Rascal

by Katie McCoy

  Yoga was Jenna’s favorite way to spend a morning. I was more interested in the mimosas that were coming afterwards, but I wanted to spend time with my friends, and I could probably use some quiet time to focus on myself.

  “Kelsey told me you went on a date last night!” Jenna gave me a hug, smelling—as she always did—of incense.

  She was a bit of a health nut and very much into the world of alternative medical practices—everything from crystals to cupping to reiki. I could only imagine what the people I worked with would think of someone like her with her wild hair and multi-colored nails and an excess of scarves.

  “It wasn’t a date,” I objected, even though it’d had all the trappings of a date, including a very hot good-night kiss. Just thinking about it made me blush.

  “Oh my God!” Kelsey let out a little shriek. “Something happened!”

  I couldn’t keep much from them, so as we headed inside, I confessed to the kiss. Not just last night’s kiss, but the first kiss, the one in the ATM vestibule. They stared at me, slack-jawed, as I told them everything. Both of their reactions were entirely predictable.

  Kelsey clutched her hands to her chest, her expression dreamy.

  “That is so romantic,” she sighed. “Like it was meant to be.”

  I rolled my eyes at my aggressively romantic friend.

  “Maybe I should try to get myself locked in an ATM vestibule with Justin,” she mused, her attention always going back to her clueless CEO.

  “You should pursue this!” Jenna told me. “Sex is good for relaxation. And you, my friend, need to relax.”

  “I thought that’s what yoga was for,” I reminded them, as the rest of our class assembled inside.

  “Yoga is great for relaxing,” Jenna admitted. “But sex is better. Much, much better.”

  Jenna didn’t need to tell me that, though it had been a long time since I’d had sex half as satisfying as a single kiss from Emerson had been.

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to talk or think about it for the next hour, as we sweated and stretched next to each other. By the time class was over, I was more than ready for a mimosa. And to talk about anything but Emerson.

  Unfortunately, Emerson was the only thing that Jenna and Kelsey wanted to talk about.

  “You should find out his birthday,” Jenna told me as we sat down to brunch. “That way I can get his horoscope and see if you guys are compatible before it goes too far.”

  “It’s not going any further than it already has,” I argued. “Besides, he’s not my type.”

  Kelsey gave me a look. “Since when is tall, dark, and handsome not your type? He’s gorgeous—he’s everyone’s type!”

  “I don’t have time to date,” I tried. “Work is crazy right now, you both know that.”

  “There’s always time for sex,” Jenna suggested. “Just use him to get your stress levels down. That will be good for work.”

  I sighed and put my head on the table.

  “Your aura is very stressed,” Jenna noted.

  “You should definitely sleep with him,” Kelsey added.

  I ignored both of them and ordered another mimosa.

  Hours later, I headed home. There was still a steady flow of noise and construction coming out of Rascals, which was my excuse for pausing in front of the building. Then, before I could think of a good excuse not to, I headed inside.

  I found Emerson in his office, head bowed over stacks of paperwork, exactly what I should have been doing at the moment. But instead, I stood there, mesmerized by the sight of him working. It was hot. But then again, I found everything he did to be hot, so why should it be a surprise that I was getting all tingly and bothered over the sight of him crunching numbers?

  I rapped my knuckles on the door jamb. He glanced up, and a slow, sexy smile spread over his handsome face.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey yourself,” I commented, realizing that I probably should have showered before coming to see him. After all, I was wearing my yoga gear and my hair was up in a messy ponytail. Not exactly my best look.

  But Emerson didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to be mentally undressing me much in the same way he had done last night when I had been wearing my black dress. Again, I had the sudden impulse to tell him what color underwear I was wearing. A blue thong this time.

  “I just wanted to stop by and thank you again for last night.” I came over to his desk.

  “What part of last night?” he asked, showing me that dimple of his.

  I blushed. “All of it,” I admitted. “Though the last part was pretty great.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “It really was.”

  “Too bad you had to go,” I said, unable to believe the flirtatious words that were coming out of my mouth. What was I doing? Hadn’t I just spent the last several hours detailing to Kelsey and Jenna all the reasons nothing could happen between me and Emerson?

  “I really wanted to stay.” Emerson stood, his hands flat on the desk. “You were very, very tempting.”

  “But you were a gentleman,” I stated.

  “Spent the rest of the night wishing I wasn’t,” he told me.

  My skin got hot. “Yeah?” I asked, my voice low and husky.

  “Spent a long time in a cold shower wishing I wasn’t,” he said, sending a thrill through me.

  I imagined him in the shower. It was a good image. A really good image.

  “I don’t take advantage of someone who’s had too much to drink,” he told me, leaning across the desk. “I prefer a woman who knows what she wants. Who can tell me what she wants. In great detail.”

  That was the problem, though. I didn’t know what I wanted. I wanted him, but I also knew that it would be a bad idea.

  Reality check, Alex. What happened to being too busy to be distracted?

  Eyes on the prize.

  The non-Hot Guy prize.

  I backed away from his desk.

  “I should go,” I told him.

  He nodded, disappointment flickering over his features.

  Then, before I could change my mind, I turned and walked out of his office.

  9

  Emerson

  My lungs were burning, my muscles ached, and I wanted to pass out. Dante, on the other hand, looked as if he had just stepped onto the mat, despite the fact that we had been sparring for almost an hour.

  “You’re a beast,” I wheezed as Dante crossed his arms and gave me one of his signature “don’t be a pussy” looks.

  “You’re out of shape,” he commented, throwing a clean towel at me.

  “I’ve been busy,” I reminded him. “Managing our bar.”

  Dante shrugged. Out of the five of us, he had been the most reluctant to invest in Rascals. I got it—he also came from the most unstable background out of all of us, and money was not something he parted with easily. Not even to friends.

  “You should come check it out,” I told him, mopping the sweat from my brow.

  “Yeah, I will,” he said, giving me the same non-committal answer he always did.

  Dante was the one who kept his secrets closest to his chest. He always made excuses for why he couldn’t come to visit the bar, but we were convinced that it was something else. A woman, perhaps. Or something else that kept him busy in the evenings.

  He downed half the contents of his water bottle in one, long swallow. I knew that most people considered Dante to be intimidating. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was scary as hell. Even though he’d never been in the military, he kept his dark hair short, which gave people a good look at all the scars he had. There was the one dividing his left eyebrow, one that cut across his upper lip, and a few down his cheek and neck. I know that his childhood had been rough, and he’d even spent some time in juvie, but by the time we met him in college, he’d turned things around.

  Well, we were in college. He was the one running an underground poker night, hustling rich frat boys for their trust funds on a Friday night.

&nbs
p; Make that, turned things half-way around.

  Things were different now, but he still had that “don’t fuck with me” attitude. Combined with the fact that he was built like a fucking soldier, people tended to give him a wide berth wherever he went. Not that I thought Dante really minded, or cared about what other people thought about him.

  But if you knew him—and he knew you—there was nothing he wouldn’t do. He was tough and ornery and had a hell of a temper, but he was also the most loyal of friends. He’d take a bullet for any of us.

  “Well, if you’re done getting your ass kicked . . .”

  I grabbed some water and checked my phone.

  “Shit,” I muttered, looking at all the missed calls I’d gotten.

  “Trouble at the bar?” Dante asked, not looking up.

  “Worse,” I commented, running a hand through my hair. “My sister.”

  “Hmph,” Dante grunted.

  Hayley had left me no less than six voicemails in the hour I’d been working out with Dante. Rolling my eyes, I began listening to them. Each were at least five minutes long.

  “Emersoooooooooon,” she drew out my name the way she always did when she wanted something. “You know you’re my very favorite brother of all time . . .”

  “I’m your only brother,” I muttered to myself.

  Dante raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  The message continued. “And I’ve always been there for you—your very favorite sister.”

  “My only sister,” I sighed.

  “And you know it’s my birthday and I’m having a birthday dinner at Alinea and I want you to be there to celebrate. Pretty please? With a cherry on top?”

  I rubbed my forehead, already feeling a headache coming on. I loved my sister, I really did, but she wasn’t just asking me to come out to celebrate her birthday. She was asking me to spend at least an hour sitting across a table from our parents.

  The other five messages were more of the same.

  “I promise they’ll be good,” Hayley swore in her last message. “You can leave if they’re not—I won’t be mad.”

  I shoved my phone in my pocket, letting out a harsh—and colorful—phrase.

  “Let me guess,” Dante was still focused on his cards. “You’re going to dinner with your sister.”

  Funny how a few days ago, I had worn a suit and tie and hadn’t felt like I was being choked the entire time. Maybe it was because the evening out with Alex—as stuffy and straight-laced as the party had been—was infinitely preferable to the lion’s den I was about to walk into.

  But the smile on my sister’s face as I headed towards the table made me glad I had come. At least one person at the table would be happy we were all together.

  “Emerson!” She threw her arms around my neck. “I’m so glad you came.”

  “I’m doing this for you,” I told her, my voice low.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, before turning to our parents, who had remained seated. “The whole family’s together!”

  My parents just blinked at her.

  “Mom.” I leaned over and kissed the air beside her perfectly coiffed hair. “Dad.” I reached out and shook his hand.

  “Good to see you, Emerson,” my mother said, giving me a small smile.

  At least things were off to a good start.

  “I heard you’re opening up that bar of yours this week,” my father said, putting a dismissive spin on the word “bar.”

  Aaaaaaand there it was.

  My decision to open up a bar with my friends was a major hot-button issue between me and my parents—especially between me and my father. It was just another milestone in the years of fights and disagreements about what they saw for my future and what I actually wanted.

  Since arguing about it had never fixed anything, I decided that my tactic tonight would just be to avoid getting into it.

  “So, what’s good here?” I asked, smiling at my sister.

  This night was about her. “And how have you been?”

  Hayley took my cue and chatted away about her volunteer work and friends, and w

  e managed to get through ordering without any problems, but the moment our waiter stepped away from the table, both of my parents turned their attention to me. Dammit. I knew I should have ordered the whole bottle of whiskey instead of a glass.

  “There are some absolutely lovely young ladies at the club that I think you should meet,” my mother said, her diamond earrings sparkling as she took a sip of wine. “You are still single, aren’t you?”

  I thought about Alex, about our date and the kiss. The kiss that had fueled many fantasies over the past few days.

  “Actually—” Hayley started, but I shot her a look.

  “Still single,” I said tightly.

  I’d rather have my mother attempt to set me up with some society bimbo than have her harass me for information about a woman I wasn’t technically dating. Because I was pretty sure no one in the world would consider two kisses and a fake date any sort of relationship.

  “We should have a party,” my mother said to my father. “Invite some young eligible women for Emerson to meet. Appropriate women.”

  I didn’t respond, and neither did my father. It was probably the only thing we agreed on—that I didn’t need any help with dating. Mainly because my father thought I should be concentrating on work. His work in particular.

  Our meal was served, along with a second whiskey for me. My beverage of choice did not go unnoticed by my mother and sister, who gave me a nearly identical look of disapproval. It was startling how much they looked alike, their heart-shaped faces and wide eyes.

  “So, the bar,” my father tried again.

  “It’s coming along,” I said brightly, hoping to change the subject. “So, Hayley, do you want anything special for your birthday?” I asked my sister.

  “A pony?” she joked.

  “What are you, ten?” I wanted to know. “Besides, don’t you already have a horse?”

  She stuck her tongue out at me. “I had a horse. During my dressage phase.”

  “Was that before or after the debutante phase?” I teased.

  “At least your sister finds appropriate outlets for her energies.” My father stabbed his salad with his fork. “Hobbies that are easy to explain amongst our circles.”

  My jaw tightened.

  “The bar is not a hobby,” I said between clenched teeth.

  “Emerson,” Hayley said softly, and I knew she was trying to keep the peace. She always was. She just wanted all of us to get along.

  But we couldn’t. Not until my father accepted that I wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps.

  “Managing a dive bar is hardly an acceptable use of your talents,” my father continued, steamrolling right through the tension. “You should reconsider my offer.”

  “No, thank you,” I told him, keeping my voice quiet, even though I wanted to yell. “I’m not coming to work at your investment firm. It’s not for me.”

  “You’ve never even given it a chance,” my father argued. “You’re just being stubborn.”

  “Where do you think I got it from?” I muttered, my appetite completely gone.

  “Emerson, Dad,” Hayley once again tried to interject, but my father ignored her.

  “You think you’re hurting me, but you’re really just hurting yourself,” he told me, his face getting that angry red coloring he always got during our conversations.

  I was getting pretty heated myself.

  And he wasn’t done. “You’re being completely selfish,” my father said. “Think of the family—think of your mother. Do you think she likes having to lie to people about what you’re doing with your life?”

  “I don’t know why she has to lie,” I countered. “There’s nothing wrong with managing a bar.”

  I was done. I was so done. I threw my napkin onto my half-empty plate, finished my drink, and stood.

  “Sorry, Hayley,” I told my sister, giving her a kiss o
n the cheek. “But I can’t stay.”

  “Sit down,” my father ordered, like I was eight years old and he could boss me around whenever he chose. But I was a grown man now, standing on my own two feet, and it meant I could use them to walk out the door whenever I chose.

  “I have worked my ass off to make this bar a reality,” I said, somehow managing to keep my voice steady even thought I was fuming. “And I’ve done it all without your help. You have two choices—you can support the decisions I make about my life, or you can get the hell out of that life. For good.”

  Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heels and left.

  I could hear my dad’s voice following me the entire way back to the bar. I could have gotten a cab, but I decided to walk, fueled by anger and just enough whiskey to keep me warm during the cool spring night. I kept replaying the conversation over and over in my head, knowing that I shouldn’t have lost my temper.

  But no matter what I did, it would never be good enough for my parents. The bar could be a huge success and I could become a self-made millionaire—instead of a trust-fund brat following my father’s footsteps—and it still wouldn’t please my father. He had such fixed ideas about success and status, it felt like he cared more about controlling me than he did about my own personal happiness. To him, being a Hayes man meant a steady job in the family firm, a big house in the right neighborhood, and a dutiful, sweet wife from another country-club family: functions and charity events, golf on the weekends, and vacations on the boat.

  Just thinking about it made me wince.

  I knew that Rascals may crash and burn, but wasn’t it worth the shot? To put my own effort into something, with my friends; work hard to get ahead, instead of taking a promotion somewhere based on my name. My father liked to act like this bar idea was just that: some boyish whim I decided on out of thin air, but the truth was I’d been planning this for almost seven years now. I’d paid my dues, bartending through college and spending the past few years working my way up the management side at the hottest bars and clubs around the city. I asked questions, went the extra mile, and soaked up every last piece of info I could get my hands on. And now, I was getting to put it all into action. Do things my way, instead of following blindly in his footsteps.