Erased

by Elle Christensen

  I stand back up, feeling satisfaction at the glassy look in her eyes. Stepping around her, I head for the door.

  “I’ll be down in the bar,” I tell her. “Meet me down there in half an hour.”

  When I glance back, my gaze lands on her hair. I twine a few locks of her hair around my fist, then tug softly and—Wait. Was that . . .

  Did she just fucking whimper?

  Blood begins rushing to my already semi-hard cock. After another tug, I hear it again. Then I let go before I pull her to me and swallow those whimpers.

  “If you’re going to work in my bar, wear your hair up,” I say gruffly. “I don’t ever want to see it down. Half an hour.” With that, I stalk to the door and let it slam behind me.

  Out in the hall, I brace a hand against the wall, trying to calm my erratic breathing. There’s no way I can head down to the bar with this raging hard-on. It’s taking every ounce of my strength to keep from going back in there and turning those whimpers into screams of ecstasy. My hand slams against the wall, anger quickly replacing desire.

  I need to get my fucking head on straight.

  Once I get myself back under control, I thump down the stairs to a landing at the halfway point and take the other half set on the right. This side of the stairs empties out into a back area by the kitchen, a small office, and a door that opens out right behind the bar. The other direction puts you in the back alley, allowing me to come and go with more privacy. I smirk—it also meant that my “tenants” wouldn’t have to do the walk of shame in front of my customers.

  I push through the door into the main room and do a cursory sweep. It is early, just barely two in the afternoon, so only a few patrons are sitting at the bar or a table, nursing a drink or chowing on a burger. Delia and Simon, two of my more seasoned servers, are chatting at the bar while keeping an eye out for a customer who might need something.

  “Simon.” I don’t raise my voice and it holds no inflection, but his head immediately lifts. I wave him over.

  Simon is twenty-two and fresh into his first year of medical school. He is my best server. His good looks and easy smile make him a favorite with the customers. I study him as he walks toward me, and then I make split-second decision. I don’t want some pretty boy training J.

  “Never mind.” I point at Delia and crook my finger at her.

  Simon and Delia trade looks. It isn’t obvious, but I see the apprehension in their exchange. They don’t know me well, so their trepidation is understandable. I’ve owned the bar for over a year but have rarely been here to run it. It happened to be fortuitous that my manager resigned just as I was making the decision to settle here full time.

  “What’s up, boss?” Delia stands in front of me, a question on her face.

  “I have someone new starting today. I need you to show her the ropes. Get her fitted with a uniform and let her shadow you.”

  Delia’s pert, little nose scrunches up in confusion. She is such a little thing, five foot nothing, with dark hair pulled into a bouncy, ponytail. I was worried about her being able to handle the unruly crowds in a bar, but my manager assured me that she was a pro. He was right. The girl made up for her height with attitude. She seems all sweet and sugary, but if some guy were to grab her ass, she’ll take his head off.

  “Simon usually does the training. Don’t you want him to—”

  I cut her off. “No. You’ll train J.” Damn it. “I mean Jill.” My teeth grit at the name.

  Delia’s eyes widen a little at my sudden anger and she backs up a step. She is tough, but I scare the shit out of grown men, much less tiny girls with attitude. Problem is I don’t give a shit. If they fear me, they’ll follow my orders.

  “She’s staying in the other boarding room upstairs. She’ll be down in about twenty minutes. I don’t want her on her own—not even for a second. Do you understand?” I demand.

  Delia nods and scurries off to the pantry where we keep the uniforms.

  I walk into my office but then have a thought that has me pivoting on my heel and calling to Delia down the hall. “Give her a pair of the guys’ black pants instead of the skirts you girls wear.”

  I don’t wait for Delia’s reaction. Instead, I go back into my office, shut the door, and begin to make my way through some paperwork. Pretending all the while that my ears aren’t straining to hear footsteps on the stairs.

  “THEY’VE MADE CONTACT, Stu,” I tell him as I rummage through my desk. “It took a couple of days, but I finally have an IP address worth looking into. I had to sift through at least twenty dummy accounts, but this is the only one that shows up more than twice.”

  William has underestimated who he’s dealing with. We’ve worked together for years, so I know every trick he has up his sleeve. Every account he set up was routed multiple times, all over the world. But I narrowed it down to three and chose the most likely one. God, I hope I’m right.

  “Great. Text me the address and I’ll check it out,” he assures me.

  Finally finding my Rolaids, I pop the cap and dump a couple into my palm. “Listen, don’t go in there guns blazing. William is not stupid. He’s also not poor. I can bet my ass on the fact that he’s hired the best to protect her. If it is her, make sure first. I need to be absolutely certain. The last thing I need is the CIA on my shit. If we start piling up dead bodies in our wake, that’ll only lead a trail right back to me. We find the girl. We find Gideon. We get the password. End of story.” Then I dump the antacids in my mouth and crunch loudly in his ear.

  “And if it’s her? What’s my cut again?” he asks greedily.

  Rolling my eyes, I remind him, “Five hundred thousand. Not a penny more. All cash.”

  He whistles into the phone and assures me that it will be done.

  It. Fucking. Better. I have too much riding on this.

  I FEEL LIKE I stepped out of my life and right into a nightmare—a nightmare where I no longer live under my father’s strict thumb even as an adult but now live under the talon of a monster.

  But what a delicious-looking monster he is . . .

  I push away the annoying memory of the way he made my heart flutter earlier when he whispered in my ear. He smelled amazing. His scent was soapy with a hint of mint—so clean for someone so rugged and manly. He’s so different from Kent.

  My eyes water at the thought of my boyfriend, who is currently grieving over the loss of his longtime girlfriend.

  He’s not your boyfriend anymore.

  The thought causes my lip to tremble, but I bite down on it. There’s no use crying over spilled milk. What’s done is done. Dad promised to fix it—and he damn well better.

  It’s been almost half an hour since the asshole left his lovely scent in my room with orders for me to follow. Joss would have been early, waiting for whatever task was asked of her.

  But Jill?

  Jill’s different. Jill desires to be rebellious—to see just how far she can push the envelope.

  With an annoyed sigh, I obey one of his commands and begin sliding my now smooth, dark hair into a ponytail. Dad wanted me to cut my hair—the same long hair that had taken years to grow out, the same hair that resembled my mother’s. I colored it mahogany as requested and even straightened out my natural curls in an effort to look different. But in a small act of defiance, I opted to keep my hair the same length.

  I open my makeup bag that my father thankfully included and swipe some color on my cheeks. After pulling out a tube of an evening shade of red lipstick, I paint my lips. Several strokes of mascara later, I’m ready to go downstairs.

  Joss wore minimal makeup.

  Jill must appear to be someone else. As I peek one more time at my reflection in the compact, I realize I am someone else.

  Blue eyes still peer back at me, but these eyes are different. These eyes have a slightly jaded edge to them. These eyes no longer assume the world is good and that plans work out perfectly. These eyes are now rolling at the very idea.

  Slamming the compact sh
ut, I take a deep breath. It will feel very different not putting on an elegant gown and heels to wow a crowd of expensive suits and ladies while I work the keys on the piano. This afternoon, I’ll be working as a fucking waitress. My delicate fingers will be used to scrub filth off tables and deliver french fries to hungry patrons. I suppress the shudder that threatens to rattle me right to my core.

  I wrench the door to my prison—er bedroom—open and close it with a quiet click behind me. Then my eyes flit over to the two other doors in the hallway. The first is the bathroom—a shared one. I discovered that the other day when I first showered and kept knocking the man’s razor onto the floor. The entire bathroom smelled like him. At the time, it turned me on a little to be showering in such a masculine space. But when I met him face to face, my desire turned into anger.

  He’s a prick.

  As I pass his bedroom door, I force thoughts of his other “tenants” from my brain. For some reason, it doesn’t just irritate me. It causes me to feel slightly jealous. Not because I want him or anything absurd like that, but because I honestly don’t want to see him flaunt women around while I had my man unceremoniously torn from my life.

  You’re dead now.

  You’re Jill now.

  At the landing of the stairs, I hesitate momentarily. This is the moment of truth. In seconds, I’ll embark on another life—a life of someone new—and officially leave my old one behind. It’s bittersweet in a way, because even though I’ll miss the piano and my bed, I can’t help but feel a tiny thrill of being someone different. For once, I won’t have my father telling me everything I can and cannot do. I’ll try to ignore the fact that I’m here because of him in the first place. And if this man, Slade, thinks he can step right into my father’s role, well, he can kiss my ass.

  Jill doesn’t put up with shit. Jill bristles at the idea that Joss was a good girl her entire life and it all went to hell in a hand basket anyway. Jill thinks you only live once.

  With a new attitude on my situation and my chin held high, I bound down the stairs. When I reach a small landing, I flick my attention to the left. A door to the outside. Noted. Jill always notes her surroundings and has an exit strategy—just in case.

  Turning right, I trot down the steps and slam right into a man.

  “Crap. I’m sorry,” the masculine voice says as he steadies me by the shoulders.

  I look right into smiling, chocolate-colored eyes. These eyes have a matching lopsided grin that instantly warms me. Whoever this man is with the mop of messy hair on his head—he’s good. I immediately like him.

  “I’m Jill,” I greet with a smile when he releases me.

  He winks knowingly at me and a blush creeps up my neck. This one’s a flirt. I wonder if Jill is a flirt.

  “I know. Delia’s supposed to train you. I’m Simon.”

  His name seems fitting—Simon, such a cute name. I bat my eyelashes at him because it would appear Jill is a flirt and she’s not one to miss an opportunity.

  You go girl!

  “Come on. I’ll show you around,” he laughs and strides off in front of me, motioning for me to follow.

  Ten minutes later, I’ve met Mario, the full-time cook; Fizz, the dishwasher; and Niki, one of the bartenders. I can’t help but notice that she is gorgeous and I wonder if she’s been one of Slade’s “tenants.” I ignore the spark of jealousy and focus on meeting Delia, the other server. We skipped the closed door to the office beside the kitchen, where I’m sure Mr. Asshole hides out. He isn’t exactly the friendly type, so I hope he stays in there and leaves me the hell alone.

  Liar.

  I ignore thoughts of the way he smelled and how my body roared to life when he was near.

  “Did you hear me?” Delia questions with a dark, arched brow, effectively wrenching me from my wicked memories.

  My eyes assess her appearance as I shake my head no. She’s beautiful. Large, full breasts stretch the fabric of her white T-shirt, and even I have a hard time looking away from them—I bet the girl makes a ridiculous amount in tips. Her black skirt is tiny and short, one Joss never would have been caught dead in.

  A hint of a smile quirks the corners of my lips up. Jill the flirt is dying to wear it. To let her rebellious flag fly.

  “You’re to wear these and just follow me around tonight. Once you get the hang of it, we’ll release you to take your own tables. During the day, we have a pretty good lunch crowd, but at night is when we make our money. Stay close and don’t stray—I work fast and you’ll need to keep up.”

  I take the clothes in her hands and watch her hurry over to a couple who is just walking in. When I look down, I realize she handed me a pair of men’s slacks.

  “The bathroom is over there if you want to change,” Simon quips as he walks past with a couple of glasses that need to be refilled.

  “These are pants,” I scoff. “Why does she get to wear a skirt and I have to wear man-pants?”

  Simon’s entire face lights up with a grin. “You’re something else, newbie. Boss man’s orders—and if you want to stay on his good side, I suggest you wear the man-pants.”

  I glare at him. “I’ll wear the skirt, thank you very much.”

  He shrugs his shoulders as he walks off, and I take it as approval. Then I open the cabinet Delia had pulled the pants from and retrieve a skirt instead. With a naughty grin, I bound happily into the bathroom.

  After a quick change and stowing away my other clothes in a cabinet under the sink, I slip out of the bathroom. The skirt is incredibly short on my long legs and looks sort of lame with my tennis shoes, but I could almost laugh at how free I feel. And when one of the patron’s eyes bug out of his head, I return his greasy smile with a sly one of my own.

  Jill is most definitely a flirt.

  My eyes scan the restaurant until I find Delia walking back toward the bar. When she sees my legs, she groans.

  “Shit, Jill. Really? He’ll have my ass for this. Not to mention you’ll steal all of my tips.” Her voice is feigned annoyance, but what bleeds through loud and clear is respect.

  This girl gets me. I decide that she, too, is easily likeable like Simon.

  “I’m a big girl. I can handle it,” I promise.

  She shakes her head but chuckles at my sass.

  I think Jill might like it here.

  “Can you bus that table over there by the door?” Delia begs.

  She and Simon are swamped, running around in all directions while customers pack every seat in the house. I feel useless and hope that I’ll soon have my own section so they won’t have to work as hard.

  “On it,” I tell her and scoop up a wet rag along the way.

  With my long legs, I can walk half as much as someone like Delia but still manage to cover twice as much distance. When I reach the table, I see that one of the dollar bills has fallen to the floor. Bending over, I grab the money and stand to set it back on the table.

  “What in the ever-loving fuck are you wearing?” a deep voice growls from behind me.

  By the low, seductive way he says it, I think he liked it. But when I spin and face Mr. Asshole himself, I groan. He’s mad—not just mad but livid. I can see his jaw working furiously as he attempts to contain his rage.

  Is this guy that serious about the dress code?

  “My uniform,” I answer with a little more attitude than I mean.

  He bristles at my tone and curses under his breath. “Change. Now, J.” His words leave no room for negotiation.

  Over my dead body.

  “No, Derek. I’m a girl, and apparently, the girls here wear skirts—not man-pants. Just leave me alone and let me work.”

  His anger dissolves when I mention the man-pants, and I see the briefest glimpse of a smile behind his eyes. I want to see all of it though.

  With two long strides, he’s in my personal space like he was earlier today. He acts like he belongs here, inches from my chest, glowering down at me.

  You want him there.

 
“You’re a real piece of work. You know that?” he demands. His heated eyes momentarily drop to my lips before pinning me again. “Don’t call me Derek. And no, I won’t leave you alone. I’m to watch over you, remember? Let me do my job and stop being so goddamn difficult.”

  Rage bubbles in my chest. “Me? Difficult? I just want to fit in with the other women here. Let me do my job.”

  We have a silent standoff—neither of us budges—so I take the time to devour his features again. The man’s been through a lot; I can see it in his eyes. Tiredness hides behind his dark, angry look. With each breath he takes, his strong nose flares. My eyes fall to his lips. They look supple for a man—kissable lips. The nearly black scruff above his upper lip, on his chin, and dusting his cheeks matches the unruly hair on his head. Holy shit, I’m fighting an urge to run my thumb across his cheek to feel the sharp prickles.

  Kent had a baby face.

  I blink my eyes several times to rid my thoughts of Kent. It’ll just hurt. I’m Jill right now.

  “Fine. But for the love of God, stay away from the damn door and stop bending over. You’re showing that cute ass to half the dining room. I’m going to have to clean up a bigger mess than just spilled beer and ketchup from those guys behind me if you don’t stop wiggling it around in their faces.”

  The subtle blush Simon managed to summon earlier flares wickedly to life in the presence of this man. He said that I have a cute ass.

  “Nobody’s even looking at me,” I argue.

  A tall, brunette, boring girl cleaning off tables? Or a short, curvy, feisty woman who’s causing an eruption of laughter from one of the other tables? No, they’re definitely not looking at me.

  “I’m looking at you.”

  Suddenly, we’re way off subject.

  Another brief, humored look crosses his eyes. He likes the way he can work my mind into a frenzy with his words. I can tell he’s a man that likes to push buttons.

  Well, Jill likes to push buttons as well.

  “Just like you look at your ‘tenants’?” The last word rolls off my tongue as if it’s poison.