by Cathryn Cade
Lesa’s smile widened, relief expanding like a lighter than air bubble of joy in her middle. “Thank you, Mr. Vanko. I’m so—”
“Mr. Vanko was my old man,” he cut in. “I’m Pete, or Brews. This is Streak,” he jerked his head sideways at the man-bunned cutie, who waggled his fingers at Lesa. “That’s Sylvie and Aysha on the floor. Pico and Joe are our cooks, you’ll meet them tomorrow.”
She nodded. “Okay, sure.”
“Hey, what about us?” complained a deep voice. “We’re part o’ the team. Wasn’t for us, you wouldn’t sell near as much product, Brews.”
A big, burly biker with wild ginger curls and beard grinned at Lesa from a few stools down the gleaming wood bar.
“I’m T-Bear,” he told her. “This ugly mutt is Moke. You can just ignore the rest of the dudes in here, long as you take care of us.”
Moke, an equally big man with the ebony hair and beautiful, dark eyes of a Pacific Islander lifted his chin to her, but said nothing.
That was okay with Lesa, as the patches on their black leather vests marked them as members of the local MC, the Flyers.
She would just as soon not have to deal with them until she learned the pub’s protocol. As in, did they really get first dibs on service, or were they just joking with the new girl?
She gave them both a cautious smile and looked back to Pete Vanko.
He jerked his head in the other direction. “Come pick out a couple of tees, try ‘em on if you need to.”
Lesa followed him to a set of glassed-in shelves near the bar where an assortment of tees were stacked on one side, beer glasses on the other.
He gestured at them with one large, well-made hand. “Tanks on the top, tees on the bottom—you get one of each. You want more, you buy at my cost. Customers like ‘em tight, so don’t be picking out the XLs. You can check out with Streak when you’re done, I got shit to do.”
“Okay,” she agreed. She looked over her shoulder to the bikers seated at the bar, laughing over something one of them had said. “So, those, um, motorcycle guys … they seem nice.”
His gaze cut to her. “Bikers. That’s what you say, not ‘motorcycle guys’, and it's a club, not a gang. Devil’s Flyers. And yeah, they’re ‘nice’, long as you serve ‘em fast and friendly, and don’t mouth off. Anything beyond that, you’re an adult, you make your own decisions, but do not bring trouble back in here. I need brothers fightin’ over my staff like I need vegans protesting the burger menu.”
And with this partly hilarious, partly scary statement, Pete Vanko prowled away back to his biker brothers, leaving Lesa swaying a bit, like a small craft in the wash of one of the jets that took off from nearby Fairchild AFB. Whoa.
By ‘anything beyond’ fast, friendly service, she assumed he meant dating or more. Her, hook up with one of those bikers who went through women faster than they did underwear? Um, not likely.
She was so not into bad boys. She needed a nice, steady guy. One who might be lacking in sexual experience, but they could learn together. The internet was one big, filthy tutoring session if a person knew where to look.
Her new boss was the one she really needed to stay far away from.
She may have thought herself forearmed, but his picture on the website had in no way prepared her for all that was Pete Vanko. He was not only big, and gorgeous and hot and icy at the same time, he had a deep, smooth voice that could command armies of women to bend to his will.
And, he smelled like … like clean, warm male tinged with woodsy spice. So good she wanted to trot after him and bury her nose in whatever part of him was nearest and just inhale the pheromones he wafted.
Hot boss? Big, big disadvantage.
“Focus,” she muttered to herself. “You need this job. You do not need to be mooning over a guy who is way out of your league.”
Big advantage, he clearly did not return her interest at all, except as an employee. And why would he, when he could probably have most any woman he wanted between the ages of eighteen and eighty?
Witness, the slim brunette in tight jeans, stiletto heeled boots and low-cut sweater who was currently leaning way, way over the far end of the bar to talk with him, her breasts practically falling out in his face. And Pete Vanko was smiling down at her in a way that said he liked the view a lot. And why wouldn’t he? She was just the kind guys went for, hips like a boy and boobs like a stripper.
But that was just fine with Lesa, yes sir. That was, in fact, perfect. She was not in the habit of chasing guys who weren’t interested, and she could keep her crazy attraction to him under control. And there’d be no pushing for sex from him, which she’d had to put up with from bosses before, and did not like.
Nothing to see here but advantages, folks. Move along. She got busy and found herself a tank and a tee, and checked out with Streak, who was friendly as well as cute, and told her he was glad she’d be working here. And that was just sweet, because a lot of guys wouldn’t have bothered.
She gave him a big smile and he smiled back, until the beer glass he was filling overflowed, and he looked down with a muttered curse.
She turned to go, her new tees over her arm. She noted, to her surprise and alarm, that Pete Vanko and his biker brethren were all watching her.
T-Bear and Moke were grinning. Pete Vanko was not—in fact, he was ignoring his own brunette to frown at her.
Feeling like a gazelle that had caught the attention of a big lion, Lesa tossed her head so her hair hid that side of her face and got the heck out of there.
He’d said to be friendly, hadn’t he? And she knew from past jobs that getting along with the rest of the waitstaff not only made the job a lot more fun, it meant her customers got better service.
Confusing, much?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pete Vanko watched his new waitress/barmaid sashay out of his brewpub into the winter day.
Watching her walk away was well-worth a man’s time, he had to admit. She had a full, heart-shaped ass to go with her double-d tits, and long, curvy legs. And all that long, wavy, brunette hair, fuck. Made his fingers twitch to delve into it, wrap it around his hands and stroke it all over his skin while she worked his cock with that soft, peach-tinted mouth.
“Now that is a fine piece of woman,” T-Bear rumbled, echoing his thoughts. “Way prettier than Tiny, who’s a good waitress and nice enough, but I dunno why that dude wanted to take her back to Alaska with him, ‘cause she's built more like me than any chick I ever seen. You wanna keep your brothers happy, Brews, you hire this one and keep her around just to wait on us.”
Pete straightened, dragging himself out of his what-the-fuck-was-he-doing fantasy.
“She works out for us, she’ll be around. You’ll have to share her with the other customers, though, sorry.”
T-Bear shook his head, wild ginger curls flying. “Fuck that. I’ll tip her real good, let her know ol’ T’ll take care of her, if she takes care of me.”
“You’re still diggin’ out of the hole you dug with that blond,” Moke pointed out. “Better get outta debt first, brah, fore you start throwing money at another one.”
The big, ginger biker’s grin wilted, his massive shoulders sagging. “Aw, you had to remind me, didn’t ya? Fuck it, Moke, you’re like having my own personal tropical, black cloud, raining all over my fun.”
Pete and Moke chuckled.
“Moke’s right, though,” Pete pointed out. “And like I just told her—do what you want when she’s off shift, but don’t bring it in here.”
He himself sure as hell wouldn’t, not until Marta had been dealt with. He hadn’t liked the look in her eye when she accused him of moving on to another woman.
That look had raised the hair on the back of his neck, like being eyed by a dog that would as soon tear off a piece of him as let him by. Marta was gorgeous, but he now had a hunch that she could be a real bitch if cornered.
“Yeah, you don’t need another bitch moping around, givin’ you the stink eye,” T-Bear
said slyly, nudging Moke with his elbow, causing him to rock on his stool.
Moke nudged back, harder. T-Bear went flying off his bar stool and hit the floor with a massive thud. He was quiet for a few seconds, then groaned pitifully. “Fuck, man, I landed right on my new phone. I just replaced that shit.”
The big Hawaiian shrugged massively, and picked up his beer. “You mess wit me, I mess back, brah. ‘Sides, you got the replacement insurance, right?”
“Shit, I dunno.” T-Bear clambered up off the floor, scowling. “Prob’ly not, ‘cause it costs extra.”
Pete shook his head. T-Bear was one of his best friends, and smart as a whip when it came to numbers, but he was an eternal optimist. That meant he wasn't prepared when life kicked him in the wallet, which it frequently did. “You dumb shit, you didn’t read the agreement, did you?”
T-Bear shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Anyways, fuck, I gotta get back, JJ's prob’ly done welding the frame on that sweet little rod, which means I can get to work on the body.”
The local auto-body shop had an extra autobody work bay they rented out. It was usually filled with a local pimping their ride or building a custom rod.
T-Bear drained his beer, slammed the glass down on the bar, and lifted one huge paw. “Later. Call me.”
“On what?” Moke called after him. “You got no phone.” He rolled his eyes, then drained his own beer. “Thanks for the brew, Pete. You wanna talk about whatever's eatin' you, let me know. I’m in.”
Pete nodded, rolling his tight shoulders again as he remembered the cause of their tension. “Soon as I can share, I will. Later.”
He picked up their empty beer glasses and set them in the washer under the counter, then grabbed the bar towel and swiped off the bar, his thoughts dark.
He needed a plan, and he needed one fast. The longer he waited to react, the less chance he had of getting back what had been stolen from him, and the longer Marta had to stir shit around here.
A Flyer never stopped until he got his own back. And forget the old saying about serving it cold—Pete liked his beer cold, but his vengeance? He wanted that hot off the fuckin’ grill. This time, he didn’t see a way to get it without some collateral damage. He just had to choose who was going to take the fall--or at least, appear to.
So far, he was liking the woman who had just walked out of his brewpub.
He’d have to do his best to talk her into it, though. No doubt she’d be hella resistant, but if he knew women, a sweet cash bonus would go a long way to soothing her anger.
Either way, if she walked or stayed, wouldn’t matter to him, ‘cause she’d be gone and he’d be here. And no matter how smokin’ her curvaceous body was, she had committed relationship written all over her.
And that, he did not do.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Back in her little room at the Heights Motel, Lesa gleefully texted her dad. ‘Got the job. Start tomorrow. Seems like a great place. Talk soon.’
Then she called her younger sisters. Traci didn’t answer, so Lesa left a text. ‘Have new job. Call me, munch face.’
Billie answered her phone on the third ring. “H’lo?”
Lesa grinned. “Let me guess—you’re playing one of your games.”
“Oh, hi, Lees. I am—I mean, I was. How did you know?”
“Because, you sounded a million miles away, you goof.”
“Three million point five, to be exact,” said her sister, whose real name was Bettina, but had refused for years to answer to that. “Space Race. The object is to retrieve treasure items from planets in an unfamiliar galaxy. But there are many pitfalls.”
“Sounds interesting. I’d watch the movie,” Lesa teased.
“Lazy butt. The game is way more fun than a movie.”
Billie was nearly finished with a two-year degree in medical coding, but her hobby was testing games for a fledgling company owned by one of her friends from high school.
Often as not, she could be found with her head tipped down over her phone, thumbs flying as she progressed through an adventure of some kind, oblivious to the world around her. This made the much more social Traci roll her eyes in frustration, because Billie was gorgeous, but she rarely dated.
As Traci pointed out, hard for a guy to compete with virtual heroes who could leap twenty feet in the air and throw bolts of fire.
“Oh, hey. Did you get the job?” Billie asked.
“I did. Start tomorrow. It’s a great place, I’ll buy you dinner there when you come over.”
“Cool. I’m going to apply for jobs in Spokane. I don’t want to live in Seattle with Traci—too much traffic, not to mention the rain.”
“Awesome. We could get an apartment or a little house together.” Billie currently roomed with Traci near their community college, but Traci had plans to move to Seattle the minute she graduated.
“Sure. Um … I had supper with Dad last night. He seems good.”
Lesa’s hand tightened on her phone. “Great. Just … be careful, okay. Don’t let him talk you out of money.”
“That’s easy, I don’t have any. Working in the student billing office doesn’t pay that much.”
Lesa tsked. “Bryan should be paying you for all the work you do on his games. You need to talk to him, honey.”
“You need to come and see Dad, so we’re even. He misses you a lot, Lees.”
Lesa’s tummy churned. “I know. I just … I can’t yet, okay?”
“I know,” Billie sighed. “Okay, love you more than spinach. Gotta go to class.”
“Love you almost as much as nachos. Bye.”
Clicking her phone off, Lesa lay back on the motel bed. The mattress was hard, but the place was clean, so on her budget she couldn’t complain. The ceiling was centered with an old-fashioned beveled lampshade that hung crookedly, and one of the bulbs was a strange pinkish hue, but again, clean.
Someday she was going to own a big house, with a huge kitchen and dining room, and lots of rooms to decorate. She’d fill them with cushy furniture, warm colors and fun, artisan pieces—pictures, quilts, and pottery pieces. Things that made a house a home, each one a memory of good times with friends and family.
She’d have a husband, strong and stalwart, to take care of her. But no mistake, she’d take care of him just as hard. He could have any kind of job, just something steady, something he liked so he came home in a good mood. And she’d work too, managing a restaurant or bar … maybe even The Hangar.
But her guy sure wouldn’t be like Pete Vanko. Her new boss was a big, ol’ babe magnet, with T.R.O.U.B.L.E written all over him.
And wasn't it just sad that she could not wait to start working with him?
CHAPTER NINE
January 5th
Her first day of work, Lesa arrived twenty minutes early.
This was not difficult, as her little hotel was only a five-minute walk from The Hangar. She’d driven the day before, not wanting to take a chance on showing up for her job interview windblown or with a runny nose from the cold.
The main street of Airway Heights was just a county road, wide and flat with typical small town businesses lining both sides. Traffic wasn’t bad, but a person on foot better have eyes both ways when crossing, especially with huge berms of dirty snow and ice now lining the roads and limiting visibility.
On her way to work, she walked by the small, flat-roofed building that housed the local sheriff's office, the grocery store where she’d bought her dinner and breakfast, a car repair garage and a tire sales shop.
On the other side of the road sprawled a storage service with storage units and a vehicle storage area behind high fences. Next to this was a bakery that specialized in donuts and coffee, and a Mexican fast-food spot, the kitchen exhaust chugging fragrant steam into the frosty air.
When she walked in the Hangar’s front door, Pete Vanko was already at the bar, leaning in what seemed a customary pose. Lesa braced herself for the impact of his presence as she peeled off her jacket, then made her
way briskly through the tables to him.
He flicked her with that icy hot gaze and frowned, his heavy brows creasing. “Thought I said a tight tee.”
Lesa gave him her best non-confrontational smile. “I figure this one will shrink when I put it through the washer and dryer. Don’t want it to end up R-rated.”
The Hangar tee she’d chosen had a scoop neck which showed a hint of her cleavage, long sleeves and fit better than she’d dared hope. It was loose, despite her new boss’ instructions. She didn’t have the kind of slim, taut body that could afford to show every curve and hollow. Her hollows were opposite curves that were definitely curves.
He raised a brow. “This is a brewpub, not church. We like R-rated.”
Lesa’s cheeks heated, and she had to fight to hold her open, friendly expression. “Sure. I’m good with that.” But she still wasn’t wearing a smaller size tee. She’d look like a sausage stuffed into a casing.
She was okay with her body most of the time—except the week before her period when she felt like a cranky whale—but she was aware many people would consider her too heavy. She wore a thirty-four-D bra and size 14 jeans. She had a fairly small waist, but her tummy had a out-curve to it, and no one would say her ass was small. But her arms and legs were strong and toned and she stayed active, so even though lately she’d been eating way too many plates of pity-party nachos along with that jumbo bag of M&Ms, she hadn’t gained much weight.
Okay, five pounds.
But now that she was back to work, she’d lose those pounds again, fast. And hopefully more.
“Good,” Pete said. “I’m glad to hear you’re okay with that. ‘Cause you wear a short skirt and heels, your tips will go up. Just trying to be helpful to a new employee.”
The hell he was—the twist of his lips said he was yanking her chain. But his comment had been just that, not a demand, so she couldn’t very well complain.