Pawn: Volume One

by Maya St. James

  “Seven.”

  “It’s six, so you might want to hurry up.” She starts to walk away, but then she stops in her tracks. She looks over her shoulder. “You don’t think you’ll run into . . . .”

  For a moment, my thoughts automatically flit to the beautiful man I’d locked eyes with last week—I still blame his intense, dark stare on my interview jitters—but then I push him from my thoughts. I hadn’t mentioned him to Blake, so it’s obvious whom she’s actually referring to.

  “202 isn’t exactly my dad’s scene.” Although the restaurant caters to the upscale Capitol Hill crowd, its patrons are younger. It’s the type of environment that would instantly turn my conservative father off. Which is great because of the huge fight he and I had over Thanksgiving. Like always, he had the last word, and this time he’d coldly let me know that the semester that just ended would be the last he paid of my tuition. “I doubt I’ll ever see him there.”

  Blake nods in understanding, picking a piece of pink lint from the multi-colored end of her ponytail. “Good. Screw your dad, you don’t need his stuck-up ass.”

  Pasting on a confident smile, I give my own ponytail one final fluff and turn away from the mirror. “You’re right.” Linking my arm through hers, I lead her toward the living room, where the jeans and Tee I plan on wearing over my uniform hang over the back of the sofa. “So . . . where are you heading looking so hot?”

  After unabashedly filling me in on her eighties party and hook-up plans for the evening—she’s heading home to Massachusetts on Monday for the rest of winter break, so she has to get her fun in right now—she grabs her purse and keys.

  “All right, I’m out, but if you need anything give me a call.”

  “When I drop my first tray you’ll be the first to know,” I say, and she rolls her eyes.

  “Smart ass.”

  Chapter Two

  After Chad gives me the rundown of everything I already know about the position—I’m a temporary employee for the next week, no dating customers, no drinking or smoking on his premises in uniform—he has me shadow Jana for the rest of the night.

  I follow closely behind the redhead, sweating like crazy and paying close attention as she greets customers. Decorated in a political theme, hence the red, white, and blue getup I’m having a hard time not tugging at, 202 hasn’t been around for very long. I think Blake said it opened in September, so this is only its third month in business. Still, Jana is completely at ease with her surroundings, treating everyone she speaks to like they’re regulars and occasionally sprinkling in a flirtatious wink or a sexy smile.

  “Soooo, Chad wouldn’t tell me,” she starts, looking back at me as she picks up a tray of drinks from the bar, “but where did you waitress before this, Eleanor?”

  I’ve never liked Eleanor, electing instead to use my older brother’s childhood nickname for me, but I don’t correct her. “I haven’t.”

  Her eyebrows arch. “Haven’t waitressed?” I shake my head.

  She hands me the tray and jabs a patriotically-painted nail toward the table we’re headed to. “You must have really impressed him.”

  Maybe. Or maybe he was just intrigued. During my interview, Chad had done the usual double take when he saw my last name is Courtney. He’d come right out and asked if I had any relation to the senator, and I’d said yes. I hadn’t admitted that I’m his daughter, but what are the chances Chad didn’t look us up online seconds after his office door closed behind me?

  He would have found the magazine stuff—my travel articles but also the summer spread of my parents at their Falls Church estate. The one that my dad had guilt-tripped me into being a part of.

  And by typing in my name—and linking my father—Chad would have seen mentions of my old performance awards in dressage, three-year-old photos of a sullen-looking me with my dad as he toured the state, and even a small, sarcastically-written article wishing “Senator Courtney’s lovely daughter, Eleanor Sutton Courtney, a happy twenty-first as she barhops around D.C.”

  Now, I wish I had lied to Chad and said no.

  “Lord, girl, you’re gonna drench yourself in vodka if you hold it like that.” Jana adjusts one of my wrists. “And don’t look like you’re constipated, it’s a total turn off.” I try my best to relax my expression until she gives me a brisk nod. “Much better. All right, I have to pee, but you can do this. Meet me at the bar after you’re done.”

  Before I can argue, she sashays off, her flame-colored hair flying behind her and half the male eyes in the room turning in her direction.

  Good, that means they won’t be looking at me when I fall on my face. I take a deep breath and exhale.

  I can do this, I tell myself. I can be good at this and then Dad can suck it.

  One more inhale and I walk over to the table of twenty-something women, holding the tray just like Jana had instructed me. I’m oblivious to their conversation as I smile sweetly and pass around drinks, but just as I slide the last Margarita to its already tipsy recipient, I hear one of them giggle-whisper, “I’m serious, I would bang his freakin’ brains out.”

  The one closest to me looks over her shoulder and snorts. “Don’t think that’s happening anytime soon, sweetie, but good luck.”

  Suppressing a grin, I grasp my empty tray and start to head back to the bar, but not before sneaking a peek at their target.

  And damn, what a target he is. A sexy, stomach-clenching, goose bump-inducing accumulation of everything a man should be. He’s tall, dark, and wickedly handsome in a traditional black business suit and immaculately knotted blue tie. Once I realize I’ve seen him before, it’s even harder to look away. He’s the same man I’d noticed the first night I came in. Judging by the pushed in chair opposite him, tonight he’s alone.

  He lifts his hand, motioning me to him. When I stupidly look around me and then back to him, he mouths, “Yes, you.”

  The closer I get, the sexier he gets.

  He has those features that give a woman no other choice but forget what she’s doing. Skin that’s just the right shade of bronze and a strong, chiseled jawline that’s already shadowed, even though he’d very likely shaved this morning. From his long legs, I can tell he’s over six feet tall. If he weren’t sitting, he’d dwarf my five foot six frame. I’d have to tilt my head back to meet the intense chocolate brown gaze studying me closely as I tentatively approach him.

  He bobs his head in greeting. “My waitress seems to have disappeared, do you mind?”

  “Mind what?” I breathe. Our gazes intertwine again, and just like last week, the force of staring into his dark irises nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. My heartbeat races, and I can’t move. Can’t even think in complete sentences.

  Damn.

  “Getting my check for me.” He gestures to his empty glass. I feel a silly flutter when I see there’s no ring—or indentations—on his finger. God, what’s the matter with me?

  “Yeah.” My voice is husky, utterly foreign sounding. “I mean, no problem.” When I turn to slink away, his low voice stops me, rolling over me like honey.

  “You’re new.”

  “Yes.”

  “Graham Delaney.”

  I face him again, letting the palpable energy radiating from him slam into me. “What?” My eyes trace the slow, seductive smile he allows to tug his absurdly kissable lips. No man should have lips like that.

  “My name. Graham Delaney.”

  It takes me a second to place his name, but when I do heat rises to my cheeks. To my father’s disappointment, I’ve always hated discussing politics. Dad always said it was a crime that a journalism student avoided dinner table political discussions like the plague. Still, I’d heard the New York senator’s name mentioned on more than one occasion. Usually with words like neoconservative, hot, and bachelor attached to it.

  “I’m Elle.”

  “Elle,” he repeats. His eyes glide down my body, sharp and hungry. He looks me over quickly, but the heat from his swift perusal
scorches through my clothing, which he seems to see completely through. I furrow my brow and respond with that awful nervous habit of racing my tongue over my upper lip.

  He straightens his back, sitting taller, and the corners of his mouth quiver.

  God, this man might know my father—is in the same party as my father—and I’m licking my lips at him. Might as well have ripped off my underwear and handed those to him, too.

  To my mortification, Graham Delaney responds to my lip-licking and panty-ripping thoughts with a wide, cocky grin.

  “About that check, Elle?” He emphasizes my name on purpose, rolling it off his tongue slowly. I’m not sure if it’s because his arrogance has unnerved me, or because for a second, I can easily imagine myself dragging my fingers through his medium-length, dark hair, but I tighten my grip on the tray.

  “Right, of course. I’ll grab that right away.”

  “Is everything all right?” I nearly jump at Jana’s question. I glance around to see her coming toward us. She smiles frostily at Graham. “Nice to see you again, Senator.”

  He grants her a cocky smile. “Likewise.”

  “I was just about to grab his check,” I blurt out, and she cocks her head to the side.

  “Sure you were.” She nods toward the crowded bar. “I’ll show you how to ring him up.” I follow behind her, and we’re barely out of hearing range when she turns to me and says, “Just warning you—that guy is a shitty tipper, so beware.”

  I nearly recoil at the acid in her voice, but I bob my head. “Thanks, good to know.” I watch as she pulls up his ticket, memorizing the process. “Hopefully, if he comes back, he won’t be in my section.” Because after the stare down he and I just had, I’m more concerned about his effect on my body as opposed to my wallet.

  “If you’re lucky you won’t ever have to deal with him,” Jana says with a shrug. She grabs the receipt from the printer and passes it to me. “Come on, we better drop this at his table and get back to work. Still a lot for you to pick up and not much time.”

  Graham doesn’t give me a second glance when I hand him his check, but I swear walking away, I feel his eyes trained on my back. I force myself to relax and throw my attention into learning the ins and outs of working at 202. Fortunately, I’m a quick study. By the end of the weekend, I’m on my own, waiting on what Jana calls “a mini-section.” It doesn’t take me long to realize she wasn’t BSing when she bragged about the type of tips she made.

  At the rate I’m going, I won’t have any trouble making the tuition payments.

  But the more tips I pocket, the more I think about Jana’s crappy tipper. Graham Delaney. Every night I come to work I can’t stop myself from looking for him, wondering if I’ll feel that undeniable electricity when we see each other again. If we ever see each other again.

  I’ve just about given up on him coming back to the restaurant, but exactly one week after my first day at 202, there he is. Sitting in my section. Filling the air with that intensity that makes my chest hurt.

  Unfortunately, it’s the same night Chad decides to sack me.

  Chapter Three

  14-December

  “You’re not working out for me.”

  Chad gives me the bad news split seconds before my butt makes contact with the seat cushion opposite him, and I freeze. Is he screwing with me? I attempt to search his expression, but he’s looking down at the mess of receipts strewn across his desk.

  When Jana told me that he wanted to talk to me in his office, I didn’t even think it would be a negative conversation. That self-assured side of me figured he was going to make me a full-fledged waitress and send me off with a pat on the back and a “Good work, kid.” Now I’m pretty damn sure my night is about to take a turn for the worst. Clenching the armrests, I lean closer to the desk.

  “Do you mean the schedule I’m on right now isn’t working out for you?” I question hopefully. “Because I’m completely on board with changing my schedule.”

  I want this job. Need it. Holding my breath, I wait for the boss to tell me whether or not I’ve made the cut.

  Scratching his salt-and-pepper hair, Chad looks up from his receipts, and I flinch at the apology in his eyes. I’ve seen that look more times than I care to admit, and I know for a fact nothing good can come from it. “Look, you’re a brilliant girl, but you’re not. . .” He sighs. “Put it this way, I can tell you’re a Courtney.”

  What’s that supposed to mean? Tugging at the round neck of my tank top to fan myself, I run my tongue over my lips. “Chad, I’ve been nothing but professional and courteous to all my customers.”

  “No, no, that’s not it at all!” He holds up his hands and moves them from side to side. “We haven’t had any complaints about your attitude. It’s your speed, Elle.” When he takes in the look on my face—that is probably crestfallen—he continues, “Don’t get me wrong. You are incredible for a beginner, but I need someone a little faster. We’re a busy place, and I need a server who can get the orders out faster. That’s why I have to let you go. It’s nothing against you.”

  “Oh.” I want to tell him I can learn to be faster. That if he gives me another chance—just one more damn week—I’ll prove myself to him. Then that traditional Courtney pride kicks in, and I straighten my spine. “Don’t worry, I understand where you’re coming from.” And I do, but that doesn’t make the rejection sting any less. Especially since this particular rejection means I’m out of a job that had so far given me incredible tips. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

  Chad’s shoulders relax. “You’re a journalism student, right?” he asks, repeating what I’d told him during my interview two weeks ago. When I nod, he continues in a suggestive voice that sets my teeth on edge, “You have so many connections, Elle. Make the best of them.”

  I’ve been hearing things like this my entire life.

  Didn’t get into that college? Have your dad give them a call.

  What? You didn’t get that internship? Hell, do they know who your dad is?

  Robert Courtney gets shit done. Period.

  “All right,” I tell Chad, even though I can think of a million things I’ll do before asking for my dad’s help, including prostitution, reality TV, and panhandling. Reaching across the desk, I shake my former employer’s hand—a professional gesture that seems to surprise him. “Thanks again.”

  Being back at square one blows just as much as that awful habit of saying what’s socially correct.

  After I agree to drop off my dry-cleaned uniform sometime early next week, I do the walk of shame to the tiny break room located on the other side of the busy kitchen. I grab my belongings from the row of lockers on the back wall, making sure I leave nothing behind since this is my final night. After I shrug into my blue and grey GWU sweatshirt, black puffer coat, and the skinny jeans I’d worn over my tiny red-and-white tank top and hot shorts tonight, I check my phone. Scrolling through my messages, I get a sick feeling in my stomach while skimming the last text my roommate sent.

  Blake Mayer: Stab me, pls. Stuck at a boring as hell Christmas party & my grandma keeps asking when I’ll bring home a decent man. I’m 22, not 32!!! Anyway...how’s work?

  I don’t want to respond, no need to bring down Blake’s mood another notch or two with my failures, but then I let out a heavy sigh. If the roles were reversed, I’d commiserate, and I know she feels the same way. Slinging my purse strap across my shoulder, I walk to the break room exit, typing, Work is non-existent. Tell you about it in the AM. But for now tell your grandmother you’re with me, she’ll be too shocked to harass you about men. Message sent, I stick my phone in my coat pocket and head back into the bustle of the main restaurant.

  I know it’s stupid, but I feel like every eye in the place is following me. Of course, it’s the complete opposite. It’s Friday night and there are other things—food, drinks, the prospect of sex with a complete stranger—that are far more interesting than a waitress none of them will even recall a week from now. O
ne person does notice me, however, and it’s Jana. She takes a moment from the order she’s taking to give me a solemn nod. I lift my hand in a slight wave.

  “Thanks for all your help,” I mouth in earnest.

  “Good luck,” she lip-synchs back.

  It’s not her fault that I turned out to be a sucky waitress.

  Walking by the section I was supposed to work tonight, I pick up my pace, wanting nothing more than to reach the front door. I want to go home to regroup, to figure out what to do next. I want. . .

  Graham Delaney.

  Graham Delaney is sitting in what used to be my section and his eyes have once again made contact with mine—a powerful clash of brown and green that makes me wish I were closer. With the red booth as a backdrop, he’s every bit as imposing and drop dead sexy as I’ve built him up in my head to be since the last time I saw him two weeks ago, and I almost run into a couple being led to their seats.

  “Excuse me,” I move aside for the scowling hostess to get by. My gaze wanders back to Graham. He’s smiling. God, why is he smiling at me like he can see right to my core? And why, of all the times for him to return to 202, had he picked this night? Couldn’t he have come in any other night this last week?

  For a moment, I consider joining him. He looks to be alone—he’s looking right at me—but I shake my head. “Don’t be a fool,” I warn myself under my breath.

  Ripping my gaze away from him, I move past my spot near the hostess station, and maneuver through the crowd waiting to be seated to get out the door. As I stand on the sidewalk, I’ve never felt more thankful for the bitter December chill, even if I have just stepped out into a larger than usual crowd on Barracks Row. I tighten my coat around me and catch my breath, giving one last glance at 202 before I move to the other side of the walkway and head toward the lot where I left my car.

  While I weave through the mass, walking beneath street lights decorated with Christmas wreaths, I try to decide if I’m winded because I just lost my job or because a stranger had twitched his sexy lips and stole my breath away.