As they laughed, she waved and dashed to her car.
One trip to the sporting goods store coming up in the morning.
Chapter Fourteen
Your enemy is never a villain in his own eyes. Keep this in mind; it may offer a way to make him your friend. If not, you can kill him without hate—and quickly. ~ Robert A. Heinlein
* * *
Bull could hear the hum of the refrigeration units as he gave the counter surfaces the old “white glove” treatment. Not a trace of grease or dirt. Good work, cleaning crew. Might be time to hand out some bonuses.
The sound of gravel crunching and a car engine came from the rear parking lot. The little New Yorker was here.
The anticipation of seeing her made his temperature rise and muscles tense, rather like hearing a call to arms.
Fuck, he had it bad. When first dating Paisley, had he felt this way? He’d thought he loved her, but he’d loved a person who didn’t exist. People put their best foot forward when dating—that was human nature. But, in Paisley’s case, the façade concealed someone totally different.
He had to wonder if his brothers would’ve seen her more clearly. Only Hawk had met her, just for a few minutes. He’d been headed back to the mercenaries. Gabe, in the same merc unit, had been overseas, and Caz’d been doing volunteer health care in South America.
Paisley’d presented herself as being honest and loyal, a person who believed in service to others. Hardly. She’d implied that she volunteered her time at a hospital. Turned out her only time in a hospital was to have her appendix removed.
Now, much wiser, he could see the red flags he’d missed. Including the one where she’d pushed for marrying so hastily.
Now, here was Frankie. Her past—and reason for being in Rescue—was a mystery. Yet…unlike with Paisley, he’d seen Frankie when she was stressed and in pain. After being shot. Harassed at the roadhouse. She’d handled herself in a way he could respect.
She had a temper, oh, yeah. She’d also given him quite a few cold looks in the beginning—because she thought he’d crushed someone’s feelings. That spoke of a compassionate heart.
Her sense of humor and ability to laugh at herself matched his. She had the determination to work out hard enough and long enough to be damn good at aikido.
Whenever Gryff was around, she was petting him—and the dog adored her.
Maybe he didn’t have the whole story, but he was certain of her character. Over the past few days, they’d been together a lot. They’d meet in the park, work out, return to her cabin for a different kind of workout, and then cook breakfast—or sometimes lunch—together.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t talk her into spending nights together. She was holding firm on the casual, not-a-relationship stance. Stubborn woman.
She was going to find he was an equally stubborn man.
As he strolled out the back door, she was opening the trunk of her small Toyota rental. He shook his head. “Your car is too low for our gravel roads.”
“I don’t drive around much. Here, can you carry these?” She handed him two grocery sacks, took two for herself, and slammed the trunk.
Didn’t drive much? She hadn’t talked about visiting any tourist traps, had she?
He followed her inside, enjoying the mesmerizing sway of her ass. Hell of a body.
Hell of a mind.
And he still had questions about why she was in Alaska by herself. She wasn’t typical of those intrigued by the frontier life. Hadn’t arrived with a boyfriend. Wasn’t one of the youngsters who were traveling for the hell of it. That type usually grabbed a job at the resort or in Anchorage.
No, she’d picked a tiny town named Rescue.
In the kitchen, she started water to boil and pulled out a sauté pan.
He planned to help as needed and also assess the dishes she’d make for the first “Italian” night as well as seeing what to order as far as food, spices, and equipment.
Speaking of which, “Do you have the store receipt so I can reimburse you? Would you prefer a check or a direct deposit to where your paycheck goes?”
“Yes, thank you.” As she handed the receipt over, she bit her lower lip. “The price of everything was pretty high.”
“Welcome to Alaska.” He tugged a lock of her hair. “Not to worry. When I buy in bulk, the price goes down, and if this works, my Homer restaurant will have theme nights, too.”
“Your Homer restaurant.” Holding a big pot, she gazed over her shoulder at him. “You know, I heard you say restaurants—as in plural—before, but thought it was just a slip of the tongue. You own more than one?”
“One in Homer, this roadhouse, and a restaurant-brewery in Anchorage.”
Bending over, she pulled out a long casserole pan, saying in a grumpy tone, “At one time, I thought you were just a plain old bartender.”
He laughed.
They worked well together as he’d already discovered when they made breakfasts. She took over as chef, directing and putting everything together while he stepped in to do some of the prep work in between making notes.
She was cooking a complete menu to be added to a pared-down roadhouse menu. An antipasto platter, crostini appetizers, and soup. A caprese salad, garlic bread, and bread sticks. Then the three main courses—lasagna, an herbed fish dish, and a chicken parmesan variation. There would also be some side dishes like garlic-prosciutto Brussels sprouts that he couldn’t wait to sample. The dessert menu would have tiramisu and pistachio ice cream added on.
“What are you going to do about the Mexican night?” She was layering the lasagna noodles, ricotta, and meat sauce. “Do you have a chef for that?”
“I’ll handle that night. Cazador brings back recipes whenever he visits Mexico. We might add in a Russian theme night—or even an Asian one, since Hawk picked up some good recipes when he was stationed there.”
A noise caught his attention. Someone had tapped on the back door.
Frankie opened the door, then stepped outside to talk to whoever it was.
After a second, Bull recognized the voice—nineteen-year-old Amka, one of the restaurant waitstaff.
“I saw the cars and thought Wylie was here,” Amka was saying to Frankie. “I wanted to give him my resignation…you know, quietly. Can you take it and give it to the boss?”
“Sure,” Frankie said. “But why are you quitting? You said you really liked being a server and that the roadhouse was more fun to work at than fast food places.”
“I did. It is.”
At the unhappiness in her voice, Bull moved toward the door. Whatever was wrong, he’d fix it.
“Hmm.” Frankie said slowly, “You live with a longtime friend, your family is up in Barrow, no boyfriend. That makes me think the problem is here at work?”
Oh, hell. Bull stopped before reaching the open door.
Amka burst into tears. “He—he’s always making jokes that creep me out, and he won’t stop touching me, even though I asked him not to.”
For fuck’s sake. “He” was obviously someone here at the roadhouse. Who the hell was harassing the girl? Anger rose in Bull fast enough it felt as if his blood had turned to lava. But if he stepped outside, he’d only scare the youngster worse.
“Ah, I can see how that’d make you want to quit.” Frankie’s words were calm, full of empathy. “You know, if the stronzo is treating you that way, he’s probably harassing the other women, too. Tell me his name so I can protect them.”
Bull almost smiled. Sneaky New Yorker. For herself, Amka might not have given up the name, but to help the others? How could she not?
“It’s Harvey.” Amka said in a rush, “He’s not grabbing my boobs or anything, but he kind of slides his hand on my arm, or pats my butt, or puts his arm around my waist. I can’t get near him without him doing something like that.”
“Men.” Frankie’s mutter was loud enough that Bull heard.
He winced. Too many of his gender were assholes.
He wouldn�
�t have thought Harvey’d be one. Fuck, he hated firing people.
“Listen, I know giving up this job will put you back financially,” Frankie said. “Why don’t you let me talk with the boss—and maybe with Harvey? Sometimes guys don’t understand how offensive their behavior is, and I have a method I’ve used before to get through to them. Give me—and him—another week, and if he doesn’t improve, I think Bull will show him the door. Can you give me—us—a chance to see if that’ll work?”
“I…I don’t want to leave, not really.” Amka’s sniffles broke Bull’s heart.
Damn him that this had happened in his place. He wanted to pound Harvey to paste, but he knew the guy. He wasn’t a bad guy. Did the idiot not realize what the hell he was doing? For fuck’s sake, was he really that dense?
With an effort, he left the women to talk. To distract himself, he pulled out the Italian sausage and ripped it to pieces.
A couple of minutes later, Frankie returned and stopped when she saw his face. “Uh-oh. I take it you heard some of that?”
“Enough, yes.” Bull evened out his voice. “You did well with her, Frankie. Thank you.”
Frankie shrugged. “Sexual harassment happens all too often. I’ve had to deal with it at my New York job.”
“You were—”
“No, no. My mother taught me and my sisters how to deal with office predators.” She shook her head. “Unlike Amka, I’ve never needed money so badly I was forced to be polite to bastardi.”
Bull had seen how she handled customers with wandering hands. Overly familiar co-workers were probably humiliated with equal ease.
He leaned on the counter. “You said you had a method to deal with harassment. Want to take a break and pay Harvey a visit?” There was nothing in the kitchen that couldn’t be put on hold for a while. And he was too angry to want to cook.
“Sure, let’s do it.” Frankie started putting food into the refrigerator. “Will you let me help?”
The need to deal with everything himself was there, but… “Our culture—especially in Alaska—teaches this behavior, hell, even encourages it. Even knowing that, I still want to punch him. So, if you can manage to resolve this without a firing or broken faces, that’d be good.”
“Violence and sexism—you men are all screwed up.” Her bubbling laugh lightened his anger.
She picked up her purse. “If Harvey has an imagination, we might be able to teach him something and change his behavior. I’ll give you your role-play lines on the drive over.”
Role-play? What the fuck?
* * *
Frankie settled into the seat in Bull’s pickup. The vehicle was the size of a tank, yet sitting beside him felt almost intimate. The cab smelled of clean leather and the wonderful sandalwood-and-cedar of Bull’s aftershave.
As he closed her door and headed for the driver’s side, she sighed. Somehow, he managed to treat her as if she was equal and still someone to be protected. One more thing to like about him.
Starting the pickup, he headed down Dall Road. He drove fast, but carefully, in control at all times. His sleeves were rolled up, and the light brown skin of his muscular forearms boasted ample scars. His jaw was tight, and deep lines had formed between his black brows. He didn’t just look concerned; he looked deadly.
Cavolo, Harvey had better be ready to see reason.
He turned down a rutted dirt road and stopped in front of an aged, manufactured home. An old pickup was parked off to one side. “Harvey’s home. He lives alone—divorced a while ago—and she has their two teens.”
Hopefully, the boys hadn’t become infected with their father’s attitude toward women.
As Bull and Frankie reached the house, Harvey opened the door. In his forties, the burly man had a beer belly, an outdoorsman’s leathery skin, and receding, collar-length brown hair. He bent to grab the collar of a thickly furred, black dog.
“Yo, what brings you two here?” Harvey asked, and she remembered why she liked him. He’d always been friendly, stayed on top of the work, and helped with whatever needed to be done.
“Got a problem, Harvey, and we wanted to talk to you about it,” Bull said.
“Sure, anything I can do.” Harvey frowned, obviously picking up Bull’s unhappiness…in a way he hadn’t with Amka. Because Amka was female.
No, don’t give in to anger.
“Have a seat, folks,” Harvey said. The tidy living room was pleasant with well-worn furniture in browns and greens.
As they took chairs, the dog sniffed Bull’s boots. “There’s a good dog,” Bull murmured and stroked its head, getting a wag of the tail.
“He is a good mutt,” Harvey agreed. “Found him with a busted leg on the road a few years ago.”
And kept him. Frankie sighed. Why couldn’t people be all evil or all good? A mixture of traits made things so much harder.
“So…what’s the problem?” Harvey prompted.
Bull inclined his head at Frankie in an unspoken invitation for her to handle it.
Okay, she could manage. “Harvey, I enjoy working with you. You’re always on top of the job, give a hundred percent, and are friendly with everyone—customers and staff. However, your friendliness is making some of the staff uncomfortable.”
He stiffened. “How’s that?”
“Some of your jokes and comments are sexual in nature. In addition, I’m afraid that touching another person, male or female, in the workplace isn’t appropriate.”
“For God’s sake. Is someone sayin’ I’m…what’s it called…sexually harassing them? I would never—” He turned to Bull. “I never grabbed anyone’s ass or anything.”
Bull didn’t respond. He really was leaving it to her. Best boss ever.
Frankie leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, recapturing Harvey’s attention. “You touch the young women, Harvey. Shoulders, arms. You’ll put your arm around a woman’s waist and tell them how pretty they are.”
“I’m just being friendly!”
“To you, it’s friendly.” And she…mostly…believed that was how he meant it. “To them, you’re a big, strong, older man who is touching them without permission.”
He shook his head, not seeing what she was getting at…which was why she’d come up with this role-play.
“Do you agree that you’re bigger and stronger than the young women we have working in the roadhouse?” When he shrugged agreement, she nodded toward Bull. “Kind of like how Bull is bigger and stronger than you?”
Harvey snorted. “Bull’s bigger than just about anybody.”
“That’s the truth,” she muttered.
A corner of Bull’s mouth tugged up.
“So, Harvey. I want you to imagine…oh, let’s say you’re in prison.” Frankie smiled at his surprised expression. “Hey, the staff think the kitchen feels like a prison sometimes, right? Just bear with me, here.”
That made him laugh. “Okay, I’m in prison.”
“You just got dumped in there, and naturally, you’re worried about the really hardened criminals. Like Skull.” She pointed to Bull. “A mass murderer from one of the worst LA gangs.”
Bull rose without her asking, and she blinked because he appeared…different. Cold, dead eyes. His expression was cruel, his body language predatory, as if he really did torture his victims.
He stalked over to Harvey and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, look, fresh meat.” His deep voice held a brutal anticipation.
Harvey froze.
“Fuck, aren’t you a pretty one.” Bull’s hard mouth curved up, and somehow grew even meaner. “Even better than that new guy last week. Had me a good time with him.”
Harvey gave him an appalled stare, cleared his throat, and edged sideways on the couch. “Listen, I—”
Bull ran his massive hand up and down Harvey’s arm. “Nice shirt. Soft. I like it.”
Harvey shoved his hand away. “Jesus, stop. This isn’t—”
“Bet all the girls think you’re hot shit, huh,” Bu
ll said. “You got a great mouth, you know that?”
The implication, totally unspoken, was that the mouth could be used for sex—the same kind of suggestive comment women got all too often from men.
Harvey had apparently never been on the receiving end of that kind of innuendo.
“Always like the ones with soft hair.” Bull tugged on Harvey’s wavy hair, something Frankie realized she’d seen Harvey doing to servers in the kitchen.
Harvey turned pale.
Bull glanced in inquiry at Frankie. Done?
She nodded and motioned to his chair.
As he sat, she waited a moment for Harvey to process his feelings. “If I was to ask Bull what he was doing, he’d say he was just being friendly.”
“Yeah, friendly.” Harvey scrubbed his hands over his face. “Felt like I was being set up for a gang-rape in the shower
“Because you’re not sexually attracted to him, and he’s a lot bigger and stronger. When there’s a discrepancy like that between two people, then what feels friendly to the powerful person comes across as intimidating—even frightening—to someone smaller.”
Harvey stared at Bull, then Frankie, before turning his gaze to the window. Hopefully, he was recalling the way he’d behaved with the women employees and realizing they hadn’t seen his actions as friendly at all.
“Holy hell.” He met her gaze. “I get your point.”
“You’re not the first or last man to have discovered he…”
“Tripped over his own dick,” Bull contributed.
Yes, that. Frankie shook her head. “I don’t think you deliberately scared them…although you probably thought their discomfort was a bit funny.”
Because most guys thought that way.
“I never thought of myself as an abusive asshole.” Harvey scowled. “My old man was one. Hit my mom. I never wanted to act like him. Ever. And I have been.”
Progress. “If Bull agrees, let’s see how it goes.” Frankie paused. “What you must remember when you interact with other employees, especially women, is simple. Don’t do or say anything you wouldn’t want to receive from a giant convict named Skull.”
What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3 Page 17