Twist (Beekman Hills)

by K. C. Enders

  “Nothing? From any of them?”

  I shake my head and sigh. “Nope. Not a word.” I should be surprised, sad, something, but this is how my family is.

  Gracyn walked in on my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—bending my sister over the hood of my mom’s car on Christmas Eve.

  Nope, not going there—not tonight.

  “I thought I’d hear from Rob when Francie kicked him and Maryse out last month, but, nothing,” I say.

  “Unreal. What a dickhead. Hey—” She lurches at me spilling beer down my front. It doesn’t feel cold in the cup, but when it’s running down my cleavage, it’s frigid.

  The icy sneering glare of Rob’s best friend, Tyler, is worse. “Watch where you’re going, bitch. You wouldn’t want to get thrown out of McBride’s.” Tyler wasn’t all that nice to me when I was dating Rob, but since we broke up, he’s been an absolute dick.

  Somehow, this is my fault. I feel eyes on me from all around. I hate being the center of attention, and with bodies pressing in from all sides, my skin feels hot and too tight. I blink at the ceiling trying desperately to stem the tears starting to form. There’s no way I can make it through the tightly packed crowd before they spill and, God help me, the last thing I want is for it to get back to Rob that I’m still crying over him—because that’s exactly the story this asshole will tell.

  “Oi!” A low growl comes from Francie’s new guy as he slices through the crowd like they’re not even there. “None of that—apologize to her. Now.” His voice, strong and thickly accented, carries over the band and bar noise, leaving no doubt that he’s serious. He stands with his back to me, shielding me from the rest of the room.

  Gracyn reaches for the bar towel in his hand and he nods to her.

  “Not my fault she spilled her drink—looks good on her though.” Tyler looks around the broad wall between us, leering at the way my shirt clings to my very obviously cold boobs.

  The music has stopped, all attention is on me now and I just want to disappear.

  Francie checks me with a quick look and a nod placing a warm hand on my shoulder. “Aidan, take her round back and fetch her a dry shirt from one o’ the boxes back there. I’ll take care of this one.” With a firm hand, Francie collects Tyler’s cup and chucks it in the trash. “Out, and ye’ll not come back. Go drink wit’ that bastard friend o’ yours. Off with you, then.”

  The new guy, Aidan, takes the towel from Gracyn and pauses, his hand between us. He moves to try and blot at my shirt but stops, handing me the towel instead. “Erm, here.”

  I clutch the white towel to my chest, trying and failing miserably to hide my discomfort.

  Grabbing my hand, he pulls me in close behind him leading me to the backroom. He rifles through some boxes pulling out a clean shirt that is huge—huge. “This should do, then.”

  “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

  “Your shirt’s soaked.” He rests his hands on his hips, making a point to meet my gaze.

  “I meant coming to my rescue. I’m used to his shit. I’d have been fine.” I shake out the dry shirt pulling it over my head and wrap my arms around myself inside—hiding a little.

  “Jesus, what are you doing?” Aidan turns on his heel, his broad back blocking the doorway. “Hang on, I’ll just—” Muttering, he pulls the door shut behind him.

  I change quickly, relieved to be dry and out of the cold, clingy shirt.

  The door doesn’t budge when I push at it. I knock, but the noise in the bar means the sound gets lost. Sighing, I turn to lean back against it, and pull out my phone hoping Gracyn will feel her phone vibrate, or come looking for me soon. Before I slide halfway to the floor, the door flies open and I tumble out, not at all gracefully.

  Shit.

  “That’s twice, I’ve rescued you now.” Aidan’s lips quirk up on one side, like he’s trying to suppress a smile as he helps me up off the floor. “Sorry, I was leaning on it—making sure no one walked in on you.” His warm hand envelopes mine, squeezing before I slide it away.

  “So, what does that mean, I have the luck of the Irish?” I can’t believe that really just came out of my mouth. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to push my complete awkwardness away with the exhale.

  “You’re Irish then?” His brow cocks up, disappearing under his black hair falling forward across his forehead. Dark blue eyes dance across my face as he pulls a curl from the collar of my new, way too big shirt.

  “Absolutely.” I’m not the least bit Irish. Not at all. “Everyone’s Irish on St. Patrick's Day.”

  “Well, then. Let’s get you a fresh beer and back to your friend.” His touch is hot, low on my back, guiding me away from the quiet and back out to the crowd.

  Gracyn hands me a beer and looks up at Aidan. “Thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at me before sliding back behind the bar. His teeth gleaming white against the dark scruff along his jaw. It’s perfect, warm and sweet, right down to the slightly crooked tooth, front and center. I miss the warmth of his hand as he falls right into the rhythm again, pouring drinks and smiling broadly at each person.

  As we move across the room, my skin prickles again. Turning around, my gaze goes straight to Aidan—only to find him watching me. I smile and turn away feeling my stomach flip and flutter.

  Gracyn finds some people we work with, people I know and feel comfortable with, but I feel eyes on me the whole time. That itchy, scratchy feeling that tells me I’m paranoid about Rob and his stupid friends. I know Francie threw those guys out, but I can’t help scanning the room, and each time I do, my eyes fall on him instead.

  Aidan.

  He and Finn are in constant motion. Working the bar like they’re dancing, playing to the crowd like nothing I’ve seen before. Aidan is older than me, for sure, but it shows more in his bearing, the way he moves—the way he commands attention, than anything else. Looking around the room, I see most of the girls are staring at him, or undressing him in their minds, I’m sure.

  His green plaid button-down stretches across his broad shoulders as he reaches for the next pitcher to fill. The buttons strain across his muscled chest a little when he takes a deep breath, pulling on the tap. And just a touch of his flat stomach shows as he reaches up to push his black hair back from his face as the green beer fills the plastic pitcher. He surveys the room, brows pinched together like he’s searching for something.

  I watch as he takes in every corner of the room—scanning the faces—until his gaze settles on mine and his features relax into a smile.

  You can find Troubles on Amazon!