“No way!” I protest vehemently. “People pay good money to get those. And yours are real, which makes them even better. Look at Dolly Parton. She loves hers.”
Stella scowls. She knows about my Dolly fanhood, but she’s more of a Reba McIntyre fan herself. “Honey, Dolly’s got way more money than I’ve got. She can hire some young boy toys over there in Dollywood to carry hers. One for each side.” Stella uses her hands to lift her full breasts up a few inches higher, mimicking what the imaginary titty-carrying-guys would do.
We all laugh, giving each other a quick hug. “Here’s to every woman having a boy toy, or two, to take care of us.”
Stella wipes at her eyes as she calms down. “All right, all right, enough joking around. It’s a packed house and there’s work to be done. Way things are lookin’, you two arrived just in time. Lord knows, Carl is about to burn the whole damn place down if he doesn’t get some help. If he wasn’t my son, I’d have fired him a long time ago. I don’t know what I’ma do with that boy.”
“Have him join the Army?” Tiff quips. “They know how to deal with a fuckup or two.”
“Tried that . . . Navy wouldn’t take him either,” Stella gripes, fanning herself some more. “You two hurry out there. I’m gonna go sit under the fan while I do next week’s delivery order.”
“Right, Boss,” we reply, and I give myself a final once-over. We walk out of the room and pass the kitchen when we hear a high, clear laugh.
“Damn, girl, that is some grade-A pussy tonight. Looking fine.”
If it had been from anyone else, I’d be in their face in a hot second. But this is from Devin James, Stella’s cook, culinary wizard, and good luck charm.
Or at least he claims that he’s a good luck charm, since he’s the ‘good luck fairy.’ His words, not mine. With green eyes and spiked dark hair, he’s a short little ball of energy who can outwork any two regular short-order cooks I know.
“You trying to get hit over the head with one of those pans?” I shoot back, coming into the kitchen.
Devin turns, his grin widening as he looks me up and down. “Oh, stop it, you know I was just playing. You look good. What’s the occasion?”
“The occasion is, I’m gonna whoop your ass for talking shit,” Tiffany chirps. “And you wish your ass looked this good.”
Devin snorts, smacking the ass of his pristine black work jeans. “Honey, do you smell what I’m cooking in this kitchen? It’s so good I have these chicken hawks begging for more. As for my ass . . . I could give you some lessons on how to work yours.”
Devin turns, dropping his ass and popping it left and right. He nearly smacks into the stove, making me laugh. “Don’t hurt yourself. Or burn the place down.”
Devin turns back around, grinning, but I hold up a hand. “I’d love to sit here and chat, but we need to hit the floor.” I punch my ID into the timeclock. “Heard it’s hot tonight.”
“You damn right. On that note, watch out for that broad Ms. Crabtree at table nine,” Devin warns. “She’s downing them tonight. She’s just staring at the drinks and then slamming ‘em down Viking-style.”
“I’ll keep a look out,” I promise Devin. Ms. Crabtree is flirting the line between being a heavy drinker and being a full-blown alcoholic since her husband passed. We all keep an eye on her, feeling sorry for her situation but not really able to do much about it besides listen when she gets weepy.
Heading through the double doors to the restaurant, I see that Stella was right. The place is packed.
It’s hard to really fit Stella’s into a simple category. The food’s too good to call it a bar, but we’re too much of a dance and hangout joint to call it a gastropub. It’s just Bane’s longest-running authentic night hangout, and the ambiance is just as unique as the rest of the place. There’s a lot of wood on the floor, but before anyone starts thinking it looks like a redone Hooters, Stella has some real country and rock shit going on the walls. There’s a guitar that’s signed by Johnny Cash, along with one of Prince’s feathered hats he wore for the When Doves Cry video. Both are in protective plexiglass cases so any rough-housing doesn’t damage them.
Overall, I’d call Stella’s one of a kind, and either you get it or you don’t. If you don’t . . . well, Stella’s got enough customers that she doesn’t really give a shit. She’s got bankers drinking right next to auto mechanics, and like the old show said, it’s where everybody knows your name.
“Thought you’d never get your ass out here,” growls Carl Wilson, Stella’s son and early-shift bartender. Tall and actually decent-looking when he cleans up and spends a little time grooming, Carl’s always been a fuckup, despite Stella’s repeated attempts to make something of the man.
The hardest part about dealing with Carl is that he’s about as useful as a bikini in Antarctica. He’s often an ass, thinking he knows a lot more than he actually does, which is why Stella has me work the taps anytime there are more than twenty people in the place. I roll my eyes at his commentary, not caring enough about his opinion to correct it.
Carl doesn’t notice, though, as he cracks his neck like some sort of pro-wrestler and starts cashing out the register. “You know, if I had to serve up one more fruity-ass girly drink, I was going to lose it. Who the fuck in this town wants appletinis?”
“People drink what they drink,” I reply, checking the mix station and fixing two mistakes without saying anything. “Our job’s to give ‘em what they want.”
“Speaking of which,” Carl says, finally noticing me. “What’s the occasion? You’re looking hot tonight. Cruising for some dick after your shift?”
I resist a scowl. He’s not worth getting mad over. “Just feeling fab,” I say, walking over to the other register and logging myself into the POS system. “You should try it sometime.”
I don’t mean for Carl to overhear me, but he does. Yanking his apron off, Carl stomps to the end of the bar and pulls a stool over, plopping down and stabbing a finger down the bar. “That guy over there wants a Twisted Bliss . . . and three stools down, he wants a blended whiskey, neat, using Evian. And I’ll have a Cranberry Stoli Shaner Bill.”
I know he’s trying to fuck with me by not telling me who ‘that guy’ is, but I know almost every face at the bar, and I already know who wants the Twisted Bliss.
“Hey, you got two hands, two legs, and something like a brain,” I sass, grabbing my ingredients for the paying customers. “Get your Shaner Bill your damn self, since I know you’re not paying.”
“Hey, I’ve been busting my ass all day,” Carl counters, unable to keep the whine out of his voice. “You’re ten minutes late.”
I snort, shaking the mixer bottle for the Twisted Bliss. Ten minutes late, my ass. We both know my shift officially starts three minutes from now. I swear, Carl is such a liar.
But I don’t worry about his bullshit tonight. I’ve got work to do.
I get the drinks for the two guys while Carl grumbles about having to get the drink himself.
I tend to avoid conflict with Carl. We usually just shoot the shit back and forth, keeping it superficial and not getting too into it. Besides, no matter how much he pisses me off, it’s a show of respect for Stella. She may be like a second adoptive mother to me, but blood is blood. And I owe her for giving me this job when I literally had no way of supporting myself. So I put up with a lot from Carl for her sake.
I quickly forget about him as the drink calls come fast and hard. Tiff shakes her ass around the floor and grins at me every time she picks up an order. I can tell she’s thinking of the tips we’re banking tonight.
My forearms are literally burning from shaking so many cups, and I’m going through blender pitchers so fast the bar back is running to the kitchen on a nearly nonstop basis.
But tonight, I don’t mind the extra work. I’m looking great, making bank, and feeling good for the first time in a long time. I feel like the girl I used to be is back. No more hiding or kowtowing to some man.
Speaking of
men, I do a scan of the room, focusing on the customers more than their drinks this time. There are a few cuties here and there, some of whom are even looking back at me. Hell, even Carl is giving me some serious eye, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even like me.
My eyes flicker to the door as two men walk in, my jaw almost immediately dropping to the floor.
Damn. They’re new, or at least I’ve never served them. And I would definitely remember them. Well, him.
The guy in front commands the room without even trying, an almost palpable magnetism surrounding him like an aura. He’s built like a machine, tall and wide at the shoulders, but a narrow waist behind the belt holding up his dress slacks.
Hypnotized, I watch him move through the room. I’m openly staring by the time he runs his fingers through his dark blond hair, his arm muscles bulging against the sleeves of his dress shirt.
I can see that I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Tiff practically goes ass over teakettle as she catches a glimpse, bumping into the corner of the table she’s serving. But the two university girls who are sitting there don’t notice at all because their eyes are locked on the guys too.
The two men walk up, claiming the last two seats at the bar. Up close, I can see they’re both handsome, but I only have eyes for Mr. Swag . . . nothing against his shorter companion.
I know I should stop, but I can’t help staring. He says something to his friend, giving me a glimpse of his nearly perfect, blinding white teeth. And when he smiles . . . oh, my God, those dimples. Not just any dimples either, but deep ones that turn his blue eyes into twin twinkling orbs of sexiness.
This guy is trouble, my mind warns.
My guard has been up so high that I haven’t dared look at a man in a sexual way in a long time. But this one . . . Tiff said the best way to get over a guy was to get under another, which is sounding like a fucking genius idea right about now. But whoo, getting under a man like that might be more than I can handle. Even if I am feeling myself tonight.
The dimple-faced hottie looks at me, and I swear I’m about to burst into flames.
He opens his lips as if to say something, but my eyes are drawn away by a sudden commotion.
It’s Tiffany, and she’s trying to calm Ms. Crabtree down. “Now Ms. Crabtree, there’s no need for that,” Tiff says, while behind her back, I see her patting her left hip in our signal that means cover my ass. “I’m just saying that Maddie’s busy and might be a few minutes getting your beer, so I’ll bring it with your food. That way, we can get something in your belly, ‘kay?”
“Fuck that!” Ms. Crabtree slurs, slamming her empty glass to the table. “I want another round now. And tell Devin to make me a cheeseburger worthy of my Budweiser!”
Glancing over at Carl, I hook a thumb to the back, silently telling him to go get Stella. If shit does escalate, Stella is our best bet to handle Ms. Crabtree without bouncing her like a drunken frat boy.
“Ma’am,” Tiffany says evenly, “there’s no reason for you to talk like that—”
“Girl, get me a fucking beer. If Maddie’s busy, pour it yourself. Lazy bitch . . .” The last part is under her breath, but everyone hears Ms. Crabtree call Tiffany a bitch, including Stella, who’s speed-stomping across the floor.
“Roberta, I’ve told you before to watch your language,” Stella says in her no-nonsense way. It helps that the two women have history and were friends back when Ms. Crabtree was a sweet woman, before she lost her way.
“Ah, fuck off, Stella. Just leave me be . . . and bring me a beer, will ya?” Ms. Crabtree goes back to watching the television over the bar, mistakenly assuming Stella has gone off to do her bidding.
She’d be wrong. Stella slams a fist that’s been work-hardened by three decades of running this place into the pine of the table, not even flinching as she does it. “Roberta, you’re drunk and belligerent, but you’re also a good friend, so I’m going to ignore the trash you’re talking. But you listen and listen good. You’ve got thirty seconds to clear out of here and head home, or I’m calling the cops to take you to the drunk tank for the night.”
For a moment, I wonder if Ms. Crabtree is going to push back, but her shoulders slump and she looks down, nearly crying. “I’m sorry, Stella. I just miss him . . .” and the tone of the whole room changes just like that.
Stella wraps an arm around the woman’s shoulders, helping her stand. “I know you do. Come on, Roberta. No need to do that out here. Let’s go to my office, and I’ll call you a cab.” Stella’s voice is softer now, the mothering caretaker in her out in force.
It reminds me why I love Stella so damn much. She’s tough and strong, but she’s not a bitch. She never lets someone go uncared for. She loves us all, sometimes with tough love, but each of us is thankful for Stella . . . me, Tiff, Devin, even Ms. Crabtree.
“Miss?” calls a deep voice.
The sound startles me, and my heart skips a beat as I turn back to the hottie at the bar. In the commotion, I’d forgotten about him for a moment. But when I look at him now, all those same heated thoughts bloom again.
My skin pricks as his eyes rove over my outfit and I fight the urge to pose for him. But I can’t stop the tremble in my knees.
I have a half-second of panic and almost flee, but since I’m the only bartender tonight, that’s not gonna solve anything. I take a breath, attempting to settle my belly. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Hot guys come in here all the time, granted, maybe not as hot as him, but he’s not that special.
But my racing heart seems to think otherwise.
Get yourself together, girl. He’s just a customer. Walk over and do your job, just like usual. No big deal.
Pep talk complete, I put on a confident smile and straighten my shoulders.
But as I make my way over to him, I can’t help but think I’m walking straight into trouble.
Chapter 4
Scott
From the moment I stepped into the bar, my eyes have been glued on one thing only.
Her.
There’s some commotion behind me that draws her attention, and I take advantage of the distraction to look her up and down fully.
Her breasts are fantastic, deep cleavage visible in the daring V-cut of her T-shirt. The combo of the sexy hosiery, tough-girl boots, and tight outfit, along with her wild mane of blonde hair and porcelain doll face make her look almost like a badass rock goddess.
It’s not even been a full minute since I laid eyes on her and my brain is already burning with images of my lips brushing against the soft skin of her neck, down to the hollow between her breasts. I’d flip her skirt up, rip the fishnets to get at her sweet pussy, and make her leave those boots on as I fuck her.
If I wasn’t so damn turned on, I’d be embarrassed at the lust raging through my blood.
Shit, maybe it has been too long.
Needing her eyes on me the way mine are on her, I call out and she turns to look my way. I let my eyes trace her body, making my approval obvious. I can see her steadying intake of breath, but I keep my smile of delight to myself.
I watch as she moves closer, her hips swaying naturally from side to side. Her full red lips spread in a wide smile.
“How can I help you boys this evening?” she asks when she finally comes over, her voice filled with a natural country twang that tells me she’s grown up in the South.
I’ve never particularly cared for country accents, even though Bane is a Southern city. The people in my usual circles are mostly private school-educated, and the first thing they teach you in speech class is enunciation and a cleaner, crisper sound. It’s a sign of education, breeding, and class. But in one simple sentence, I’m suddenly rethinking decades of teaching because I can imagine that sweet twang as she drawls my name and begs me to fuck her. I can feel the blood rushing to my cock.
You can help me by wrapping those ruby-red lips around my shaft and humming Dixie, a naughty voice at the back of my head whispers.
“What can I
get you?” the bartender asks again. I swear, she doesn’t even look at Robbie, just me.
“I’ll have a Glenfiddich double, neat,” Robbie says. From the corner of my eye, I can see he’s leaning forward, taking in the bartender’s lush curves. “And a Suicide Burger.”
“Brave man,” the bartender says without even glancing at him.
Instead, her whiskey eyes are locked with my baby blues. “And you?”
“What’s the best vodka you have?” I ask, not trusting myself to look away from her.
“I have a bottle of Snow Queen,” she says, biting her lip a little. “That good enough?
“It’ll do. Snow Queen dry martini, dirty, with double olives.”
“Coming right up,” she says as she gives a wink, which is innocent enough, and I’m sure she tosses them around all the time, but it succeeds in stirring my desire more.
She walks toward the back wall, eyeing the upper shelf for the distinctive bottle of vodka, and then I watch, mesmerized as she lifts up to her toes and reaches overhead, her ass popping out. I can feel my cock hardening by the second as I stare at her ass, imagining her whole body arching like that as I plunge my cock deep inside her.
“Fuck, she’s hot,” I whisper, startled when I realize I’ve said it out loud.
Robbie raises an eyebrow at me, grinning at my hushed admission. “Enjoying the scenery?”
I tear my eyes away from the bartender’s assets and give Robbie an even look. “Just an observation,” I lie through my teeth smoothly.
Robbie chuckles. “Sure, sure.”
I ignore him and look around the place. It has a honkytonk meets biker bar meets dance club sort of vibe to it . . . but maybe it’s that strange mix that lends it a unique charm.
“So, have you been here before?” I ask casually, and Robbie shakes his head. “Then how’d you know about the food?”
“Logan comes here a lot,” Robbie says, shrugging as the bartender comes back quickly with our drinks and sets them down in front of us.
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