by Wyatt, Dani
ROUGH CUT
___________________________________
By
Dani Wyatt
Copyright © 2019
by Dani Wyatt
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events and incidents are either the products
of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
www.daniwyatt.com
Cover Credit PopKitty
Editing Nicci Haydon
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ROUGH CUT
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
DEEP CUT
OTHER TITLES BY DANI WYATT
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Chapter One
Betty
“Shit, God damn it!” I jerk my hand back, but not fast enough, the broken glass slicing through my skin.
“Seriously?” Candice, my co-worker, and friend at Greenwood Gastro Pub chuckles as she reaches over and grabs my hand, inspecting the gash on my index finger. “At least this time I don’t think you need stitches.”
I wince as I look down and see it’s not all that bad, but it still stings and blood is running down my hand. I lost my balance and knocked the glass against the stainless-steel faucet. Clumsy is my middle name. I’d complain that it’s not my fault, the floor behind the bar is slippery, I tried to catch the glass falling in slow motion, and one thing led to another...but it’s always me. If I had to pay for broken glasses and plates, there would be no point working here.
“What did you do now?” The general manager, Milton, comes around the corner. “Did you just cut yourself again?” He screws up his face. “You just got the stitches out from the last time.”
“Shut up.” Candice scowls at him. “Your editorial is not required.”
He narrows his eyes at Candice but thank goodness he’s scared of her. Most people are scared of her, thank goodness she likes me. “Just...” He sighs and throws his hands in the air. “Get her wrapped up and back to work. We’re in the weeds tonight, and we just filled the last table in your section.” He points a finger at me. “I would have put them at another table, but he requested you.”
My stomach flips, both because the sight of blood makes me woozy but also because I’m pretty sure I know who’s requesting my section.
Milton rolls his eyes as he’s stepping back into the kitchen, mumbling under his breath, “As he always does.”
My heart is pounding as Candice steps over and grabs the first aid kit to bandage my index finger. “Like clockwork.” She smiles and bites her bottom lip, jerking her head toward the restaurant floor.
Candice is about six inches taller than me and has this sleek, California surfer blonde hair and dimples. Most people underestimate her because of her looks and because she’s a waitress, but she’s crazy smart and has no problem telling me just how things are.
She had a full ride scholarship at Michigan Technological University and studied Bio-engineering before she decided to follow her true passion which is writing. She’s been writing her great American novel for years now and supports herself as a waitress and is one of the happiest, most content people I’ve ever met.
I peek up and around the wood pillar at the corner of the bar, and immediately, my lady parts start doing the mambo. Roan Emerson is sitting in the last open booth in my section, with Vin and the local sheriff.
Roan’s black flannel shirt sleeves are rolled up over the elbows, showing the ink on his forearms. His face is covered in a thick beard which is in contrast to his short, controlled, maple-syrup colored hair. When his hands aren’t in fists on the table, he has a habit of running one hand down his beard and holding on as though he’s holding something back.
Whenever I wait on him, it’s hard to breathe. Wherever my eyes fall on him, dirty thoughts follow. His hands are massive, and I wonder what his fingers would feel like inside of me. His chest is as wide as a yardstick, and from the bit I can see it is covered in indigo tribal tattoos.
Blue eyes, so brilliant they glow, cut through me at any glance and he sits completely straight, fists on the table like he’s in pain or holding back a fight.
I shiver when he glances my way, quickly looking down as I feel the heat rise on my face over the fact he’s caught me staring.
“I give good service, is all.” I hold back the urge to grin at the unintended double entendre.
Candice laughs as she wraps the last of the white tape around the gauze as I tentatively pick up the shards of glass from the counter with my other hand and put them in the trash. She playfully glares at me, and I know she’s expecting me to cut myself again, but I’m only clumsy when it comes to my balance and keeping my feet under me. My fingers are as dexterous as anyone’s—more than most, in fact. I sew a lot of my own clothes, and even if I do say so myself, I’m darn good at it.
“I’m sure it’s your good service he wants,” she murmurs, “just on your knees and naked.”
“Stop.” I smack her shoulder and re-pour the glass of Merlot. She knows how inexperienced I am in the matters of sex and she thoroughly enjoys poking my innocent buttons every chance she gets.
“When are you two going to stop doing this crazy dance around each other? Just get to it. If you don’t make a move, I’m going to step in as your proxy, because dahm girl. I’d serve him whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, for as long as he wanted.”
“Really?” I glare at her, feeling my phone buzzing in my back pocket.
“No.” Her grin turns sheepish. “I’d never do that to you. And besides, when he’s here, it’s like no one else exists. I think even Eleanor tried to sneak in and wait on him one time before you got to the table...he threw so much shade at her, she went in the bathroom and cried.”
I pull out my phone and tap on the screen. The butterflies are fluttering away as I read the text from my older brother.
Dennis: How are your tips? I’m going to need the cash as soon as you get home. How much do you think you’ll have?
My eye twitches as I type out a quick reply.
Me: Tips are okay I guess, but it’s early. Not sure how much. What do you need the money for tonight?
Dennis: BILLS. We have bills to pay, you know. Just come straight home after, I have to pay some things. And you need to deal with this cat or I’m throwing her outside.
Me: DO NOT PUT HER OUTSIDE. What’s she doing?
; Dennis: Just being annoying. I’m not a cat sitter. Just get home and bring your tips.
Me: Just put her food and water dishes in my room and put her in there and I’ll get there right after my shift. DO NOT PUT HER OUTSIDE. The lease says she has to be inside, or they will kick us out or make me get rid of her.
Dennis: Doesn’t sound like my problem.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, fighting off the urge to scream. I mean, I love my brother, I really do. But things are getting worse. The apartment we rent isn’t that expensive, but with just my income ends are not meeting, and Dennis is making no effort to find a new job after getting fired from the last two.
I work three days a week, ten-hour shifts and it’s as many hours as I can get. I’ve applied at a few other places for some extra hours, but nothing seems to fit with my schedule and taking care of Dennis.
To give him his due, he served his country. I respect that even though he received a dishonorable discharge for showing up drunk to duty more than once and taking a joy ride in a tank. Unfortunately, the problems he tried to outrun by joining the military were waiting right there for him when he came back.
Just out of high school, something changed. He was more irritable, even violent when the least little thing didn’t go his way. Mom tried to get him help, but he refused and joined the military to get away. That only seemed to exacerbate his issues, and I’m not completely sure he would survive living on his own.
But whether I like it or not, he’s my brother, and one of the last things my mother said to me before she died two years ago from cancer was to take care of him. I’m trying, but I’m not sure how to help him. I’m not his mother, and our father left us when Dennis was six, and I was an infant, and we’ve had no contact with him since.
We moved here to Roanoke, Michigan near the upper penninsula from Toledo a few months ago for a fresh start, but the freshness is quickly wearing thin.
Dennis is angry. He thinks the entire world is against him, including me sometimes.
“So, is tonight the night you throw yourself over his table and let him know what’s really on the menu?” Candice bobs her eyebrows with a grin.
I shake my head and step out from behind the bar, balancing the drinks on my tray. “No.”
She sighs and shakes her head. “Grumpy guts. Okay, just know it’s fucking painful to watch this dance of denial you two are doing three times a week.”
I swallow hard as I cross the main dining room, and my eyes flick over to the corner table where Roan is sitting. I do what I can to not stare or stumble over my own feet as I absently serve the drinks to the table in the center of the room.
They’ve only been ordering drinks for two hours, and that makes me salty. This is an upscale place for Roanoke and people generally come here for the food. A table where everyone is drinking and not eating usually spells trouble.
“Sorry for the delay.” I press a smile to my lips as I set the glasses in front of the patrons.
“We were beginning to wonder if you worked here anymore, Betty.” The biggest guy at the table, Stan something or other, is dressed in overalls. He’s an acquaintance of my brother, although I have no idea how they know each other.
He’s come to the apartment a couple of times to see Dennis, and he gives me the creeps. I stay in my room or make an excuse to leave whenever he comes around. When I saw he was one of my customers tonight I tried to trade tables, but the manager said everyone was in the weeds, so I had to man up.
“Yes, sorry, I cut myself.” My heart is already pounding, feeling Roan’s eyes on me, then add to that the discontented tension of this table and I’m getting lightheaded.
There are six guys, including Stan, and two lucky girls who have done nothing but smirk and give me disappointed glances the entire time.
Roanoke is an odd mix of backwoods sorts and upscale old lumber money. This table seems to think they are both. The beards are long, and the girls are polished, so I’m not exactly sure what the story is, but I don’t care. I’m giving them the best service I can, but I have a feeling my tip is going to be feather light.
“If you’re hurt, we’d be okay if someone else waited on us.” One of the other guys adds as I set his beer down.
“No.” Stan barks. “She’ll wait on us.” His eyes trace up and down my body, twisting my insides.
I may not be the best waitress in the restaurant, but I hold my own. I’m not exactly sure what’s been up their collective butts since they came in, but lucky me, I seem to be taking the brunt of their attitude.
“Anything else I can bring you for now? Would you like to order from the menu?” I straighten my back and plaster my best you-can’t-get-to-me smile on my face.
“Uh.” Stan is apparently the spokesperson for the table because the rest of them look his way in silence. “If we wanted to order food, we’d order food. Manage to take care of our drinks, that’s been enough of a challenge.”
Asshole.
“I sure will.” Sweetness drips from every word as I put my tray under my arm and spin on my heel, almost tripping over Candice as she slips by, leaning into me as I regain my balance.
“Fucking asshole,” she whispers in my ear.
Candice has been my friend since I started here a few months ago. She’s been amazing. She picks me up for our shifts whenever we work together, which is handy because I don’t have my own car and my brother Dennis is less than reliable at giving me rides.
When I turn, my eyes automatically lock on the corner booth and connect to Roan’s.
My heart speeds and the muscles in my core tighten.
I’m dizzy. Which happens often enough, but when I look at Roan, it’s different. Heat cascades down from the top of my head, lodging itself in a throbbing ball of need between my legs.
I’ve never reacted to anyone this way. And the oddest part is, this visceral reaction started the first time I set eyes on him. I honestly thought maybe I had food poisoning that day, or maybe someone slipped me something, the feeling was that strong.
Truth is, I’ve never paid much attention to men in any sort of romantic way. Or boys, for that matter, when I was back in school. I had girlfriends who were boy crazy, telling tales of losing their v-cards in the backs of pickups or in basements at parties. But that was never for me.
It’s not that men aren’t appealing. I just never had this driving force to have one in my life.
Until thirty-seven days ago.
When Roan Emerson sat in my section and my panties have never been the same.
He came in with a couple of other regulars that day: Vin Riley, who’s one of the lumberjack sorts that live around here, and Sheriff Bill Watson. The sheriff is known to everyone that spends even a little time here in Roanoke. His family has been in law enforcement since the Wild West days, though Bill’s much more of a sweetheart than anyone who lived back then. As for Vin, he’s a decent guy, comes in a couple of times a week, either by himself or with the sheriff, or some of the other lumberhunks, as the girls around here call them, for, as he says, “real food.” He has a couple of beers and makes small talk with the staff and some of the other locals.
Then, thirty-seven days ago, he walked in with someone new, and I swear to God the ground shook under my feet.
Beard, check.
Flannel, check.
Tattoos, check.
Big boots which mean big feet which mean...well, big boots. Check.
Eyes that tell me stories of dreams I’ve never dared to dream. Check and double-check.
I never considered I’d be attracted to that sort of backwoods, rough cut sort of man especially one that is quite a bit older than me.
But with Roan, it’s more than the cliché. There was an energy that felt like it came from heaven or hell or somewhere in between, that clutched around my throat and said to me, “pay attention, this is no ordinary day”.
I’ve listened in on their conversations as I’ve tended to their table. Roan’s manner is calm,
powerful, with a voice like rumbling thunder. They discuss the lumber business, philosophy, his dogs...I listen because I’m sure one of these days they will say something about a girlfriend.
Or God forbid, a wife.
Or show up here with one or the other.
Even though I’ve inspected his ring finger like a CSI detective. There’s no ring. No indent. No evidence to support a ring ever being there.
Then, there’s this sadistic part of me that thinks, if he was married, I could finally stop torturing myself, thinking this could turn into something besides the focus of my fantasies. Hope can be cruel.
He’s talkative, friendly, and smart when I listen in, but when I come to take his order, he seems tight, rigid, even a little annoyed.
Yet, here I am with hope dangling its cruel possibilities in front of me like a carrot with thorns.
Three times a week, every day I work, he’s here for at least one meal, alone or with Vin—and/or the sheriff.
That first day I waited on them, my lungs burned because I kept forgetting to breathe. In my typical style, I’d tripped approaching the table, falling forward and bracing myself for what I was sure was about to be a YouTube-worthy face plant. I closed my eyes and squealed, hoping for some miracle, then I felt two arms as solid as oak timbers wrapping around me and holding me upright.
I don’t know how a man that large could have moved so fast, but he was out of his seat and catching me before my face connected with some unyielding surface.
From the time I was a kid, accidents have been part and parcel of who I am. My poor mother spent more than her fair share of time at the emergency room with me.
That first touch from Roan shook me. Arms covered in tattoos, flannel sleeves rolled up over rock solid muscle that snapped out and caught me, searing that moment into my brain forever.
“Are you okay?” Those were his first words to me, and my only thought at that moment was yes, I’m as okay as I’ve ever been.
Please, don’t ever let go.
I remember his hands, the veins on top, the strong fingers rough on my arms where he held me, and the way the muscle under the skin of his forearms flexed and moved.