“But I’m trying to.” He laid his hand over hers. “Someday, I hope you’ll trust me enough to tell me what really brought you here.”
She blinked hard, dropping her gaze. “It’s not… I do trust you.”
There was that, at least.
As though unhappy with what she’d said, she rose hastily. “I’ll take the position. Show me what I need to know and what my duties are.”
Cheering would probably scare his little prey right out of the room.
She frowned. “I still want to put in time as a server in the bar. I won’t give that up.”
Interesting. Why so adamant? “You’ll be doing the scheduling. That will be in your control.”
“Oh. All right then.”
As he led the way to her office space, he felt his own determination rising inside him. Damned if he wasn’t going to figure out what was going on with her.
Chapter Sixteen
There are two ways to do something…the right way, and again ~ US Navy SEALS
* * *
In the city park woods, Frankie tripped over a root and used her staff to catch herself. Whew. Face-planting would really hurt, since she was wearing something that resembled a mini-telescope over her left eye. The head mount, which consisted of a bunch of straps around her head, held the night vision monocular device—the NVM—over her left eye. It felt like she was peering at a glowing green world through a toilet paper roll. No wonder she was still tripping now and then. Grrr.
It was totally amazing. She could actually see even in this thick forest where the light of the moon barely penetrated.
After a few days of practice, she’d gotten a lot better. Her lips firmed. She needed to be perfect if she was going to lead Kit and Aric out of the compound in a week. Even with the awkward bolt cutters and gear going to the compound and Aric in a child carrier on her back on the way out, she’d have to be fast and silent.
But things were coming together…and, to her surprise, she’d come to love the quiet of the deep forest, the tiny rustles of animals, the smell of evergreens, the patterns of light and shadow. There was a kind of peace here she’d never found anywhere else.
It would have been even better if her hikes had nothing to do with the fanatic cult members.
Yesterday, when she’d parked near Chevy’s cabin, she’d had a chance to ask Tina if she should worry about running into PZs if she was there at night.
To Frankie’s relief, the Zealots patrolled their perimeters during the day, never after dark. Which meant less chance of getting caught when Kit and Aric came through the fence.
Having learned a painful lesson about getting too close to the compound, Frankie had been extremely careful to stay out of sight.
Tomorrow, she’d do another daytime hike to the compound and this time would mark the trail with the transparent reflective paint. She’d tested a couple of spots here in the park—it made a glowing white blotch when she was using the NVM—and was invisible during daylight. If the PZs weren’t out there at night, they’d never see the paint.
In the center of the woods, she grinned and did a quick happy dance.
Then froze. What was that?
Yelling, hoots…and gunfire. Still, it didn’t seem too close, and the shouts sounded like a bunch of drunks having a good time. Well, it was Saturday night.
She made one more circuit inside the woods, this time striving for both grace—ha!—and silence.
Good job, Frankie.
A glance at her phone—using the unaided eye—showed she needed to leave. The roadhouse would be closed, and Bull would be coming to pick her up soon. After stowing everything in her small backpack, she jogged down the wide gravel trail toward home.
Almost there, she slowed at the sound of shouting.
Outside of the end cabin, several men were throwing their luggage into two vehicles while someone yelled at them.
After a second, she recognized Dante’s voice. “Don’t need no drugged-up assholes shootin’ up the area. The cost of repairing the windows and doors and picnic tables will be on your credit cards, and you’ll damn well pay the bill, or I’ll send the police to collect.”
“You’ll regret throwing us out, you bastard,” one yelled back.
“Fucking old fart,” one man said to another. “Send the fucking police, see if we care.” Steel from the man’s numerous piercings glinted in the lights from the cabin.
Frankie shook her head and decided to stay inside the shelter of the trees until they were gone. Even from here, the men appeared violent. Dante apparently felt the same since his shotgun stayed on target the entire time.
She frowned and hoped it hadn’t been her windows that’d been shot out.
Chapter Seventeen
It is necessary for us to learn from others’ mistakes. You will not live long enough to make them all yourself. ~ ADM Hyman G. Rickover, US Navy
* * *
Frankie hadn’t been manager for quite a week yet, but she already loved it.
On Tuesday night, she strolled through the restaurant section of the roadhouse, checking that the hostess was equitably seating people so no server got overloaded, the busser was speedy and thorough in cleaning off tables, glasses were kept filled, food was served promptly when up. And the customers were smiling. Definitely that.
She still couldn’t believe Bull had given her the position, despite knowing she would return to New York.
And would leave him. She didn’t want to. Just…didn’t. Not see him every day? Not be able to curl up against him in the night? Or hear his lower-than-low voice when he teased her during their sparring sessions? She wasn’t sure she could bear it.
On top of that…the thought of returning to Bocelli’s made her stomach churn like she’d been drinking battery acid.
The atmosphere here was everything that the Bocelli Agency wasn’t. Sure, she had to deal with obnoxious customers and drunks in the roadhouse, but they were nothing compared to advertising and photo shoot clients, all cologne and bleached-white smiles and hidden animosity.
Roadhouse staff made the few customer annoyances seem irrelevant. The waitstaff and chefs weren’t family—she wouldn’t go that far—but were more than mere co-workers. They bickered, certainly, but there was no cutthroat competition, no backstabbing. If she got swamped, Felix would notice and pick up some of her tables. If a drunk tried to harass her, either Bull or Raymond would notice.
Like when a pushy fisherman grabbed her hand. Before she could clout him over the head with her tray, Bull had bellowed, “Asshole, let’er go, or I’ll rip your dick off and shove it down your throat.” The fisherman saw Bull’s glare. With a squeak, he’d released her and fallen all over himself apologizing.
Bull had studied her for a long minute, then smiled and nodded, leaving it up to her whether to pitch the guy out.
She loved that too—that he trusted her to deal with things. As he’d warned, he dumped all the administrative problems on her. In the last week, she’d nailed down the Italian night menu, the design, and the décor. Hired more seasonal staff. Instructed and evaluated new bar and restaurant servers and busboys. Made purchase and replacement lists.
Rather than feeling stressed, she was having fun in a way she hadn’t since starting at Mama’s company. How had she let herself get trapped in a job that she didn’t enjoy?
Because of family expectations and pressure.
Her mouth tightened. Mama’s lecture last week was akin to one she’d delivered when Frankie was little and had skipped dance class to get ice cream with a friend. How she’d hated dance classes. Mama said dance taught the posture and grace needed for modeling, something else Frankie hadn’t wanted. Even as a child, she’d considered it to be a boring job.
Her mother hadn’t listened until two bullies messed up Frankie’s face. What with Mama’s horror of scars and her father’s intervention, she’d been allowed to take martial arts instead of dance.
What would it take to convince her mother to lis
ten to her?
Pushing the unhappy thoughts away, Frankie smiled at the next table of tourists. “How was your meal today?”
This might be her favorite part of the job. Or maybe it was figuring out the scheduling software and talking to the staff, so everyone was 90% satisfied with their time on and off. One hundred percent wasn’t achievable—life happened—but from the happy smiles when people saw the schedules, she’d done better than Bull. It helped that everyone was willing to talk to her and make requests. No matter how friendly and reasonable, Bull really was intimidating, even without adding in that he was the owner.
Since she had control of the schedule, she’d assigned herself the hours she wanted to work in the bar—her best chance to talk to the Patriot Zealots. It’d almost been two weeks since their lockdown started. Surely their training exercises were done.
In between her quality assurance visits with the customers, she arbitrated a dispute over cooking responsibilities on the line, arranged to get Wylie a cabled cooking probe, and indulged herself by ordering candle holders that would be amazing for the romantic theme nights. Whether Bull realized it or not, Italian night was going to be the time townspeople brought their special someones here for romantic dinners.
By the time the restaurant started to close, her feet hurt—and she was still happy. Pulling off her name badge—the one that said MANAGER—she stopped beside Wylie who was shutting equipment down. “I’m off to work in the bar for a while.”
He frowned. “Bouncing back and forth between jobs isn’t healthy. Bull shouldn’t ask you to do that.”
“He didn’t.” Frankie smiled at the wave of sound coming from the bar section. “I like working in the bar.”
“Jesus, girl, you’re as crazy as he is. First, the owner wants to be a bartender, now, the manager wants to serve drinks?”
“My dear chef, I’ve decided all you Alaskans are crazy—and since I live here now, I’m embracing that mindset.”
The rest of the kitchen staff burst out laughing.
In the bar section, Felix greeted her arrival with a wide, relieved smile. “You’re my hero, girl. It’s insane tonight. Could we add another server on for the midweek shifts?”
“I’ll get that fixed.” Pulling out her phone, she added it to her to-do list.
So, who was here tonight? There was the usual scattering of locals and fishermen in boots, jeans, and T-shirts. A third or so were tourists in flamboyant attire. A few of the McNally’s resort employees were present—out for a good time and dressed to appeal.
Frankie noticed a blonde’s high-heeled footwear and sighed in envy. “Check out those boots.”
Felix followed her gaze. “Oooh, nice. It sucks that the prettiest shoes never come in my size. At least, not here in Alaska. San Francisco, though…”
“You shop online instead?”
“Oh sure, but it lacks the whole vibe of shopping for sexy stuff, you know?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Computers don’t flirt like store clerks.”
He was the biggest flirt she knew, much like fashion photographers who’d elevated sexy banter to an art form.
As she patted his arm in sympathy, she saw the men she’d been hoping to see—the PZs—and her pulse sped up. Their training scenarios must be over now. Was Kit still there in the compound?
“Felix.” Frankie nodded toward the front wall with the mounted caribou antlers and photos. “I’ll handle the Rudolph section.”
“The fanatics are there.” His brows drew down. “Girl, you pick their section every time you have a choice. You shouldn’t get involved with those people.”
“You think I’d take their bullshit seriously?” She blew a raspberry. “When I see them, all I can think is that somewhere a circus is missing its clowns.”
Felix snorted. “Okay then. I won’t worry even if I don’t get it.”
She smiled. “Like all clowns, they’re entertaining.”
“Not the word I’d use, but the section is yours.”
Frankie checked in with the bartender, then started to work. It was good Bull wasn’t here. She really didn’t want him to see her near the PZs.
As soon as she could, Frankie went to the PZ table. After taking their drink requests, she backed up…and deliberately tripped over the older man’s long legs.
He caught her by the waist, his hands lingering before he let her go.
“I-I’m so sorry.” She made her voice sound all choked-up. “I’m just having such a bad month.”
“No problem, girlie,” the black-bearded guy said. “Don’t get your pretty self all upset.”
“It’s b-because…” The way she used her oh-pitiful-me eyes on him would’ve gotten her high points from her sister. “My parents were killed in a car crash last month and…and sometimes it just comes back to me.”
Now, what could they do except say they were sorry for her loss?
Once she’d gotten them engaged, she blinked hard—c’mon, tears—and sniffled. “I probably shouldn’t even be working, it’s not like I need to, anymore.”
That got a spark of interest. “Then why are you here?” Blackbeard asked.
“It’s…it keeps me from sitting at home and just crying. I feel so lost sometimes, you know? Like, what’s the point?”
If she were a fisherperson, she’d have said the guy swallowed her bait—hook, line, and sinker. Come to think of it, what was a sinker?
“Ah, girlie, that’s a shame, now.” He took her hand and pulled her closer. “Sounds to me like you need to find a new purpose, don’t you? Someone to help you find the way.”
Don’t jump too fast, Frankie. “I…I”—she looked down, trying for humble modesty—“I guess. Maybe.”
“I remember you from a while back. You asked what the Patriot Zealots were.” The man who spoke was clean-shaven with a buzz cut.
Here was her chance to bring up Kit. “I was curious. Still am…maybe. Kinda. A couple of your women were at the grocery, and I asked them if they liked being with you.” Frankie tried for a shy expression. “They said yes. They were older, you know, not much like me, but they had a younger woman with them. And…wait, is she still there?”
Buzzcut narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
Frankie put on an unsure expression. “It’s…I mean the older women were really kind, but I just hoped that there were younger people there, my age, you know. Because…I guess I’ve never gotten very close to older people.
The man she was talking with frowned. “Did she have a name?”
“No, she never even spoke, but…” Please, don’t let me get Kit into trouble. Frankie tapped her lips as if thinking. “Maybe a little shorter than me, really slender, fair skin, brown eyes, streaky long brown hair.”
“Sounds like Kirsten,” a man with a long red beard said.
“There was that day we took her with us to buy bareroot trees and seedlings for the gardens.” Buzzcut nodded at Frankie. “She’s still at the compound.”
Suppressing a shout of glee, Frankie bounced on her toes like a little girl. “Awesome.”
When Blackbeard seemed surprised at her enthusiasm, she confided, “I’m really, like, more comfortable around girls my age. More than older women.”
His gaze ran over her body. “What about older men?”
“Um. I…” She put her finger in her mouth and cast him a hesitant, not quite flirty glance. Men like you make me want to throw up. “They’re… That’s different.”
He half smiled, took her hand, and ran his thumb over her palm.
She barely kept from jerking away.
He squeezed her hand. “I think we should talk. I might be able to point you in a good direction. The right direction.”
She shook her head. “I can’t talk now; I have to work.”
“When do you get off work?” He fondled her hip, way too familiarly, the bastardo, and slid his hand down to squeeze her butt.
Don’t punch him; don’t punch him.
Should she encourage him
? It might be a way to get into the compound. No, don’t be stupid. She wouldn’t be able to conceal her loathing, especially since just letting him touch her ass felt far too much like cheating on Bull.
There was only one pair of hands she wanted on her.
Shaking her head, she pushed at Blackbeard’s arm. Weakly. “Oh, please, don’t. I’m a good girl.”
When the ginger across the table snorted, Blackbeard shot him a chiding frown before moving his hand back up to her waist. “Yes, I can see you are. I’m glad to know that. I think you’ll fit in well with us. How about you—”
“Oh!” She checked over her shoulder, as if just remembering that she had a job. “I need to get back to work.
After another shy look, she hurried away. And tried to suppress her anger. The we-have-all-the-answers and the controlling behavior would have worked like a charm on Kit, especially right after her husband died. That was how Obadiah had snowed Kit.
“Frankie, nachos up in the kitchen,” Felix called across the room.
She saluted to show she’d heard him and turned to head that way. She could make a quick dash to the kitchen to get the platter before it got cold, and then—
A man stood in the doorway of the roadhouse. Was that Obadiah?
She hastily turned away. No, it probably wasn’t him. He didn’t drink—and Kit’d said she stopped drinking, too. Even wine. Because whatever he wanted, Kit would do.
Frankie growled. Her fingers tightened on the tray she wanted to break over his head.
A glance over her shoulder showed that the man hadn’t entered the bar. She let out a breath. Even if it was him, he wouldn’t recognize her. Not from the few seconds in a wedding reception line. And dark-haired, brown-eyed women were a dime a dozen in Alaska.
She sped up her pace toward the kitchen.
Someone blocked her path.
“Bull.” Her heart did a happy little spin rather like Gryff’s dancing paws. “What are you doing here?”
“Coming to rescue you, but it seems you didn’t need any help. At all.”
What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3 Page 21