Shaken, Not Stirred
(The Last Call Series)
By Sawyer Bennett
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright (c) 2015 by Sawyer Bennett Published by Big Dog Books
ISBN: 978-1-940883-28-1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Prologue
Casey
"Jesus, Casey. That was amazing."
Yeah, it kind of was, I think as I look down at Richard. At thirty-seven, he's a little older than the men I normally date, but I have found that to be a benefit in the bedroom. I'm sorry... but older men just really know how to please a woman.
It also helps that Richard fits my other qualifications. He's rich, so he can treat me to nice things, moderately cool to hang with, and best of all... he understands the concept of no strings. He's a minor owner in a NASCAR franchise and lives in Charlotte, but I met him several weeks ago when he was vacationing here in the Outer Banks. Since then, he's flown back every weekend on his private plane--which he flies himself, so that's kind of hot--to see me. He's wined and dined--and yeah, sixty-nined--me very, very well. Then he leaves, goes back home, and I'm contented.
"Yeah, sugar," I tell him with a little kiss to his jaw. "That was awesome."
And it was. He got me off once with his tongue, and I got me off once while I was riding him.
Easing myself off Richard, who is still half-hard within me, I roll right off the bed so I can start gathering up my clothes. I hear Richard take the condom off and throw it in the garbage.
"Don't go," he says softly behind me and then his arms are wrapping around my stomach. He pulls me back into his chest, which is beautifully tanned and muscular, and leans his chin on my shoulder. "Stay the night with me, Casey."
I give a light chuckle, push his hands off me, and with a chastising look over my shoulder, I say, "You know I don't do overnights."
"Christ," Richard explodes as he drags a frustrated hand through his hair. "You're driving me nuts."
I quickly slip on my panties, keeping my eyes on him the entire time. "Come on, Richard. Don't be like that. You know my boundaries."
"Yeah, yeah," he says with exasperation, throwing his hands out to the side. "No getting close. You don't do relationships. Blah, blah, blah."
"Blah, blah, blah?" I mimic with a cocked eyebrow while deftly putting my bra on. Over the years, I've learned to dress fast for a quick escape.
Richard's eyes get sidetracked a moment by my breasts as I adjust the straps, but then come back to me. Very quietly and with serious eyes, he says, "I'm falling in love with you, Casey."
Ice fills my veins even as I feel a tinge of remorse within my chest. I step toward him and in a voice that I mean to be firm yet gentle, I say, "No, Richard. You aren't."
"Don't tell me how I feel," he snaps at me.
"You don't love me," I repeat with steely confidence. "You're in lust with me... fine, I accept that. But it's not love."
"It's love I'm--"
"It's not love," I say again... calmly, patiently, but with a little more punctuation. "You don't know enough about me to love me. We don't share secrets or intimacies. We share meals and we fuck. That's it, Richard."
"It's more. It may not be love, but I have feelings for you," he says again, trying to insist, but even I hear the heat has died down out of his voice.
I know his type. He loves having sex with me, and who wouldn't? I'm pretty much awesome in the sack, but I'm also a realist. I know that the only reason men look at me is for my beauty, and the only reason they stay with me is because of what I can do to them in between the sheets. I learned a long time ago exactly how men like him feel about women like me.
Sometimes, they're cool with the boundaries I place. Sometimes, they proclaim to love me, which is horseshit. Not one of the men I've been with even knows my middle name or where I live. They don't know about my brother being a convicted murderer, the name of my best friend--which is Gabby, for the record--or where I flunked out of college. They know I have gorgeous tits, an ass tight enough to bounce a quarter off of, and I'm great at giving head.
That's all they care about if they're being honest with themselves.
Honest to me.
So when along comes the man that starts talking about love and commitment, I know exactly what it is. It isn't that they love me or that they want more from me on a personal level. It's that they want me by their side more. They're not satisfied with the weekends I'm willing to give them. They want me in their bed seven days a week... nothing more.
Certainly nothing less.
With a sigh, I step away from Richard and finish putting on my cocktail dress. It's made of a shimmery, mint-green satin, tight around the bust but still tasteful enough to wear out to the five-star restaurant we dined in tonight. With efficient motion, I put on the strappy, crystal-studded sandals that bring my five-foot-nine up to where I can almost look six-foot-tall Richard directly in the eye.
Grabbing my handbag off the nightstand, I turn to face him. He's standing there gloriously naked, completely unabashed, looking like I just kicked his favorite puppy. It's a shame, really, because while I may not let my feelings get involved, I do enjoy a nice, monogamous, but light mutual endeavor. I've gone weeks happily content with one man, as long as he doesn't cross the line I've drawn in the sand.
The line that Richard just crossed, which, unfortunately for him, that bell can't be unrung.
"I'm sorry," I say as I walk up to him. I lean in... kiss him on the cheek. "I hope you understand. But I've never led you on. I've told you my boundaries. I told you it could never be anything more."
He sighs heavily but holds my gaze. "I know you did. I don't know what I was thinking. You won't hear it from me again."
Shaking my head sadly, I bring a palm up and touch it to his cheek. "I know I won't."
He hears the tone of my voice. He understands what I mean. "You're not going to see me again, are you?" he asks hesitantly.
"No," I tell him as I continue to look in his eyes. "The line's been crossed, and it can't be undone for me."
I wait for it.
I know it's coming.
I've been here before.
Richard's eyes turn frosty, the cut of rejection bringing out all of his defense mechanisms. The need to reclaim his manhood and the upper hand rises forth. "Fine. Whatever. You're not the first or last piece of ass I'll have."
Ahh. There it is. Exactly what I knew was lurking under the surface.
What is always under the surface.
I give him a polite smile before turning toward the door. "Goodbye, Richard. I hope you find what you're looking for."
Curses follow me out. A few degrading remarks. It all bounces off me because I refuse to let it sink in. I've heard it before, and he's no different. In fact, I'll even accept I might deserve a little of it since I willingly engaged in some really fantastic sex with him that I could see definitely making him think it could lead to other things.
But it's the God's honest truth. I never led him on.
I don't lead any of them on.
I tell them how it is right up front and just as is typical to any man, they have no problems accepting my conditions because hey... the sex is phenomenal.
Because, after all, men really are looking for one thing only.
I hastily exit the hotel, my high heels clacking on the pavement. The warm summer breeze floats over my exposed skin, and I breathe in deeply of the sea salt that permeates the air.
Damn, I love my home here in the Outer Banks.
I love my family. I love my friends.
Contrary to what most men would believe about me, I have tremendous capacity to love. It's just something I would prefer to avoid outside of my friends and family.
I get in my Jeep, a present I bought myself last year after I made a killing off just one sale. Unfortunately for me, the real estate market is tight, and there aren't many houses available on the island nowadays. In hindsight, it was probably a stupid idea to become a realtor, but shit... I didn't know what else to do with my life. It didn't help that my first sale was of a mega mansion to famed author, Gavin Cooke, because I just sort of assumed everything else would be that easy.
Wrong!
It's freakin' hard to make a living in real estate. And to make matters worse, Gavin ended up stealing my roommate, which has really put a ding in my budget.
Okay, well... he didn't steal her. Just knocked her up and moved her in with him. And fine... they're in love (gag) and they have a beautiful daughter now (nothing to gag about there--she's adorable), but what about me? I'm floundering here and don't know what to do. So poor right now that the only good meals I get are on the weekends when I might have a date.
It's definitely time to step up and figure out what the hell to do with my life, because I can't keep living this way. I wonder to myself if when I say that, I only mean as far as expenses go, but I think I might mean something else. That scene back there in the hotel with Richard is getting really old, and as much as I like to pretend that I always hold the upper hand in these situations, I know that, deep down, it still makes me feel like shit about myself.
Chapter 1
Casey
I love this bar.
Just like the song that gets played on the jukebox quite often. My older brother, Hunter, bought this property going on almost two years ago, refurbished the interior, and renamed it The Last Call. Since then, it's become one of the hottest places on the Outer Banks to hang during the summer months.
It's casual and laid back, just like the beach bum my brother is and always has been. The Markham family has salt water in our veins, having lived here forever. Me and my other brother, Brody--who is Hunter's identical twin--are what I'd call frolickers. We like to sit on the beach and play in the ocean, but that's the extent of our communion with the sun and surf. My dad, however, is a fisherman and Hunter was on a surfboard from the time he could practically walk, so both have a much more personal connection to the ocean. That doesn't mean I love it less but just in a different, gentler way. So very different from Hunter, who respects the ocean and knows he can never control it, can only ride what it gives him. Dedication and natural talent led Hunter to a very successful professional surfing career, from which he retired to buy this bar.
Or rather... he actually retired from surfing to stay here on the islands so he could be with his one true love, Gabby Ward.
Who also happens to be my best friend since we were little bitty things.
It took a while to get used to the idea of Hunter and Gabby being together. At first, it just plain gave me the wiggins to see them showing open and sensual affection with each other. I mean... for God's sake... we all grew up together.
But the concept of those two being a couple has grown on me. Hunter and Gabby are engaged, and she will one day be my real sister in addition to being my best friend.
"Can I get another beer, Casey?"
My head swivels to look at ol' Roy Becham, sitting at the opposite end of the bar. He's a fixture in here. I give him a quick smile and head down his way, grabbing a fresh and newly chilled pint glass from the cooler. "Sure thing."
And this is where my life currently stands.
Tending bar at The Last Call because I can't afford to continue living on my own with what I make as a real estate agent.
About three weeks ago, I plucked up the courage, swallowed my pride, and begged Hunter for a job. Now, don't get me wrong... there is nothing shameful about working in a bar. Not only does Hunter cover frequent shifts here, but Brody also worked here for a while when he first got out of prison.
No, the part that has me swallowing my pride is in having to beg a family member for help.
Turns out... no begging was needed. Hunter gladly gave me the work, offered to loan me money if I needed it, and then proceeded to grill me on the state of my finances to see how much trouble I was really in. After an hour of assuring him that I wasn't starving to death, but just needed a little extra to make up for losing Savannah as a roommate, he finally left it alone.
My mom, on the other hand, is not happy I'm working here. While both my parents love my brothers and me unconditionally, I know that I am the "disappointment" in the family. And that's saying a lot, seeing as how Brody spent five years in prison. In fairness, however, his transgressions are forgiven by all of us because he didn't actually do the crime.
I, on the other hand, have not measured up in any way. My senior year in high school was very difficult for me, and I sucked at college. I barely lasted a year there, partying my ass off and having the time of my life. I don't think I really caught on to the concept of needing to buckle down and study. How could I when it was just so much damn fun to be free and young with no one to make me do anything?
"Casey, baby," my mom had said with obvious affection but a little bit of annoyance one night at a family dinner. "It's time to figure out what you want to be when you grow up."
I'm almost twenty-six years old, and my mom doesn't think I've grown up yet.
She may be right.
I pour the beer from the tap, keeping the glass tilted at an angle to keep the foam head minimal. When it's full, I set it down before Roy and reach out to grab the appropriate amount of money he has laying in front of him on the bar.
"Keep a couple dollars for yourself, honey," he says in a gruff voice.
I take two extra dollars and stick them in my tip jar. "You're a sweetie, Roy."
"So you gonna marry me then?" he asks with a toothless grin. Roy has to be in his eighties. He's a retired shrimper and used to hang out at this bar before Hunter bought it. He was displaced for a bit during the remodeling but once it was re-opened for business, Roy's butt has pretty much been parked on that same stool at the corner of the bar.
"I'm not marrying any man," I tell him with a wink. "No way am I going to be pinned down."
Roy cackles and holds his beer up to me in salute. "You remind me of my sweet Georgia Mae. Did I ever tell you about the time she left me at the altar and I had to hunt her down and drag her back kicking and screaming? She was a pistol that woman, but after the honeymoon, she was smiling big."
I shake my head and smile at Roy, and even though I've heard this story twice, I put my elbows on the bar and lean toward him. "I haven't heard that one."
Roy drones on and on. Sweet old man really, which is why I listen to his repetitive stories. This is his life... just as it's mine... sitting in
a bar and whiling the time away.
Continuing from one story to the next, Roy tells me about his wife, Georgia. She died long before I was born so I didn't know her, but she sounded like a hoot. A few more customers start to straggle in, mostly fisherman at this time of the early afternoon, telling me the shrimp aren't running anymore.
I call out greetings and serve up beers as well as some harder liquor for the more salty men. Periodically, I shoot the shit with Roy or some of the other locals.
I've found the key to enjoying this job is to stay busy, so I like it when people start coming in. It makes the time fly by. While the afternoon shifts that I work are generally slow, I still can get in a good hour or so of busy traffic, which means better tips.
Right at six PM, Kent comes in to relieve me. He started working at The Last Call about a year ago and is one of Hunter's more seasoned workers. He's also really hot with sandy blond hair that he wears long and shaggy, with a beard of about four days' growth. It never gets any longer or shorter, so I know he must be in to grooming. On top of that, he's a generally nice guy. I mean, really nice.
I've often thought about going out with him. He's asked me a few times, and I always turn him down with a bit of levity. He's a little younger than I would like--I think twenty-three--but ultimately, I can't do it.
He's a bartender. Blue collar, working class. Definitely not rich.
Which means definitely not my type.
Some would think that makes me shallow, and I would have to agree with them if I went out with these men for their money. But that's not why I go out with them. I couldn't care less about their fancy cars and expensive gifts. It amuses me to get them because I know just how little that stuff really means to these men. It's a way to impress and seduce. It's classic and dull, but I accept it.
It also means they are the shallow ones, and shallow people are easy to keep at arm's length.
The reason I don't go out with people like Kent is because he's too nice. Too stable. Too dependable. Wouldn't want to hurt a woman intentionally. Knows the meaning of honest work. He has character.
Those are the men I stay away from. Those are the type of men that would threaten to unravel me.
"Hey Kent," I greet him with a smile as he walks back behind the bar.
"Hey Casey," he says with a pearly white grin. "Looking gorgeous today."
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