by Elle Berlin
“I’m not gay,” Simon asserts, but Mason shakes his head like that’ll change the second Simon gets a taste of what Connor’s pouring.
“We heard Connor mixes one hell of a drink,” I say to Mason, who checks me out like he’d prefer to drink me up instead. I take the look without flinching, glad this isn’t Connor because he’s every kind of predictable. Honestly, I’m more intrigued by the fact that Mason is promoting the myth that Connor’s got some sort of magical powers of seduction. Either it’s good business, or this Connor guy actually has salt to spin.
“Yeah?” Mason raises an eyebrow. “Is it the drinks you heard about or something else?”
“Is there something else I should be ordering?” I ask, continuing to hold Mason’s eye. I can play hardball when I want. I don’t even have to look at Simon to know he’s happy I’ve let the dragoness out. She’s very good at disarming those who want a turn in line.
“You with him?” Mason nods to Simon, and I don’t flinch, waiting to see what this three-times-a-day workout has in mind. “Cause, I’ll warn you, Connor’s into redheads,” he says it like it’s a threat.
“Isn’t everyone?” I toss back. “The fiery redhead fantasy, could he be any more cliché.”
“What if I said I was Connor?” Mason asks, proving it’s absolutely amateur hour.
“I’d say you better start pouring me one of your mind-blowing drinks, before I’m disappointed any further.”
“Ouch,” Mason snickers at me and turns to Simon. “You let this one out of her cage?”
“It’s better than keeping her cooped up,” Simon explains. “I’ve had my fair share of being the one she takes it out on.”
Mason laughs all the way from his gut and points at Simon. “I like you, man!” he belly laughs, then pours two straight shots of tequila into shot glasses. He pushes the pair in front of us like a peace offering. “Connor’s on break;
take these two on the house.” He nods to me. “And keep her from burning the place down. I’ll let Connor know you want one of his signature drinks. He’ll be right out.”
“Thank you,” I say, grabbing the shot and tossing it back. It burns, but maybe I need the kick, a little something to ease this funk in my shoulders that’s been knotted up since our meeting with Hamblin.
Mason laughs again, as if he’s not surprised I just downed his offering. “Connor’s going to have his hands full with you!”
“Is that a threat, or a promise?” I shoot back, and Mason gives me a toothy grin, like I’m about to meet my match and he can’t wait to watch it happen.
“Specialty drinks are on the board,” Mason says, pointing to a chalk board with neon-colored illustrations of the tiki monstrosities they serve in a place like this. As I skim the selection, I’m not impressed: Cobra Fang, Mind Eraser, Fearless Redneck. Mason must see the disproval on my face, cause he leans in and says. “Or you could ask him to make you something off menu, if you think you can handle it.” My eyes cut to Mason with a sharp grin and Mason laughs again. “Oh man, it’s going to be a good night!”
10
Connor
It’s been twenty minutes when Mason comes into the back room in a huff.
“Where the fuck have you been?” He barrels in like an ungraceful rhino and nudges me from my seat behind his desk. “There’s a woman out here who’s been waiting for you to make her half the specialty menu for about twenty minutes and I’m slammed in there.”
“Sorry, yeah.” I roll my shoulders like I’m trying to psyche myself up for a wrestling match. “I’ll be right out.”
Mason looks around the room, then frowns at me. “What have you been doing back here? Jerking off? Where’s pineapple girl?” I shake my head and he frowns again, holding his hand up to stop me from talking. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t say it. Instead, please tell me you had to flip her over sideways and fuck her against my desk, and you were just trying to be polite and clean up the mess. That’s what you were doing, right?”
“Sure,” I glower.
“Good, now get your fucking ass out there.”
“Does she have red hair?”
“The pineapple girl you just fucked?” Mason glares at me. “I dunno, I wasn’t the one neck-deep in her pussy. You tell me.”
I throw one of his phallic shirts at him. “Not her, the one who wants half the menu.” I point down the hall to the bar. Mason’s eyes narrow, which is all I need to know. “Fuck,” I hiss under my breath.
“Seriously?” Mason shakes his head at me. “You know that one too?”
I run my hands through my hair and look at the mess of perverted shirts on Mason’s office floor. Do I choose monkeys doing the nasty or pin-up girls straddling giant rockets?
Neither. I stand up, leaving them all on the floor. I’m going to serve in the best outfit I can imagine—if Wisconsin wants to battle this shirtless dragon tamer, here I come.
11
Arie
There’s a cheer from the bar like a rock star just walked in. That must be this hot-shot bartender, Connor, and I have to admit the shrieks say a lot if the patrons are this excited for his reentry. He’s either so good looking he can make a Greek god cower, or his drinks are indeed the set-your-panties-on-fire variety—which is my gig really, and it means I’m absolutely going to be testing his abilities.
“You think that’s him?” Simon asks, leaning on the bar at my side.
“I assume so,” I say, bending forward to try and get a look. “All this cheering and ridiculousness must be what Hamblin was talking about. Though, nobody better be cheering at Flambé like this! Not a one! We’re not a cheap strip joint, promising body shots and Magic Mike.”
“Agreed,” Simon says, looking a little green, though that might be the misty light of the Gin n’ Lava.
I lean forward a bit further, but all I can see is a blur of skin and the bartender’s back at the far end of the bar. Whoever he is, he’s giving high-fives to the crowd.
“Am I imagining it, or is he not wearing a shirt?” Simon asks, tight lipped. I toss my hair back and shoot him my best you wanted to indulge Hamblin look, to which he scowls. But honestly, I’m just glad Simon and I are on the same page about this.
“To be clear, if Hamblin thinks we’re going to hire some two-bit wet-dream who waltzes around the bar without a shirt on like he’s some hot plumber in a cheap porno flick, he’s got something else coming,” I say self-righteously. Simon frowns, pursing those already tight lips into the shape of a pretty pink monkey bum. He doesn’t like either option as well. “Good!” I confirm. “I’m glad we don’t have to fight about this.”
“Well …” Simon seesaws his head like he’s trying to weigh his options, and not be too hasty about anything “… let’s just try a drink and see what he’s got. There is a line out the door—”
“Yeah, and despite that line, Mr. Magic Mike over there has made us wait for over twenty minutes for a drink,” I interrupt.
“Which may be an even greater testament to his skills, if you note the fact that the line hasn’t dissipated. So, something must be working for a dive like this to be so … active.”
I frown at Simon. “You’re the one who’s going to have to tame this beast. He’s going to be your problem if we hire him. It seems like he’s got no respect for business.”
“Tame the beast?” Simon narrows his eyes at me with a smoky flair. “You do realize I work with you, don’t you? You don’t think I’ve had to practice getting the diva in line?”
“I don’t know,” I nod down the row, where hands are reaching across the bar and caressing this Connor-guy’s back muscles like they’ve found the Holy Grail. “I think you’ve got a circus animal down there.”
“We have a dress code, Arie,” Simon states bluntly. “If need be, I can put specifications on skin flaunting in his contract and make sure he follows it.” He only says it to assuage my grumpiness. He’d never try to pass off such a thing. “Please remember that running a business
requires some element of flexibility. It’s odd to be telling you, of all people, to be a little more open minded.”
“I’ll be open minded when this shoe-brain of an idea is over with.” I raise my hand, trying to get the bartender’s attention. Mason did go and get him for us, but he’s taking his sweet ass time to get over here and take our order. “Excuse me,” I call out. “We’ve been waiting for twenty minutes! Excuse me, we’d like some—”
Finally, hearing my call, the bartender turns around, the sway of his hips is sharp and deliberate, like he’s well aware we’ve been waiting, but he was drawing this out for the perfect entrance. His smoky-grey eyes zero in on me and pierce right to my core with a smoldering intensity that strips my mouth dry.
My whole body goes tense.
It’s my dragon tamer!
My hands go slick and I find myself clutching the sides of my dress like a flustered schoolgirl. The sight of his broad shoulders, shirtless chest, and all those glorious muscles makes my tongue crave whiskey. Whiskey and the rock of his skin beneath me. I bite my lip to keep the visceral moan that’s hiding in my throat from surfacing. His presence hits me like a wild gust of wind, enveloping every inch of me, and weakening my knees. I swallow hard and don’t break his stare, standing my ground and hoping the weird piñata-lighting of this place paints my blood-drained face a masquerading color.
He heads toward us and all I can think of is that cliché line from Casablanca: “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world …” Yup, this is me, walking into his.
Because seriously, someone has to be punking me right now! I have one wild, toe-curling night in eight months and the man I climb on top of and have the hottest orgasm of my life with—that’s the person Hamblin wants me to hire!?
This won’t work.
It can’t.
Business and pleasure don’t mix!
This is a huge conflict of interest, to which the heat between my legs can already attest. Especially now that he’s zeroed in on me with a raised eyebrow that says he’d be happy to devour me again, right here, right now, and in front of everyone.
Jesus, fuck!
I don’t know if I said that out loud, but Simon shifts in his seat and I don’t dare look over at him because I don’t want him to see that this new development has totally thrown me off my game. My heart is racing and a live band in the back of the room is crooning out some cheeky tiki song, the thump of the drums already matching the beat between my legs.
I press my thighs together and lift my chin, trying to put my dragoness armor back on again. I eye Simon and hope it doesn’t look like I have any idea who the bartender is. Though he might walk straight over here and blow my cover, thank me for riding him, and remind me of the strength of his hands clutching my hips as the firm thickness of his—
Damn, it’s hot in here! Or I’m just too hot, my mind fantasizing—remembering—every wild and naughty—
Knock it off, Arie! Get your shit together! One hot night is nothing more than a hot night. You’ve had plenty in your life and this one can just as easily melt into a blur with the others. This gorgeous, shirtless, staring-me-down-like-I’m-his-next-conquest bartender isn’t anything special. In fact, he’s nothing more than a reminder of how hard I’ve been working for the last year, because that’s the only feasible reason my body is acting like a horny teenager.
My dragon tamer saunters toward us—toward me—with a gaze laced somewhere between seduction and completely pissed off; it’s hot and intimidating at the same time. A stealthy smile wicks his lips and all I know is I need to find a reason—any reason, the perfect reason—to make sure Simon never hires this guy.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says with a slight drawl, a swing to his hips as he slides up to the bar in front of me. “I hear you’ve been waiting for me.”
I attempt to lick my lips and toss the heat of his stare right back at him, but it’s the Sahara Desert in my mouth. “It’s been—” I cough, trying to clear my throat and regain my composure. “It’s been t-twenty minutes.” I feel Simon shift next to me, well aware that wasn’t at normal intimidating-Arie intensity.
“Trust me, I’m worth the wait.” His eyes flick down my body and back up again, and the fabric of my dress itches against my skin. I’ve felt those eyes on me before, felt those hands sliding the fabric up over my head, felt his mouth rake against the lace of my bra. Sweat beads on my lower back as his gaze snaps to mine with a sharp aggressiveness.
“It sounds like you’re a little full of yourself,” I toss back, and his eyes glitter, not giving me an inch.
“Well, we’ll see if you’re complaining later.” His gaze peers right into me with a heat and intimacy that makes my words ignite, his gaze intentionally reminding me of just how perfectly he filled me last night. I try to swallow and lift my chin, trying to meet his intensity, but as much as I want to scold him for being so damn cocky, the truth is my body is definitely not complaining, it’s practically begging.
Is this what Hamblin was talking about? This heated spell? I mean, half the bar-top was reaching over the counter just to trace a finger down his bicep. But none of them actually rode him last night, none of them know just how incredible—
Simon coughs next to us and the bartender tears his eyes from me to acknowledge who I’m with, and it feels like sandpaper dragged against my softest skin.
“I’m sorry,” the bartender says. “What can I get you and your friend?” He slaps an inquisitive glare back at me as he emphasizes the word friend. It hits me hard, the robustness of it underlined with heat and accusation.
“We, um—” I cough, trying to get my breath back. My neck is sweating with the realization that I fucked this beautiful man last night, and suddenly here I am, in front of him, where he works, with Simon. Simon, who for all intents and purposes is drop-dead gorgeous. “My um, associate and—”
His eyes flicker at the word associate, as if he’s trying to decide how deep this lie will go. Everything else I told him last night was a lie. But that was the point, we weren’t ourselves. It was supposed to be a fantasy. We weren’t supposed to know each other in real life.
“We’d like the specials,” Simon butts in. “The Samoan Typhoon for me, and Arie will have the—”
My dragon tamer’s eyes bore into me. “Arie?” he says my name casually, and I don’t have any clue what Simon just ordered for me. All I know is my skin is squirming as my real name purrs off his lips. That wasn’t part of the rules. We aren’t supposed to know these things.
“That’s a pretty name. Arie,” he says it again, rolling it over in his mouth like he’s trying to decide if it fits.
“It’s nothing special,” I shrug, meeting his stare and pretending we didn’t just violate the rules of one-night stands. “It takes second place to the beautiful name my parents gave my twin.”
“Oh?” he asks, baited. “So, there are two of you?”
I pull my long mane of red hair off of my shoulders and fluff it back, trying to get a little breeze on my neck. “Well, it seems like a sin for God to make only one of me.”
The bartender raises his eyebrows again and for a second, I think he’s actually calculating the possibility that I’m not who I am and maybe he slept with my sister. Or the fact that we could at least both agree to pretend that’s true and play it off that way.
He breaks my stare and turns to Simon instead. “An extra shot for you, my friend. It looks like you married the evil sister.”
Simon laughs and balks at the same time, lifting up his hands from the bar. “Oh no, I’m not with Arie.” Simon shakes his head vigorously. “She’s not my wife!”’
“Girlfriend, hookup, whatever she is, man,” my dragon tamer says. “If there’s two of this one,” he nods back to me, “you’re in for a ride.” His head tilts to the side as he looks back at me with a sly grin, reminding me of just how good the ride is.
Not catching the look, Simon laughs and agrees. “She is a feisty one,”
“Feisty?” He raises an eyebrow in mock-surprise. “Oh, I wouldn’t doubt it.”
I shake my head at him, not sure what game he’s playing. “I’m sorry,” I say, butting back in. “Were you going to get us a drink?”
“For Arie and her man—” his eyes cut to Simon, sharply “—anything.”
“He’s my business partner,” I say hotly, and my dragon tamer nods like he doesn’t care what I tell him Simon is, because he won’t believe a word of it.
“Business partner, secret agent,” he tosses back. “Whatever you need to be tonight, love. Two specials coming up.”
I glare at him, knowing exactly what he just did, and I’m annoyed that he thinks I’m playing both Simon and him. But before I have a chance to say something snappy and brilliant, my dragon tamer hits a small gong on the side of the bar and calls out, “Typhoon coming!” The drummer in the band at the back of the room hits a cymbal with a crash and the rest of the band makes wild whooshing noises. Simon laughs at the kitschiness of it all, but I glare at the bartender, annoyed. He winks like this is part of the fun, swinging around to reach for the shaker.
“Hold up a minute,” I call out, leaning in, and my dragon tamer turns slyly.
“Miss me already?” he quips, to which Simon actually giggles.
“They call you Connor, right?” I throw his name out like it’s a bullet, which he takes with impeccable stride. Still, I catch how his hands grip the drink shaker a little too tight.
“We playing a game now?” he asks, turning on the charm. “Rumpelstiltskin? Rachmaninoff? John-Jacob-Jingleheimer-Schmidt?”
“Connor’s just fine,” I say dryly. “Your boss told me—”
“Is he the one that told you my name?” he interrupts, leaning on the bar to mirror my stance.