by Cat Mason
"You were dropped on your head as a baby, weren't you?" I ask, rubbing my temples with my index and middle fingers.
"I don’t see where you’re going with this,” he deadpans. “Your loss though. You’re missin’ out on one hell of a video,” he informs me, yanking out his phone and teasing me with it. “I never thought I could enjoy a selfie stick so much.”
“There’s not enough bleach in this world to soak my brain in after,” I say, batting his hands away. Sliding from the stool, I slap his arm as I pass him. “My nightmares tonight will be sponsored by the letters ‘F’ and ‘U’.”
Tage
“Hey, Unc?” I shout, kicking the door closed behind me. Checking my watch, I realize I will have to get moving if I want to get prep done before we open. Time just seems to get away from me when I am with Bristol. Or thinking about her. “Gotta change and take Moo out, then we can get going. Can’t have Jimmy and Bob beatin’ us to our own bar.”
Yanking my shirt over my head, I step into the kitchen, regretting my room choice immediately. The pantry and refrigerator doors are wide open. Opened food containers and shredded chip bags are scattered across the floor. Bending down, I pick up a can of my favorite nacho cheese dip that has been sucked so clean it would bring the CEO of Hoover to tears. “Oh great,” I mutter, kicking an empty tub of butter out of my way. “Either we’ve been robbed by a gang of starving college frat boys, or I’ve been Moo-ed.”
Stepping around the kitchen island, I look down, coming face to face with the food covered culprit. Moo lies sprawled out in the floor, tail wagging like mad and snout deep in a family sized jar of honey roasted peanut butter. Tossing the can to the countertop, I confiscate the peanut butter jar and shake my head. “Dude, come on. I filled your bowl up before I left.” Looking over at the untouched, very fucking expensive kibble in his bowl, I roll my eyes. “The bad part is, I can’t even say that I’m surprised. Moo, you’re one-hundred-and-sixty pounds of asshole.”
Clearly unimpressed with me, he concentrates on cleaning the collection of butter, cheese, and who knows what, from his paws. “Well?” I ask, glaring at him “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Damn dog is too smart for his own good,” Uncle Felix says, coming through the doorway. Stopping beside me, he wags his finger at my dog. “Listen here, Pup. I’m too old to figure out how to work those child proof locks and what not. If you got into my new box of Fig Newton’s, I’m gonna piss in your water bowl.”
Moo buries his face, covering as much as he can with his filthy paws.
“Unc, you can’t do shit like that,” I say, staring wide-eyed at him.
“The hell I can’t,” he defends, slapping the counter. “I’m old. Damn near senile. Besides,” he shrugs. “You can’t tell me he wouldn’t drink from the toilet. I’m afraid to use those blue cleanin’ bricks anymore. You forget to put the lid down one time and the beach would look like someone slaughtered the entire Blue Man Group.”
“You’ve lost it, Unc,” I say, now silently questioning if that would turn Moo’s piss blue or not. You can bet your ass I’ll be Googling that later.
“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, boy,” he chuckles, running a hand over his thinning white hair. “Why, Martha Foster, from the coffee shop, tells me nearly every day that I’m crazy as hell.”
“Why would she say that?” I ask, knowing they have been friends for years.
“She’s a woman, son,” he replies with a chuckle. “Why do they say or do anything? I tell ya though, looks like it must run in the family.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because both of us are standin’ here bitchin’ at a dog like he was an eight-year-old that snuck ice cream after bedtime.”
“Can’t argue with you there,” I admit, heading for the cabinet above the fridge where I keep the cleaning supplies.
“I’ll clean this mess up,” Uncle Felix says, grabbing the box of trash bags from my hand. “Take him out and hose his ass off. We have to get going. It’s poker night.”
“You heard him, Moo,” I say, pointing toward the back door. “Let’s go.”
Fumbling around dramatically, Moo raises to his feet, grunting and grumbling, in true asshole fashion, all the way to the door. Lowering his head, he follows me out into the yard. “You’re setting a record today, huh?” I ask, grabbing the hose. Holding onto his collar, just in case he tries to sprint for the beach, I get to work and try my best to get as much of the junk off of him as I can.
Once Moo has shaken off most of the water, along with soaking me in the process, we head back inside. Making my way up to my bedroom, I quickly grab a change of clothes and get cleaned up for work. Being the asshole that he is, Moo climbs up onto my bed. Flinging the blankets and sheet back with his paws, he climbs underneath them.
"Dick move," I inform him, exhaling roughly. "I'll just add changing the sheets to my list of shit to do when I get home at two in the morning. As much as I enjoy smelling like a wet dog, you do realize you have your own bed, right?" I ask, the heap of shifting dark brown bedding. Glancing in the corner, at the extra-large, memory foam dog bed the sales clerk assured me was top of the line and picky dog approved, I roll my eyes.
Finally getting comfortable, he sighs. "Oh, please," I say, sarcastically, patting him through the blankets. "You settle in and relax. Don't let me disturb your much needed beauty rest."
In return, all I get is his muffled snoring.
"And to think Unc says women are the ones who are high maintenance."
Leaving my favorite weapon of mass destruction to his nap, I head back down to help clean up whatever is left of the kitchen nightmare. Once the room is debris free and the trash is out, it is clear the bottomless pit that is my dog, managed to wipe out nearly all the food in the house.
Except the unopened package of Fig Newtons that was luckily untouched.
Hopefully, this means I won't have to closely monitor the water bowl.
By the time Uncle Felix and I park in front of the bar, Jimmy McGee and Bob Burleson are already sitting on the bench beside the door. I can't say I am surprised. Those two spend as little time home with their wives as they can. Jimmy, Bob, and my uncle never quite grew up. The three old men usually end up causing more trouble now than they did when they were teens.
Every night, there is always something they are busy plotting. They seem to have endless reasons not to go home, all so they can stay out and rile up others in town with their shenanigans.
I can only hope I have that much energy when I am their age.
"'Bout time you two showed up," Jimmy says, standing to his feet. "It's hotter than Satan's nut sac out here."
"Felix held him up," Bob laughs. "Ugly bastard is scared of gettin' a repeat of that Burleson beat down he got last week."
"Who you callin' ugly?" Unc fires back with a grin. "Wasn't me they called Bulldog Bob in high school."
"Oh, I remember this story," I say, unlocking the door, and holding it open for them. "Not long before the Ice Age, right?"
"All the other dinosaurs feared the Felix-Rex," Unc says, elbowing me in the ribs as he passes. Facing me, he holds up his fists. "Meteor my ass."
"Easy, killer." Switching on the lights, I start checking the list off in my head of everything I need to do in the next hour and a half. "I've got prep and paperwork to get handled before this place gets too busy. Do me a favor and try not to get into too much trouble, will ya?"
Heading down to my office, I drop into my chair, grabbing for the stack of paperwork I should have handled last night. Instead of knocking the figures out after we closed up, I left shortly after I locked up the front door. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make myself focus on the words or numbers on the page.
Flipping through the stack, I sign and initial where needed, scribble in what is missing on order forms for next week, and start working on the schedule for the next two weeks to post so there is time for anyone to ask for changes to be made.
"Hey Tage."
>
Looking up, I spot Vin Foster filing the doorway. The kid may only be barely legal to work here, but he has been manning the kitchen at Foster's Coffee Shop alongside his mother, Martha, since he was old enough to reach the grill. Tucking his blonde hair in a cap, he starts tying on his apron.
"Kitchen is all yours tonight," I inform him. “I'll be around if you get slammed, but we shouldn't get too busy."
“Gotta love poker night.” Lacing his fingers, he cracks his knuckles. A smile spreads across his face, his brown eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas. "I get to pick the specials?"
"Sure," I shrug. "If it's in there, have at it. Get it up on the board in front ASAP though, okay?"
"You got it."
Signing off on the last of the paperwork, I follow Vin up the hall. While he disappears into the kitchen, I lean against the doorway and watch the madness that is three old men preparing for one of their usual nights of cards, beers, and shooting at the shit.
Poker night has been a standing tradition for the guys longer than I have been alive. It is the only thing that gets my uncle out from behind his beloved grill while the open sign is lit. Last year, the local hospital even had to accommodate them when Bob had to have emergency surgery. However, to sweeten the deal, they gladly dealt in the surgeon and head nurse on the floor.
Nothing stands in the way of tradition it seems.
Every week, it ends the same way. Someone will win while another will lose their ass only to bitch and complain how the other cheated. All three will talk shit and drink too much. After that, I'll drive them all home and dump their usually passed out asses into bed so they can sleep it off.
The front door opens, drawing my attention. “I hope you’re ready to lose all your money,” Evan says, clapping his hands together and rubbing them as he heads straight for the table. “I’m about to be rollin’ in those retirement dollars.”
“I can’t thank you enough for inviting him to play tonight,” Bristol says, following behind him. “Billy Badass here has been talkin’ shit the entire ride over here, about schoolin’ some old men in cards.” Patting Unc’s arm, she winks. “He’s pretty sure of himself.”
Unc’s brows raise, his eyes widening as he stares up at her. “Is that so?”
“Mhm.” Bristol smirks. “Beat his ass.”
The guys laugh, while Evan stares, his mouth gaping wide.
“I never disappoint a beautiful woman,” Unc says with a wicked grin. “Don’t plan to start now.”
“What the hell?” Evan barks, grabbing a seat. His eyes shift between my uncle and Bristol, his mouth pressing into a hard line. “This is about those broken frames and shit, isn’t it? I said I was sorry. If you’d watched the video, you’d realize that it wasn’t my fault.”
Closing her eyes, she rolls her shoulders and takes a deep breath. When they open again, a smile spreads across her face. “Beer tab is on me for the night, if you can make him cry.”
“This one is vicious. Out for blood, like some kind of hellcat, she is,” Jimmy laughs, slapping the table. His eyes meet mine and he smiles knowingly at me. “I like her.”
Throwing her head back, Bristol laughs. The sound of her amusement goes straight to my cock. I have no doubt, that if I closed my eyes right now, I could feel the vibrations all the way down to my bones. My mind instantly goes back to just hours ago when those soft, plump lips were wrapped around me, as she fucking drove me right over the edge, almost effortlessly.
“Yeah,” I nod, shoving my hands into my pockets.
“I need a drink,” she says, her lips twitching up into a devious smirk that has me wanting to close the distance and kiss it off her.
Following her over to the bar, I try not to stare at the way the tight, dark blue denim skirt she has on fits over her hips and ass like a second skin. Or fantasize about running my fingers along the inch of skin peeking out from the hem of her gray t-shirt before slipping beneath it like the greedy bastard that I am. If this were a Saturday morning cartoon, I would be the dipshit fumbling and tripping over his own tongue every time she walks by. She would turn around, batt her eyes, then beat me into the concrete floor with a frying pan. Everyone watching would laugh at me while I lie on the ground with stars spinning around my head.
Lucky for me, Bristol appears to be unarmed.
Because I can’t look away, even if I want to.
Chapter Nine
Philosophical as Fuck
Bristol
I have to admit, when Evan mentioned he was invited to be the fourth in some coveted poker night with Tage’s uncle, I wasn’t impressed with the idea of having to tag along. I should be working on lyrics. I need to perfect the melody on the song I am working on and nail down my hook. Even with bringing my notebook along, I knew I wouldn’t get anything done.
But, once Evan told me where the game was being held, I was sold. Going through every piece of clothing I brought with me, I changed four times before settling on this outfit. But, as irritating as that was, the look on Tage’s face when he saw me was worth every bit of arguing I did with the mirror.
My initial plan to sit at the bar with my beer and whisper dirty, suggestive things to Tage all night quickly was shot to shit when Jimmy, Felix, and Bob relentlessly demanded that I be their official lucky charm for the night. Ever since the hot make-out session, which ended with a blow job on wheels, I have this intense need to ruffle him up. To do it while he is working is even better. I want him to be as on edge as I am.
Only because I am thinking that rubbing up against him like a cat in heat is probably a bit much.
This means getting creative. I am Bristol Lachlan for fuck’s sake. I earn my living on being inventive. Piece of fucking cake.
With extra icing to smear all over Tage before licking it off.
“Here’s another round of beers, fellas.”
Jodi moves around the table, handing out drinks while collecting the empties. Evan looks up at her, tapping his lips with his index and middle fingers. “Gimmie some of that sugar, sexy. Big Daddy’s workin’ with a hand full of heat.”
Jodi giggles. Shifting her tray filled with empty bottles on her hip, she bends and presses her lips to his. “Mmm,” she moans against his lips. “As long as your night ends with your hands full of my ass, Big Daddy.”
“Oh would you look at that,” I say, gagging. “It’s time to vomit already.”
“Hater,” he replies, flipping me off.
“Put up or shut up, Tiny,” Bob says to Evan. Tossing a couple poker chips into the middle of the already good sized stacks, he arches a brow. “Or are you stallin’ in the hopes that we all fall over dead before we find out you’re holdin’ a pair of deuces and lack the stones to pull off a convincing bluff?”
“Okay, guys.” Standing to my feet, I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’m going to need something a lot stronger than beer if Evan’s junk is going to be the go-to topic of discussion all night.”
Not waiting for any comments from the peanut gallery, I make my way toward the bar. “Makin’ a run for it?” Tage asks as I hop up onto a bar stool. Pouring two shots of Patrón, he tops them with slices of lime and hands them off to a man at the end of the bar before making his way over. “Sorry. They can be a bit much, I know.”
“Oh my God,” I laugh, crossing one leg over the other. Leaning in closer, I arch a brow. “Have you met Evan?”
“Fair enough,” he nods in agreement. Grabbing a small red towel, he starts wiping up. “You want somethin’ to eat? Something to drink?”
Unsure what to say, I shrug. “Something stronger than a beer.”
“Letting me choose for you?” he asks, glancing at the shelves filled with liquor lining the wall beside him. “Brave woman. I know just the thing.”
Flashing me a smile, Tage grabs a hurricane glass and fills it part of the way up with ice. That’s when it gets interesting. Grabbing numerous bottles, he pours and begins mixing. He looks a lot more like he is auditioning for a remake
of the movie Cocktail than actually fixing something I will drink.
Topping it off with a slowly poured stream of Bacardi 151, he garnishes it with an orange slice, slides in a straw, then pushes it my way. “Rum Runner,” he says with a sexy smirk. “Watch that Bacardi floater at the top,” he says, gesturing to my glass. “Packs a hell of a kick.”
“Nothing is too strong for me.” Dismissing his warning, I remove the straw, lift the rim to my lips and drink. The Bacardi burns as it goes down. My eyes and nose sting, my lips tingling from the taste. “That all you got?” I ask breathlessly.
Bracing his hands on the bar, Tage laughs. “Most people stir that in before they drink.”
“I’m not most people,” I answer with a wink.
Leaning closer, he brushes his fingers over mine. His thumb moves over my wrist, circling my pulse point. My stomach jumps, sparks spreading throughout my entire body. “So I’ve noticed.”
I wonder if he notices how close I am to jumping over this bar and wrapping around him like some kind of crazed spider monkey...
“Stop hoggin’ the arm candy, boy,” Felix shouts, making me jump. Everyone’s eyes are on us, the entire bar so quiet you could hear a pin drop. “If I lose this hand because you’re keepin’ my good luck charm occupied, you’ll be meetin’ the business end of my metal spatula,” he shouts, waving his fist in the air.
“Is he serious?” I ask, looking at Tage.
Tage’s lips twitch in amusement. He nods. “He is rarely serious about life, in general. But, the man doesn’t fuck around when it comes to hockey, beautiful women, and winning on poker night.”
Grabbing my drink, I slide from the stool. “I better get back to work. I’ll never live it down if Evan wins.”
Nodding, Tage gives my hand a squeeze before releasing his grip. Taking my drink, I head back over to the game, feeling Tage’s eyes on me the entire time.
“Alright, boys,” I say, taking my seat. “What did I miss?”
“Came close to missin’ this!” Evan whoops, slapping down his cards. “Kings over Nines. Read ‘em and weep.”