Chapter Five
Clay managed to avoid Samantha for most of the day. While she was out with Katrina, and even after she’d returned, he’d stayed down at the bar going through liquor inventory and keeping himself busy prepping for the evening crowd. Happy hour started at four, and Monday was ladies’ night, which meant half-price drinks for the women who came into the place.
The weekly promotion was great for business, but having an influx of female patrons also attracted a whole lot of men who were looking to score, and that made for a very busy night. At three-thirty, employees started to arrive—Hank, the cook, who prepped the appetizers, Elijah, who made sure all the drink glasses were cleaned and stocked for the rush of orders, along with Tara and Gina, who tended the bar, and Amanda and Tessa, who were experienced cocktail waitresses.
While Samantha had been gone earlier with Katrina, Clay had left a Kincaid bar shirt for her on the table to wear, along with a note telling her to be downstairs and ready to work at the designated time. He glanced toward the door that led up to his apartment just as it opened and the woman who’d spent way too much time in his head today appeared and walked toward the bar, where he’d just delivered a case of beer.
Damn, she looked good. He’d been worried about her fitting in with the rest of his employees, but all his concern evaporated as he watched her approach. Gone was the sophisticated, obviously wealthy-looking lady who’d come into his bar last night with the sole purpose of getting drunk. With her hair down in loose, natural waves and minimal makeup, this woman looked young and fresh and bright-eyed and eager. She looked as though she belonged in this environment.
He knew her attire was the main reason, and Jesus Christ, could the jeans she’d bought today be any tighter? The dark-wash denim molded to her curves, accentuating the sway of her hips, her sleek thighs, and long, slender legs. The material of the T-shirt he’d left for her to wear stretched taut across her chest, and he was a fucking idiot for feeling possessive about the way his last name, Kincaid’s, was imprinted across her full breasts, as if it were a statement that she belonged to him, rather than the name of the bar. All he needed to add was property of above Kincaid’s to complete the stupid-ass need to put a claim on her before any other men arrived and hit on her.
And he knew they would. Tonight’s male clientele for ladies’ night tended to be the cockier, more presumptuous type of guys, who, after a few drinks, became overly aggressive, rude, and lost any filter that they might have had when they’d first come in. For the most part, Clay managed to keep things under control, but he knew that Samantha was going to experience one hell of a culture shock tonight. If he was lucky, she’d be gone before the end of the night and heading back to where she’d come from.
Because he really, really needed her to leave. She was too much of a distraction and temptation, and proved as much when she met his gaze from across the room and gave him a sweet, sultry smile that made his cock twitch in his jeans and a groan roll up in his throat. He swallowed it back before the sound could escape.
“What the hell is she still doing here?” Tara asked from beside him, a frown on her face as her gaze traveled in the same direction as his. “And why is she wearing a bar uniform?”
“Because she needed a job,” he muttered, and made himself busy shoving beer bottles into the vat of ice so he didn’t have to make eye contact with Tara.
Knowing there was no way he could keep Samantha’s living arrangements a secret for long, he decided to get it out in the open and be done with it.
He straightened and finally met Tara’s gaze. “And since everyone is going to find out soon enough, she’s staying in my apartment upstairs for a week or so.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Tara said, her eyes widening incredulously. “I thought you said you’d take care of her like any other tipsy patron. Make sure she leaves safely and all that.” She shook her head, and a tiny hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You just couldn’t resist rescuing that damsel in distress, could you?”
He wasn’t about to answer her question, and he didn’t need to justify his reasons for letting Samantha stay. “Don’t worry. She won’t be here long.”
Tara cut him a sidelong glance filled with curiosity as she set a stack of napkins on the bar top, then started refilling the swizzle sticks. “Why is that?”
“Because she’s never worked at a bar, and she doesn’t have a damn clue what she’s in for tonight.”
Tara didn’t bother to hide a smirk. “So, you’re hoping tonight’s rowdy crowd will scare her off and send her back to wherever she came from?”
“That’s the plan,” he admitted. Because after this morning’s encounter, he had no idea how long he could keep his hands off her. Especially when she’d already allowed him to kiss her with such lust and heat and had made it known she wanted a whole lot more of everything he had to offer. And fuck, did he want to give it to her. Badly.
Samantha finally reached the other side of the bar and sent him a cheerful smile. “I’m ready to get started. Where do you need me?” she asked, her innocent words not so innocent in Clay’s dirty mind.
On your knees in front of me…lying flat on your back with your legs wrapped tight around my waist as I slide hard and deep—
“Since Clay seems incapable of speaking at the moment, I’m Tara,” his bartender said in a wry tone, introducing herself as she waved one of the other bar waitresses over. “Let’s have Amanda give you a crash course on taking drink orders and what to expect tonight.”
Samantha didn’t even look a little bit nervous about her first night on the job. “That would be great.”
“She can help you out for the first few hours after we open,” Tara went on as she placed a small rubber mat on the service bar counter. “But at some point we’ll be slammed and you’ll have a section all to yourself and you’ll be on your own.”
“It’s a good thing I’m a quick learner.” A too-confident Samantha turned to Amanda and introduced herself, then the two of them walked away so Amanda could give her a quick lesson on drink terminology and how their order system worked.
“Is there something going on between the two of you?” Tara asked, the amusement in her voice evident as she began slicing lime wedges. “Because for a minute there, you know, while you were staring at her like a deaf-mute, you looked like you wanted to vault yourself over the bar, tackle the woman, and do all sorts of dirty things with her.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, enjoying herself immensely.
Get the fuck out of my head, Tara. “You have quite the imagination.” He gave her a bland look.
“Deny it all you want, Saint Clay,” she said, narrowing her gaze as she pointed the knife at him to emphasize her point. “But I’ve never seen you look at another woman that way. Not even Vicky.”
Vicky, the woman he occasionally hooked up with and who had been his casual fuck buddy for the past year. No, he’d never, ever felt this insane kind of hunger and need for Vicky as he did for Samantha, which was why she made the perfect hookup. But he wouldn’t admit his weakness for Samantha to Tara, or anyone else, for that matter.
“I thought your degree was going to be in business, not psychoanalysis,” he said in a droll tone meant to deflect her scrutiny.
The slight furrow of concern between her brows remained. “Just…be careful, Clay.”
I don’t want you to get hurt. He could see the unspoken words in her eyes, and the fact that Tara even thought that was a possibility aggravated him. There was only one woman he’d ever let get close enough to hurt him—his own mother—and the brutal devastation and anger he’d experienced after her heartless actions pretty much ensured that Clay would never give any other female that much power over him ever again.
So, no, Tara had no reason to worry about him doing something as careless and stupid as falling for Samantha, a woman he could pretty much guarantee would be gone in a few days. A week, tops. He’d bet his bar on it.
“Nothing is
going on,” he said in a voice that sounded much steadier than he felt. “I’m just helping her through a tough time in her life. That’s it.”
Tara opened her mouth to respond, but before anything else could spill out, Clay held up a hand and cut her off. “This conversation is over. I’m going to see if Hank needs help in the kitchen before happy hour starts.”
Tara’s lips pursed, but when he turned around and walked away, he heard her mutter distinctly behind him, “Stubborn ass.”
Yeah, whatever. He’d been called much worse.
He went to the small kitchen in the back, where Hank was pulling huge trays of chicken wings from the oven, which he would then throw into the fryer as they were ordered. Elijah, who currently had no dishes to wash, was helping Hank prep the other items—beef sliders, chicken fingers, potato skins, and a few other appetizers.
“Everything good in here?” Clay asked.
Hank gave him his typical, jovial one-sided smile and a thumbs-up as she moved about the kitchen. “Yep, we’re good, boss.”
Clay watched the duo for a few more minutes, glad that he’d taken a chance on them both. They were good, hard workers, but then again, they’d not only needed a job, they’d really wanted the employment. For money, yes, but also to restore their dignity.
Especially Hank. He’d hired the other man a few years ago when he’d come into Kincaid’s looking for a job. Any job. At twenty-eight, he’d been a year out of the military and disabled, having lost one of his legs in an IED explosion that had taken his right eye, as well. The shrapnel had also embedded itself into the right side of his face, damaging the nerves and causing paralysis, which was why Hank was so good at that lopsided grin.
Despite all that, Hank was in amazing physical shape. He’d been fitted with a prosthetic leg, and the patch he wore over his right eye made him look like a rogue pirate, which the girls loved to tease him about. Hank had a great attitude and refused to let his losses define him as a person.
The sound of a current rock song coming out of the speakers in the main area of the bar told Clay that it was just about opening time. The digital entertainment system selected popular songs from a playlist and streamed the matching music videos onto the huge flat-screen TV on the far wall. It was a trendy, crowd-pleasing addition to the bar—something to watch, or you could join the action out on the dance floor, which usually ended up packed on ladies’ night.
At four p.m., customers started arriving at Kincaid’s, a gradual influx of men and women, most of whom arrived in groups of two or more. It started slowly enough that Samantha had the chance to learn the basics as she worked beside Amanda. Clay watched her take drink orders, sometimes asking Amanda a question before returning her attention to the customer. From what he could tell, she was picking up the bar terminology more quickly than he’d anticipated. She put in the orders and delivered the cocktails and bottles of beer on a serving tray with more coordination than he would have given her credit for.
For someone who’d grown up not having to work a day in her life, she appeared to be adapting well. Hell, she even seemed to be enjoying herself as she chatted with a group of women as she jotted down their drinks on a note pad. She moved on to the next table of young guys, who openly flirted with her. Clay’s gut tied up in knots when she smiled back at them and laughed at something one of them said. He had to remind himself numerous times that pickup lines and casual advances were the nature of the beast in a place like this, and that all the bar waitresses got hit on on a regular basis. Hell, they even flirted back to increase their tips. As long as a customer wasn’t crude and didn’t make any physical sexual advances toward his girls, the behavior was tolerated.
But that mental lecture didn’t stop Clay from glaring at some douchebag who was checking out Samantha’s ass as she walked away to place the drink orders.
“Jesus, Clay. That scowl on your face is going to scare away customers,” Katrina said as she slid onto a barstool in front of him.
He’d been so busy staring at Samantha he hadn’t seen Katrina come in.
She followed his line of vision to the woman making him crazy in so many ways. “Or maybe that’s your intention, to intimidate the hell out of every guy in the place so they don’t touch your shiny new toy.”
“She’s not my anything,” he said gruffly, wishing everyone would stop making that assumption. He shifted his gaze back to Katrina, surprised to see her at Kincaid’s on a Monday evening. “What are you doing here, anyway? You never come in for ladies’ night.”
“That’s because it’s like a meat market out there,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she indicated the crowd of men and women mingling. “You know everyone here is looking for a casual hookup, which is why I’m sitting alone at the bar.”
Clay shrugged, though he knew she spoke the truth. “Not my business what they do once they leave the premises. I just serve the drinks while they’re here, and you still didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”
“I’m providing moral support.” She flashed him a grin.
“For Samantha?” he guessed as he refilled the garnish caddy with maraschino cherries.
Katrina nodded as she reached over and grabbed a stemmed fruit, then plucked the cherry off with her teeth and ate it. “Thought it might be nice for her to have a familiar face here tonight.”
“I take it you two hit it off today while shopping?”
“Yeah.” Katrina’s expression softened. “She’s actually really nice. For a rich girl.”
He raised an inquisitive brow. The fact that Samantha’s family owned a billion-dollar investment firm wasn’t a piece of information he’d shared with Katrina, or anyone else. Maybe Samantha had told her, though he didn’t think it likely, considering she was attempting to create a new life, away from the Jamieson wealth and influence.
“And you know she’s rich based on what, exactly?” he asked.
Katrina rolled her eyes, as if it were obvious. “When I picked her up, she was carrying a three-thousand-dollar Louis Vuitton purse. At first, I thought it was a damned good knock-off, but when we walked into Target, she looked like a kid in a candy store. Although it was very cute how she tried to budget your money,” she said with an amused grin. “Then, she seemed overwhelmed by all the shampoo and body wash choices and kept asking me what was the best product for the best price. A normal person would know exactly what they needed, and what brand to buy, because it’s what they used on a regular basis.”
It was clever and accurate deductive reasoning, but Clay didn’t confirm or deny anything as he wiped down the service area. “Thanks again for taking her to the store and helping her to get what she needed,” he said, and changed the subject. “Ladies’ cocktails are half off tonight, so what can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll take a mojito, please.”
“Coming right up,” he said, and tossed mint and lime into a glass so he could muddle it together before adding the alcohol.
Katrina turned in her chair, content to watch the activity going on around her from afar. The bar was starting to pick up and get much busier—which was normal by six in the evening, when everyone was done with their day jobs and wanted to take advantage of the half-price appetizers for happy hour. By seven, the place was usually packed and at the peak of activity.
After serving Katrina her drink, Clay continued working behind the bar, restocking items and helping Tara and Gina to keep up with the increasing rush of orders as more women arrived. The dance floor filled up, and the place became standing room only. At a little after seven, his brother Mason and a few of his friends walked into the joint, but Clay immediately lost sight of them as they blended into the crowd.
Undoubtedly, his brother was already working the women in the room, pouring on the charm and lining up his own hit it and quit it for the evening, which was Mason’s method of operation when it came to females. And with his cocky, bad-boy persona, combined with his good looks and multitude of tattoos, he alway
s had an abundance of willing females to choose from. And he never failed to take advantage of that fact.
Another half hour had passed when Tessa came up to the bar next to Katrina, not to collect a drink order but to get Clay’s attention. She waved him over, her expression flushed and irritated.
“Everything okay?” Clay asked, immediately concerned.
“No.” More irritation vibrated in her voice. “Your brother is in the women’s restroom banging some chick, and I need to pee!”
He was so taken aback by her announcement that he frowned. “Mason?”
Katrina snorted, and it wasn’t a pretty sound. “Who else would it be? Do you honestly think Levi would do something so indecent?”
Yeah, Katrina had a point. Only Mason would be so ballsy as to have sex in a semi-public place, while people waited to use the facilities. Ever since he was a teenager, his brother had developed an I don’t give a fuck attitude that made him impulsive and careless, one that continued even now, at the age of twenty-seven. Mason had some of his shit together—he was a talented tattoo artist and owned his own shop—but their fucked-up childhood still affected him on an emotional level, and he dealt with all that painful shit in his own way. Namely by being reckless, wild, and pretending to be so aloof no one would even try to get close enough to crush him, the way their own mother had. Thus, his inclination toward one-night stands. Easy sex and no attachments. Ever.
Yeah, all three Kincaid brothers had mommy issues, and they each dealt with the residual effects in their own way. Growing up with a junkie for a mother who’d abandoned her kids for days at a time in order to get high, then had landed in prison for drug possession and prostitution, tended to leave a lasting impression on a kid. And that hadn’t even been the worst of what they’d gone through.
“Since Mason is ignoring me, can you please go and take care of the problem?” Tessa asked as she shifted uncomfortably on her feet.
Problem was too easy of a word for Mason. His brother was a pain in his ass. A thorn in his side. The shit on his shingle. There was nothing easy or predictable about Mason, and tonight’s escapade proved as much.
Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy #1) Page 6