by Danah Logan
We come to a halt next to Zeke and Jasper, who's being mauled by his new girlfriend. Zeke is chatting with a guy a little shorter than him with dark hair. They're laughing, and my teammate touches the guy's arm. It seems they got it sorted out which way he swings.
"This is Devon," Zeke calls our way.
Devon's eyes land on me and nearly bulge out of their sockets.
What the—?
Just then, the music cuts off and "S&M" by Rihanna suddenly blasts through the speakers. The whole bar erupts into cheers, and Devon drops his head in resignation. When he lifts his chin again, he looks straight at me. I'm about to ask him what his fucking problem is when a movement to my left catches my attention.
Two girls are climbing on top of the bar, singing along and dancing in a way that probably gives every guy in the room an instant boner.
The brunette reminds me of D for a second, and I smile. She'll like this place. Then, my gaze wanders to the other dancer. She is blonde and holding a bottle of tequila in one hand and a glass in the other. Shaking her hips, she pours a drink and hands it to someone lining the bar. I let my gaze wander up her long legs barely covered by cutoff jeans that show part of her ass. Moving up, I take in her cropped white shirt with the bar's logo stretched over her chest. I linger on her tits for a moment before finally looking at her face.
That's when my heart falters, and my jaw drops. No. Fucking. Way!
The girl twirls expertly on the narrow bar, and when she faces the main room again, her eyes find mine. How the hell she is able to spot me in a place packed to the max, I have no clue. But she does. Her lips part in shock, and everything fades into the background. We stare at each other for God knows how long when she suddenly thrusts the bottle at the other girl, whose gaze is also on me, frozen in surprise.
MOAB Girl scrambles off the bar and disappears through the nearest door.
My heart is pounding in my chest, and I have no clue what to do.
I force my gaze away from the bar and search for Devon, who clearly expected this to happen, but he is nowhere in sight.
What the fuck is going on?
CHAPTER FIVE
"It's almost time," Mags shouts over the music, and I nod without taking my eyes off the bottles in front of me, tapping my index finger to my chin.
Over the last few months, I started making my own drinks. A customer would tell me a flavor they liked, what type of alcohol (also, what they didn't want), and I mixed up a cocktail. It'd gotten so popular that Grizz hired another bartender to work twice a week so I could solely concentrate on my creations. One of those nights is Friday, when Mags and I also put on our Coyote Ugly show, as we've dubbed it. I had never heard of the movie until Mags made me watch it five times in a row last winter.
She knew I could dance—not through professional lessons, but I knew how to move. You could say I was self-taught. You learned quickly to adapt when you were, more or less, forced into the job I did for almost four years.
"We should do that. Grizz would shit his pants." I was mostly joking, though I did miss the dancing part in my current gig. It was great exercise and, if I was honest with myself, fun—as long as I wasn't groped doing it.
Mags beamed like I had told her she was getting all my tips for the next week while covering her shift as well as my own. "Hell, yeah! Let's do it."
"Uh." A fluttery feeling in my stomach forced me to swallow hard. Why was I nervous? I had danced in front of complete strangers six nights a week—sometimes seven if money was tight or another collection popped up. But dancing in front of my…friends—I even considered Grizz part of that group—the mere thought made my mouth run dry. "I don't know if that's such a good idea. Grizz wouldn't like us scratching up his precious bar."
Excuses, excuses, my inner voice laughed at me.
But that wasn't even a lie or too far-fetched. One night, when we sat down after a shift, Grizz opened up a teensy-tiny bit. It wasn't anything about his private life (which was still very much a secret) but how he ended up choosing everything for the bar. For my boss, this was almost as intimate as if I were to confess how I ended up in Stonebriar. The bar top was some super-rare reclaimed black walnut from…I don't remember. In short, it cost a shit ton of capital, and scuffing it up with shoes was the last thing I wanted to have on my conscience.
"Boo hoo. I'll take care of it. Don't worry your sexy behind over it." Mags shoulder bumped me, sitting next to me on the couch while the credits for the movie were rolling across the screen.
I scowled at her. "One of these days, you're going to tell me what the story behind you and Grizz is."
She still hasn't let me in on it.
I grab the Ki No Bi Sei off the shelf. "That will go well with what I have in mind," I mumble to myself—not that anyone would've heard me over Kid Cudi's "The Mood."
I tap my cell, which is lying on the backside of the bar, for the exact time and pause. Eight texts from Kiwi.
What the—
The song cuts off, and I know what comes next. We always dance to the same song—the same song she first made me dance to after telling her what I used to do for a living.
Rhianna's voice comes through the speaker, and my mouth automatically pulls up in a wide grin. Who am I kidding? I fucking love these four minutes and three seconds on top of the bar each week. For 243 seconds, I am neither Kingsley Monroe, the girl who rents Mags's spare bedroom in Stonebriar, Montana, nor King, the star attraction of The Pole. I'm…me.
I'd have to message Kiwi back after the number to see what is going on. He's supposed to have a date tonight.
Toeing my shoes off, I grab the tequila and a shot glass from under the bar and climb on top. Moving my hips to the rhythm, I lip-sync the lyrics and pour one of the many free drinks we hand out during our performance—probably another reason Friday is now bringing in double the customers. I spin on the tips of my toes and am about to hand the guy in front of me the glass when my gaze is drawn to the far side of the room. I usually never look around. Dancing on top of a narrow bar is challenging enough, and doing so while not paying attention…rookie mistake. But it's like a magnetic pull, and the instant my eyes lock on their target, it is as if someone has swiped the bar out from under me. Adrenaline surges through my body.
No, no, no.
What is he doing here? His mouth falls open, and I know this is it. He recognizes me. Recognizes me because I exposed myself to him a week ago.
Oh, God.
I need to get out of here. Turning toward Mags, who has also noticed him, I thrust the bottle and glass at her with so much force that the tequila spills over both of us. Not that I care.
Scrambling off the bar, I beeline for the nearest door. I don't stop in the small storage room that holds our inventory that doesn't get displayed on the mirrored glass shelves. Instead, I pull the door to the back hallway open.
Halting in my tracks, I look around. My mind is racing a million miles a second. What do I do? Is that why Kiwi blew up my phone in the middle of my shift? My phone. Shit, shit, shit. I left it behind the bar. I need to go. Thank fuck my purse—including my car keys—is in my locker. I can drive home and wait for Mags to finish her shift. Kiwi will bring me my phone. He'll help me figure out what to do. I have to leave town. God, I don't want to move again—be on the move. I fell in love with this place the minute I exited the highway. Back then, I had no intention of staying, but that was before I met my friends. My heart is hammering in my chest, and with every step toward our employee lounge, my stomach sinks. I'll be on the run again. I don't have a choice. Weston Sheats knows I exist—something that never should've happened. I draw in a deep breath. Kiwi will understand. He can stay. He doesn't have to follow me.
I throw open the door to the break room and beeline to my locker. My vision turns blurry as I fumble with the combination lock. When it doesn't open, I let out a frustrated scream. "Arrrrrgh!"
A hand covers mine as I ferociously pull on the lock. I yelp in surprise and whirl aroun
d.
"Roe-Roe, it's me." As I take in Kiwi's concern, my tears spill over.
"He saw m-me," I whisper.
Kiwi dips his head in confirmation, then turns to my locker and spins the dial in quick succession, pulling the door open. Of course he knows the combination. Kiwi knows everything about me.
Grabbing my bag and jean jacket, I face my best friend.
"Go. I'll meet you at your place. I'll help Mags finish up." Relief spreads through me, and I could kiss him.
I'm about to turn away when he takes my hand.
"Don't do it, King." Kiwi using my real name tells me how serious he is, and I smash my lips together. "Roe-Roe," he presses.
Shuffling my feet, my gaze dips to the floor between us. I can't lie to him. Never could. A finger touches under my chin and gently tilts my head back up. "Do not leave me. If you need to move on, I am coming with you. Do we understand each other?" His tone is low, and his usual joking demeanor is nowhere in sight.
I briefly close my eyes. When I let my lids flutter open, I hold his gaze. "Yes."
Kiwi nods and lets go of me. I spin on my heels and dash out the door and down the corridor leading to the parking lot behind the building.
I lean against the metal door with my shoulder, applying more force than necessary. It flies open and slams into the brick wall behind it.
Shit.
As I walk toward my Jeep, my head is down while I dig through my bag in search of my car keys. "Where the fuck are you?"
"Leaving early?" The one voice I've craved to hear directed toward me for over a year yet never wanted to be addressed with makes my step falter.
Oh, please no.
I slowly lift my gaze and find him leaning against the side of my Jeep.
I swallow hard, and there is a shift deep inside of me. My self-preservation mode slams into gear, and I let it happen, even though I swore to Kiwi I would never become that person again. But it's the only way, no matter what my heart wants.
I let the numbness spread through every cell of my body—a trick I adapted years ago. When you don't feel, you can't get hurt. Physically or emotionally. You're an empty shell. I set my face, void of any emotion, and force the words out. "Do I know you?"
Wes arches an eyebrow in a perfect semicircle and folds his arms over his chest. His bulging biceps stretch the fabric of his white T-shirt to the max, and I wouldn't have been surprised to hear a ripping sound. And why does the possibility excite me so much? He looks nothing like the kid who was plastered all over the papers and internet when the news of the Babysitter case broke.
Back then, the gossip sites had a field day when it became public knowledge that UG had dropped him because of his association and friendship with Lilly. I dug up every single article I could get my hands on after the day I ran into him—literally.
My mind drifts to that day last October.
Besides flirting free meals out of innocent college students while on the move, I also sat in on several lectures a week. I chose my temporary homes based on the schools and if they offered the subjects I needed. Not that I would get credits for them—I couldn't afford a degree—but that didn't stop me. One day I would be able to, when I saved up enough to go to a real school and pursue my dream. Which was why I continued the habit after I settled in Stonebriar.
Mags had intercepted me three days earlier. I had moved my meager belongings into her spare bedroom and started my bartending gig. For the first time in a long time, I felt somewhat normal—like I belonged.
I was leaving the criminology lecture and was late for the next class. Not that I had to be on time; I wasn't an official student at MPU. But being late would mean drawing attention—and that I didn't want. I made sure the professors knew I was in class, got their permission, and as long as I wouldn't disrupt the lectures, they let me sit in the back and take my notes. All in all, it was a great deal if I could ever make use of what I learned…one day.
I was speed walking out of the hall, head down, reading a text Kiwi had sent sometime during the last two hours, when I ran face—or more forehead—first into a hard chest. A very hard chest.
"Holy shit, girl, slow down," a laughing male voice said before moving around me.
"Sorry," I mumbled, then paused.
Wait! I had heard that voice before. Where had I heard that voice?
The guy was already moving on, and I jerked my head up to get a glimpse of whomever it was. I didn't know anyone in this town, which was why I chose it. His back was to me as he walked down the corridor next to a tall blond guy who looked like he had jumped out of a surfing magazine. The speaker was blond, tall, and built. I'd seen lots of guys like that over the years, but something was familiar. Then, he turned over his shoulder and peered back once more. Locking eyes with him, my heart thudded to a complete stop. How was this possible?
Rooted in place, I stared at Weston Sheats's retreating form. Wes, the best friend of Lilly McGuire. Holy fucking shit. Now it clicked why the voice was so familiar. I had seen some of the interviews after the case made national news, and of course, I followed the fallout. Everyone did. It was huge. Everyone who was part of the events for longer than thirty seconds was put under a microscope.
Then, life happened, also known as my power and cable got shut off. Again.
It took me a few extra shifts before I could pay the bill to turn the electricity back on, but the cable and internet was put on the back burner. Whenever I asked Kiwi, he refused to let me watch footage about the case. He was acting all weird and overprotective, which was somewhat understandable. Maybe he sensed my attraction toward Wes even then. But that was all it was. Wes was good-looking, and seeing him on the screen stirred something in my chest I wasn't used to. But I had other priorities.
By the time I could afford my internet access, the reports had trickled down to reruns of Lilly, and I lost interest.
Blinking, I followed Wes and the surfer dude around the corner.
What the hell was he doing here?
That day, I picked up my research on Weston Sheats, and my slight fascination became a very unhealthy obsession.
Almost one year later, I knew everything there was to know about MPU's tight end and former best friend of Lilly and Rhys. I found out that he hadn't seen them since he left LA two years ago, and I suspected it had something to do with why he ended up here. The only person from his past that showed up regularly was Denielle Keller. She visited him, but he never went back to Virginia—that much was apparent from her public social media account and her complaints about the cold in Montana. I hadn't been able to pinpoint their relationship. Was there something going on? Whenever I thought about that possibility, a burning sensation spread through my chest.
Wes grew out his blond hair, almost to chin length, with the sides shaved. He came back like that from winter break, which he had spent with Kai. He wore it in a man bun, and girls on campus flocked around him wherever he went. Not that I blamed them. Fuck that, I did blame them. I hated every single one of them for being able to talk to him openly, touch his arm in a flirtatious manner, and do whatever else they got to do to him.
A low growl comes out of my throat at the memory of the last time I witnessed exactly that, and I realize I had completely spaced out.
Fuck! Feeling my face heat, I focus again on the present and the guy still lounging against my car.
Wes's mouth quirks up at the corner and— Why does he have to be so gorgeous?
I fight the urge to slap my forehead. Focus! I lower my arm that is still holding up my bag from searching for my goddamn keys and widen my stance. I slant my head and give him my best bored-out-of-my-mind impression.
"I asked you a question." I lace my tone with annoyance. I can do this. I've done this for years. Just turn it off. My heartbeat is slowing the more I repeat my old mantra in my head, and I can sense the numbness creep through my body. This means nothing to me. He means nothing to me.
"I asked you a question first," he counters.
>
What the fuck?
Frustration eclipses the numbness, which is still better than me drooling at his feet. I need to get out of here. I take a step forward.
"Get off my car," I say, grinding the words out through clenched teeth.
"And if I don't?" he taunts.
I fight the urge to stomp like a toddler. An idea forms in my mind, and a slow smile spreads across my face. I tilt my head, reaching behind me. Wes follows the movement, and his eyes widen when he sees what I'm holding.
"You can't be serious." He glances between my CRKT Du Hoc and me. My CRKT Du Hoc fixed blade is one of the two knives I take everywhere for multiple reasons. Grizz's customers assume it's my fancy, eccentric way to cut their limes, not that this blade holds several memories for me—good and bad.
"I asked you nicely. I'm not repeating myself." All emotion has left me. This is the old King, the one I never wanted to be again. But if this is the way to get rid of him, I have to let her come out and play.
Wes stares at the curved blade for a long moment before pushing off the Jeep. I fight the urge to exhale in relief, but then he strides forward casually and steps right into my personal space. I have to crane my neck to look at him. Damn him for being so tall. He studies me, and the intensity of his stare makes me want to squirm. I've dreamed for a year of being this close to him, and now that I am, all I want is to run. People always want their dreams to come true, but it's better if this dream remains a dream. There is no Wes and King. There is only a Wes and a King on completely different playing fields.
Wes leans down until our noses almost touch, and I hold my breath. What the hell is he doing?
"I'm going to figure you out, MOAB Girl," he whispers, so close to my lips I can feel his warm breath mingle with mine. With that, he straightens and walks around me down the alley leading to the front of the bar.
I'm rooted in place, my legs too weak to move.
What just happened?