend. Mitch’s kid sister?” When he spoke, he leaned forward, holding her gaze with his intense eyes. She wished he would move from the shadow so she could see their color. “I’ve seen you around. I’m Randy Mackenzie.”
“I know who you are.” Pilar’s ex-boyfriend. Recognition sparked and caught flame as she studied his sharp features, not handsome but compelling in their fierceness. “I think we met at Mitch’s house once. I’m surprised you remember me."
“You’re kind of hard to forget,” he said as his gaze dragged over her. Flattered by the attention of someone so out of her league, she blushed, and her heart skipped a beat. "You look just like your brother,” he added after his perusal.
Oh, snap. Her ego, which had been soaring to new heights, plummeted to the floor with a splat. She cleared her throat to disguise the disappointment and put on her best disarming smile. “So what can I get you? Would you like to hear the specials?"
“I’ll have water with lemon,” he said. “And maybe your number?" His broad forehead furrowed. “Or is that out of line? I’m afraid I’m not too good at this kind of thing." The rough voice held an adorable note of embarrassment. “I’m newly single, and I could use some pointers.”
Yeah, right. With a voice and body like that, he probably had girls falling all over him. Her gaze honed in on his mouth. His upper lip had a prominent Cupid’s bow. The lower lip was slightly red and full.
“Well…” she began, biting back a smile. Despite the smoldering intensity of his features, there was something boyish and earnest about his demeanor. He leaned forward onto his elbows. The shadow shifted and awarded her a glimpse of startling dark gray eyes beneath thick brows. "Here’s a pointer. No girl wants to be told she looks like a dude. Especially if the dude is her brother.”
To her relief, he laughed, and his eyes lit up. “I told you I’m not good at this. I’ll try to remember that.”
CHAPTER 2
ABOUT AN hour later, a couple took the table near Randy’s booth. Karly grabbed a pair of menus and headed in their direction, conscious of Randy’s gaze following her. She gave him a smile as she passed. Distracted by his attention, she placed the menus in front of the man and woman before looking up to greet them.
The woman was tall and slender with perfect chestnut hair swept into a low ponytail and held by a gold barrette. Classy and elegant in an understated way with a nautical striped shirt and white pants, she looked like she belonged in a yacht club instead of a sports bar. Chanel perfume wafted in the air around her. Gold brace
lets jangled as she opened the menu, sweeping over the items with serene blue eyes. Karly gave her a polite smile and turned to face the man. Her heart stuttered and stopped, frozen from its rhythm at the sight of his face.
Jerome? He shouldn’t be there. With an ocean and a wife between them, she’d assumed she was safe from ever seeing him again.
By the way Jerome’s face blanched, the shock was mutual. She tried to swallow down the lump in her throat, but it stuck, choking her. Their eyes met in wordless conversation. After an eternity, he cleared his throat and looked down at the menu. When he looked up again, his expression was controlled and blank, as if she’d never meant anything to him, as if they were two strangers meeting for the first time.
“Can I get you something to drink while you look at the menus, or do you know what you’d like to order?” she asked. The words kicked in by force of habit while her mind continued to reel.
“I’ll have a Rolling Rock and my wife will have a glass of white wine. Your best, please,” he said, his voice calm and even. "We’ll need a few minutes to look at the menu.”
His wife. The words rolled over Karly like a freight train, leaving her boneless and broken. She resisted the urge to stare or glare at the woman and gave her a tight smile instead, refusing to look at Jerome. No way would she give the two-timing bastard the satisfaction of seeing her hurt. Instead, she lifted her chin and rattled off the specials before turning to the kitchen.
“Are you okay?” Josh frowned at her a few minutes later as she sat with her head between her knees, blowing and puffing like a winded horse. Beautiful Josh with his messy dark blond hair and long-lashed blue eyes, always concerned and always eager to help. He was a beacon in the darkness of her fucked-up life.
“I’m fine,” she said, even though her voice quavered, and her hands trembled. “I just need a minute.”
“Hmmm…” Skepticism dripped from his tone. “Girl, you are sitting on a bucket inside a broom closet. Nothing about that suggests you're fine.” The bare overhead light bulb highlighted his flawless cheekbones when he cocked his head to the side and gave her a measuring look. “The scary guy in the corner booth? The one with the bite-worthy ass? He left you a ten-dollar tip.” He sighed and eyed her uniform kilt and tight white tank top with blatant envy. “I wish I had a short skirt.”
“What? Ten dollars for a glass of water?”
A few years younger than her, Josh was utterly gorgeous in a fashion model kind of way, sleek and fit, with a golden tan. Even though they’d only known each other a few weeks, he was the one person she liked at The Scotsman. Probably because they both carried secrets and neither of them liked to share or ask questions.
“Yeah. He asked me to make sure you got it.” Josh dug deep into the front pocket of his black pants, retrieved a wadded bill, and pushed it into her hand. “How do you know him anyway?”
“He’s a friend of a friend and my brother,” she replied, not wanting to go into it.
“Are all your friends that hot?” One of his winged brows arched in question. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe. “Girl, you've been holding out on me. So when can I meet this brother of yours?”
Distracted from her meltdown, she snorted with amusement. “God willing, you’ll never meet him. He’s an asshole.”
“So you’ve told me.” Josh narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure you're okay?”
“Actually, I’m not feeling too well. Do you think you can cover for me?”
“Sure,” Josh said with a sympathetic smile. “I’ll let Scotty know."
“Thanks. I’m just going to sit here for a minute.” She rested her elbows on her knees and leaned her head onto her hands, desperately searching for relief from the impending insanity. “And could you shut the door, please?”
Josh raised an eyebrow but did as he was told, leaving her to the quiet of the broom closet. Her mind whirled, overwhelmed first by Emma’s situation and now by the appearance of Jerome and his wife. His wife. Saying the words made it reality. It was one thing to learn he was married and another to see the woman in the flesh. All the pain and humiliation of their breakup rushed back with gut-wrenching intensity. The man was a lying, cheating bastard, and good riddance. What she couldn’t get over was being made an unwitting accomplice to his adultery.
Oh, God, I’m going to hell. This thought sent her head back between her knees as spots of black and red swam before her eyes. She clenched her fists until her nails bit into the flesh of her palms, taking comfort in the pain. No matter how she tried to make excuses for what happened, the result remained the same. She unknowingly had an affair with a married man. The thought turned her stomach.
The walls of the closet began to close in around her. Memories of the closet at her parents’ house and poor Emma sitting in the darkness brought tears to her eyes. She put her hands over her ears to drown out the echoes of her father’s drunken rampages, still fresh in her mind. The air thickened and settled over her like a suffocating blanket until she could barely breathe. Panicked, she yanked open the closet door and rocketed out of the darkness, through the kitchen, and exploded into the parking lot.
Randy took a deep draw on his cigarette, the end glowing cherry red in the darkness, and watched the smoke curl in fanciful wisps around his head. The sultry summer air clung to his T-shirt. Moths and mosquitoes danced and fluttered in the pool of light from the overhead street lamp, dipping down to whine near his ear. Deep in thought, he scratched the stubble along his jaw, carefully avoiding the sensitive scar coursing from ear to collarbone. Not for the first time, it occurred to him normal people didn’t do business in dark alleyways. After all these years, it seemed natural, comfortable even. This revelation disturbed his calm and brought vice-like tension to his forehead.
He took one last, sweet drag from his cigarette. Smoking was his only vice—if you didn’t count drinking, gambling, and an occasional cage fight here and there. If he had any brains at all, he’d give that shit up—the smoking—before it killed him. Smoking was all he had, really, and how sad was that? Twenty-six freaking years old with little more to his life than the clothes on his back and a carton of cigarettes. No wonder Pilar packed up their kid and left. Disgusted with himself, he flicked the butt with practiced precision into a murky puddle. The cigarette landed with a plop, concentric rings undulating outward through the water.
As he watched the ripples dissipate, a blur of legs and abundant red-gold hair exploded through the back door. The door banged against the wall behind it, the sound echoing off the building like a gunshot. The blur came to a stop a few yards past the building. It was the waitress, Karly, looking disheveled and breathless, ponytail askew.
He shifted his stance, unsure whether to confront her or remain hidden. Repelled by drama and emotion, he had no desire to take part in either. Before he could make up his mind, the back door opened again and a man appeared.
Dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt, the man kept his back to Randy so he couldn’t see his face, but it was obvious by the slope of narrow shoulders and thinning hair that he was older. Late thirties, early forties, maybe. He stopped beside Karly. She turned to face him, giving Randy a clear view of her expression.
Randy stepped back into the shadows, unwilling to intrude on what was obviously an intimate encounter, but unable to leave without interrupting them. With an inward groan of exasperation, he crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
“I’m sorry, Karly. I didn’t know you worked here,” the man said. "If I’d known, I would never have brought Malina to this place.”
“We met here,” Karly said. Her voice was startlingly deep and husky for such a petite thing. The clear confidence of it carried across the heavy summer air. “How could you not remember that?”
“We did?” The man scratched behind his ear as if puzzled. The hair on Randy’s neck bristled with dislike. “You’ll have to forgive me. A lot has happened since then.”
“Why are you out her
e, Jerome? We have nothing to say to each other.”
“You never let me explain,” Jerome said. “You left without a word. I think you owe me the opportunity to clear the air about what happened."
“I owe you nothing. You’re married. And I’m not interested in hearing anything you have to say, because obviously truth is not your strong suit." The steel in Karly’s voice brought a silent snort of amusement from Randy. “How can you stand here and look me in the eye after you lied to me?” She began to pace back and forth, arms gesturing in a fit of temper. “Men like you make me sick.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand, Karly. I love you both. And I know you love me, too. I can see it in your eyes.”
“What you see in my eyes isn’t love. It’s disgust. You don’t deserve my love.” Karly dropped her head, shoulders drooping, hands curled into fists at her side. Her voice lowered, and Randy strained forward to catch her words. “I won’t allow myself to love you. I’d rather spend the rest of my life alone than waste one more second on someone who doesn’t deserve it.”
“I didn’t mean to mislead you. Believe me, no one is more disgusted with my behavior than I am.” He made a move to touch her, but she jerked away from him. "Things just got out of hand. I never intended for it to go so far. You’re intelligent and so lovely. I couldn’t resist you.”
“I think you knew exactly what you were doing.” She crossed her arms over her chest and jutted her chin in defiance. “You played me from the start."
“I didn’t come out here to argue with you.” The man’s voice turned petulant, thin, and wheedling, similar to the mosquito whining in Randy’s ear. “I only wanted to explain and see if we can still be friends.”
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