Chris snagged her shoulder when she started to stand. “I’m not saying you can’t make your own decisions.”
“But you think I’m defenseless and easy to take advantage of, is that it?”
“You went through so much when we were kids. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
“I can’t be a victim forever, Chris. At some point I’ve got to get over it and move on. I need to move on. I’ve tried and tried, and I keep failing. A place like that might offer me some different options.”
Chris took a breath to answer back, but Emory ignored him. She flung open the cooler door. A cold wave of floral fragrance hit her in the face and raised goose bumps on her arms. She carefully placed the newest arrangement on the shelf with the others waiting for the upcoming nuptials.
It was ironic really. She spent most of her time on elaborate wedding arrangements. Emory specialized in bouquets to complement blushing brides, neutralize horrific bridesmaid dresses, and accessorize a church or reception hall. On the other end of the spectrum, her twin negotiated their divorces. Factor in her parents’ lopsided marriage and an abusive, holy-rolling father, and it was no wonder Emory Banks was confused about the nature of love, sex, and relationships.
Chapter Two
Emory had to take a step back and double-check the dim red sign illuminating the main entrance of the crumbling two-story brick structure. It was no wonder she’d walked past the place half a dozen times without ever noticing that it was a bar. It looked like a derelict building.
A few cracks of light seeped around the edges of the dark blinds on the second story. The first-floor windows were all painted black. The massive front doors were a double helping of ancient wood that looked as if they had survived flood, fire, and an invading army in their time. Taking a deep breath, Emory put her shoulder into a door and pushed her way inside.
She found herself in what amounted to an empty box. The soles of her chunky combat boots squeaked on the scuffed tile floor. Less than a dozen paces away the empty box gave way to what appeared to be a large, dimly lit room. A chain-link barrier stretched floor to ceiling between the box and the bar, blocking access. Standing between Emory and the barrier was a man playing the part of a troll guarding the bridge.
Emory supposed that most women would find him attractive, if they were drawn to the muscular type. The guy had a classic bouncer build: over six foot tall, somewhere under three hundred pounds of solid muscle mass, tousled short black hair, and blue eyes. He was good-looking enough, just not Emory’s type.
“You got ID?” His voice held the hint of an accent, but she couldn’t place it in three murmured words.
Emory slid the narrow wallet that held her ID and her cash for the evening from the hip pocket of her baggy black cargos. The waistband sat several inches below her navel, and the effect of her hand shoved into her pocket sent the pants skidding an inch or so lower. She flashed her driver’s license and tried not to look as young and inexperienced as she felt.
“Enjoy.”
The bridge troll swung open a door, and Emory stepped down into Phoenix Rising for the first time.
Her first impression was that of a real bar. This was not some upscale martini bar or one of MacIntyre’s generic sports bars. This was a place people came to drink, socialize, and get away from the everyday grind.
It was still early for a Friday evening, but the main room was well over half full. Men and women lounged at tables and chairs scattered haphazardly throughout the room. An old-fashioned, mahogany bar dominated the center of the back wall. Its mirrored back reflected shelves holding hundreds of bottles of liquor of every variety imaginable. The area between Emory and the bar was open. Fans twirled in lazy circles, stirring the smoky air hovering near the ceiling. On either side of the main room, the wings sat like the sides of an H. Intimately arranged tables occupied by bar patrons were wreathed in shadow. Emory strained her eyes to try and see what hid beyond the light, to see if what she’d heard was true.
So intent on finding out if Donovan MacIntyre had been telling the truth about Phoenix Rising, Emory paid not one whit of attention to where she was going. Seconds later she collided with someone.
The impact knocked both off their feet. Emory landed square on her backside, her arms catching against a couple of nearby chairs and keeping her from smacking her head against the stone floor. In fact, she thought she’d gotten off pretty good until two overturned pints drenched her midsection in pale ale.
She gasped, the ice-cold beer on her front making her nipples bead into hard points and raising goose bumps on her skin. Of all the rotten luck, she’d knocked over a waitress.
“I’m sorry!”
Dazed, Emory blinked a few times while taking a mental inventory of her body. When her brain was satisfied that all systems were present and functioning, her ears registered the husky feminine voice.
“Here, let me help you up.”
A slender hand reached out. Looking up, Emory gazed into the warm hazel eyes of a gorgeous woman in a red-and-black plaid miniskirt that barely reached the middle of her thighs. Her long legs were bare, and she wore combat boots not unlike Emory’s own. A tight black cotton top showcased a set of full, perfect breasts, and her long brown hair was pulled back into a haphazard knot.
“I am so sorry.” The woman apologized again. “I didn’t see you.”
The ruckus had brought another bouncer away from the wall. If the guy at the door had been intimidating, this one was about as approachable as a demon. He was taller, broader, and more heavily muscled, with a clean-shaven head and eyes so dark they looked black in the dim light.
“Are you all right, Jessa?” His voice was rough.
Jessa the waitress bobbed her head and offered the bouncer a smile. “I’m just fine, but I drenched this poor thing in beer.”
“I told you I’m going to have to fire you if you can’t keep your mind on your work.”
Emory sucked in a breath to protest, alarmed that the poor woman might actually lose her job over something as silly as spilled ale. But her words died a quiet death when Jessa’s mouth stretched into a knowing grin.
“Connor, Connor, Connor. How can I think about work when you’re standing half a dozen feet away looking like sex-waiting-to-happen?”
It was as if Emory was no longer standing there beside them, her front covered in pale ale. It didn’t take her long to understand what was going on. She’d known that feeling before, the invisible feeling that happened to a third wheel. It was common enough when hanging around the Chrises. In fact, it was the story of Emory’s life. When the world kept turning out perfect pairs, a forgotten and somewhat damaged single was bound to feel adrift.
Alex grabbed the terry cloth bar towel tucked into his apron and slung it over his shoulder. It was readily apparent that Connor and Jessa had completely forgotten about the poor soul standing in a puddle of beer only scant feet away from their happy love bubble.
It was starting to happen a lot lately. Not the beer puddle, but the love bubble. While Alex was ecstatic to see Connor’s rigid discipline come crashing down at Jessa’s whim, it was also annoying as hell.
Now there was a drenched pixie standing in the middle of the bar. If Alex hadn’t known Gabriel was checking IDs at the door, he’d have pegged her as a kid. A scant inch or two over five feet, her slight build was almost completely obscured by a pair of baggy black cargo pants. They were cut off below the knee, resting near the tops of her chunky combat boots. A dark blue hoodie made it impossible to tell whether or not she’d even managed to develop breasts yet.
The pixie gazed around, her eyes settling on the bar before she headed in his direction. Sighing, Alex wondered if he could somehow convince her to just go home. She didn’t look like the type of woman who belonged in a bar like Phoenix Rising.
“You look like you could use a towel, love.” Alex deftly deposited the one on his shoulder to the slick bar top before her.
“Thanks.” She picked up th
e towel and pressed it against her belly, soaking up the ale. “I’m not sure who blindsided who, but it’s obvious that the accident only made an impression on one of us.”
The pixie had a sharp sense of humor. Alex found himself intrigued against his better judgment. “Jessa can be a little preoccupied when it comes to Connor.”
“Obviously.”
Her dry tone indicated she’d spent more than her fair share of time with happy couples. Alex looked her over while the beer stains kept her distracted.
She was cute, though no one could ever call her beautiful. Her hair was long, black and curly. She’d made an attempt to corral the thick mass in a rubber band, a losing battle as most of it curled wildly over her narrow shoulders. Her face was as pixie-like as her slight body. Her cheeks were round, completely unlike the high cheekbones Alex usually favored in his women. She also had a healthy sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Alex didn’t know how long he’d been staring, trying to decide what it was about her that intrigued him, when she looked up suddenly. “Do I have beer on my face or something?”
He was suddenly arrested by the power of her deep brown eyes. Forcing his brain to focus on something else, he shrugged and dropped his gaze back to the counter. “Not that I can see.”
“Thanks for the towel.”
He could feel her eyes on him. It was strangely unsettling. “Can I get you a drink?”
“A little something for my mouth this time?”
Alex couldn’t stop his gaze from locking with hers when he registered a hundred possible double entendres in her words. Her look was guileless, and Alex was reminded of his earlier misapprehensions about her age.
“Anything you want,” Alex said smoothly, to cover up his momentary jolt. “The first one’s on the house, to apologize for the little mishap.”
“Well then.” She hopped up onto a barstool. Her body landed gracefully on a seat as she lifted her eyes to scan the shelves of liquor behind Alex. “What’s your favorite drink to make?”
Her tone had turned playful. Alex hadn’t particularly noticed her voice before, but it was both husky and feminine and very pleasant to the ear. “I guess that depends. Are you a traditional girl or an adventurous one?”
Even as the words came out of his mouth, Alex wanted to curse. Was he flirting with her? Not that Alex Dalesio flirting with a woman who sat at his bar was a particularly unusual occurrence, but this one seemed somehow different. She was either younger or more innocent, he couldn’t decide. She didn’t really belong in his bar, much less his bed.
A slow smile eased over her features and her eyes glinted chocolate brown in the dim overhead lights. “Tonight? Definitely adventurous.”
Something inside Alex responded to the gleam in her eye and the tone of her voice. Pleasurable awareness snaked down his spine, and his cock began to harden behind the strict confines of his jeans. He fiddled with the black carbide ring he wore on the middle finger of his right hand. There was a matching one on the left, each sporting a stylized Celtic design.
“So, what do you recommend?”
“Rum or vodka?”
She nibbled her lower lip, her teeth catching at the fullness and pulling it gently into her mouth. The sight mesmerized him despite his reservations about her innocence. “Let’s start with rum. It’s early, after all.”
Without even thinking, Alex reached for a clean shot glass. He flipped it over and poured equal amounts of Everclear, spiced rum, and apple schnapps. He was unusually aware of her brown eyes watching him as he worked. Seconds later he set the caramel-colored shooter before her and smiled.
She lifted an eyebrow. “What do you call it?”
“Baked apple.”
Her face broke into an impish grin, and Alex tamped down forcefully on the smile that threatened to break wide open across his face. What was it with her? She wasn’t his type, no matter how infectious her smiles and laughter might be.
She tossed back the shot in one gulp and flipped the glass over with nimble fingers before setting it on the bar. Her head tilted to one side as she savored the complex flavors. “That was good. What else you got?”
“Are you challenging me?”
“What if I am? Surely a big, bad bartender like you can come up with something that’ll really take me for a ride,” she teased.
Again with the double entendre, but her body language was playful and not suggestive. Alex gave up the battle and chuckled, his face easing into a wide smile. “Love, I’ll take you for a ride you’ll never forget.”
“Bring it on.”
Ingredients swirled in Alex’s head. Sticking with the rum theme, he layered spiced rum, Kahlua, and vanilla extract in a shooter and set it before her. “Captain Louie,” he said in response to her unasked question.
She laughed and tossed it back, her eyes closing in brief bliss. “Now that one’s a turn-on.”
He didn’t even wait, grabbing bottles without conscious thought. Spiced rum, Mountain Dew, and Southern Comfort for an exploding woody; spiced rum and cranberry juice for a cheerleader rum; spiced rum and sambuca for a Good and Plenty; then spiced rum and Buttershots for a greasy pirate all passed her full lips. Each drink was consumed with the same series of motions and ended with an upside-down shot glass on the bar. For a pixie, she had an unbelievable tolerance for liquor.
“Do you know how to make a dirty hairy snatch?” The cadence of her speech was just starting to shift. Considering her body weight, she should’ve been passed out on the floor.
He paused, looking up and catching her eyes. Mischief hid behind her chocolate gaze, and Alex began to get the distinct impression that she was toying with him in some fashion.
Emory watched him pour Mandarin vodka, Bailey’s, spiced rum, and Cuervo Gold into a shot glass. She reached for it as he set it down on the bar, and their fingers brushed lightly. She snatched her hand back, stunned by the brief jolt of electricity and heat.
Every nerve inside her body came alive. A tingle snaked along her spine, sending a thrill straight to her crotch. Emory squeezed her legs together against the sudden onslaught of arousal. She’d never experienced anything like it. Ever. She craved physical contact, but her emotional fragility made it almost impossible. Sucking in a deep breath, she waited for the familiar anxiety to overwhelm her senses. It had always come in the past; hit her like a freight train with a wave of nausea and terror she couldn’t master.
She waited the span of two breaths, until the gorgeous man behind the bar tilted his head and slanted her a curious stare, but nothing happened. The slow burn of attraction grew, and Emory felt hope for the first time in forever. Basking in the unfamiliar sense of calm, she took a longer look at the bartender.
Somehow the word “sexy” just wasn’t enough to cover this particular male specimen. A shade over six feet, his lean, muscular body looked as though a master had sculpted every line. Tousled blond curls brushed his forehead, and his eyes were brilliant blue, but it was the smile that sent chills racing down her spine. Well, whenever he let it go full force, anyway. The rest of the time he seemed almost surly.
She picked up the shot and inhaled. Complex mixtures of citrus, spice, and the bitterness of tequila washed over her senses. Knocking it back, she let the taste wash over her tongue and down her throat before flipping the shot glass over and setting it with the others.
Her vision swam briefly, and the warm tingle sliding down her spine indicated a nice buzz. “I could probably pass out right now and sleep like a baby. Promise not to dump me outside on the street if I do?”
“Don’t worry, that isn’t my usual policy.” He lightly grabbed a highball glass in one strong hand, setting it before him without a word. The twin black rings on his middle fingers glinted in the overhead lights. She wondered what they meant, if they meant anything at all. Emory hadn’t been intrigued at all by either of the bouncers, but this bartender was another story. Not only was he hot, she could’ve listened all night long to
the light British accent coating his words.
In her experience, bartenders were either surly or friendly natured. Most could at least pretend to be nice. They lived off tips, after all. But this guy was literally hot and cold in the same breath. It was almost as if he was beginning to like her against his better judgment or something. Of course, she shouldn’t have cared what he thought. She was there to find a random guy, someone a little less—everything. Hopefully she was buzzed enough for an experiment in casual sex.
“You know,” Emory began conversationally. “I don’t usually drink with men I don’t know.”
He filled the highball glass with ice, a smile tugging at a corner of his generous mouth. “Guess your mama raised you right.”
“If that were true I wouldn’t be in a bar drinking shots.” Why had he said that? She didn’t want to think about her mother. That made her think of her father. And that’s whom she was here to forget for good. Not even her buzz could sweeten those memories.
He filled the highball with water and topped it off with a slice of lemon.
She needed a way to get back the calm he’d given her just a moment ago. “So what’s your name?”
His blue gaze lifted, meeting hers with measured intensity. “Alex Dalesio.”
“I’m Emory. It’s nice to meet you, Alex.”
He set the water on the bar before her, his full lips thinning into a line. Awareness trickled down Emory’s spine, lifting the hairs on the back of her neck and bringing her body vividly awake for reasons she didn’t understand. Why was she so fascinated by him?
He turned away after getting the water, heading to the other end of the bar to help the customers who’d started pouring through the front door. It was as if he’d taken the sun with him.
Phoenix Burning Page 2