Authors: Jules Barnard
I make the mistake of looking up. Lewis’s gaze sucks whatever air I managed to regain. His features—intense, addictive—set off a riot of new emotions. Need, want. I hate that he does this to me.
I step away, one foot, then the other.
“Gen …” Lewis’s voice pleads, his eyes darting to my quivering mouth, the balled fists at my sides. He doesn’t come closer. He holds himself back.
I don’t blame him. He should stay away.
I turn and run toward the stairs.
Lewis doesn’t follow me and I don’t expect him to. Not after what he saw and what he must think. I stop in the basement and splash water on my face, waiting for my body to cease shaking. I’ve been touched in ways that made me uncomfortable by my mom’s exes—or whatever you want to call them—and have fought off my share of handsy guys. This was different.
I should do something, but I want to pretend like it never happened. A small voice in the back of my mind whispers
like I did with Cali’s ex, Eric,
and look how great that turned out.
Despite taking too long to return to my station, I make a detour. Mason is chatting with another bartender at the East Bar, his back turned. I can’t talk to the people in charge. That requires strength I don’t have right now, but there is someone I can talk to.
“Mason,” I say, voice sharp. He jerks around. “You have a minute?” The other bartender immediately busies himself at the opposite end of the counter.
Screw the awkward tension between us. I refuse to take more money from my mother and if I’m not quitting and running from Drake or any other man who thinks he can touch me without permission, I need to know what I’m up against. What happened upstairs can’t happen again.
It just can’t.
My chest rises on a shaky intake. “What’s going on with Drake Peterson?”
Mason’s brows pinch for a moment. I don’t know if it’s my expression or the question that has him confused. He grabs a rag, wiping the counter between us that feels like an ocean. “No idea. Why?”
“You were glaring at him earlier. What’s up with that?”
He shrugs noncommittally. “Don’t like the guy.”
My chest burns. I’m about to lose my shit. There’s only so much a girl can take and Mason’s uncooperativeness is about to tip me over the edge. “He was aggressive with me and I want to know if the reason you don’t like him has anything to do with that sort of thing.”
Mason’s hand stills. “What did he do?” His words come out clipped.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I want to hear what you know about him.”
I glance around. Yes, my coworkers act like catty fourteen-year-olds and are greedy as hell, but after Cali getting fired, and now this … There’s something going on. Drake’s buddies didn’t flinch at his actions toward me, until he got caught. And the way Mason was looking at Drake earlier—I think Drake’s done this before. And I think Mason knows it.
Mason loosens his grip on the rag. He lets out a strained breath. “There’s nothing specific. I’ve just seen him flirt with waitresses.”
I give him a mocking look. Mason is a huge flirt with pretty waitresses and just about any attractive female who passes his bar.
He rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen him in conversations that looked too intimate. Intense. He seems like you said, aggressive.”
I breathe in shakily through my nose. “You could have warned me.” My voice cracks and I leave before Mason can respond.
I’d like to run far and wide, but that’s what I always do. There will always be some asshole who treats women like shit. I’ve run from plenty of them; I can’t run from them all. I refuse to cede control of the direction of my life to some jerk. Even if I decided to switch positions, I’ve heard finding casino jobs mid-season is nearly impossible. I won’t let Drake force me out of the best-paying position in the area—that would be giving him too much control.
Crap—the drinks.
Why the hell did I take those mother effers’ orders? Drake and his buddies expected me to deliver them fifteen minutes ago.
If I don’t return, there’s a chance Drake won’t complain after the bullshit he pulled, but I’m not willing to take the chance. I need this job and if I’m not running from it because of Drake, I won’t lose it over something stupid like not performing the task I’m paid to do.
I must have made Mason feel bad, because he sends Jaeger over to check on me right after I turn in the drink orders.
“You okay?” Jaeger asks.
I nod, but I’m not doing a great job hiding my distress. Jaeger enfolds me in a massive bear hug, tucking my head close. “Just give me the word, Gen, and I’ll beat the crap out of whoever hurt you.”
Despite my grief, I chuckle. “It’s okay, Jaeger. I’m handling it.”
Jaeger doesn’t seem completely satisfied with my response, but he nods and returns to Mason’s bar.
Jaeger’s a good guy, but I don’t want other people fighting my battles. I just need to figure out the right way to handle this.
“Whatchadoin’?”
My heart leaps in my throat at Maryanne’s voice directly behind me. I spin around. Her eyes slide to my shaking hands, likely taking in the flush in my face. Did she see Jaeger hug me?
This woman is like a hound on a scent. I have to say something. “Just waiting on an order for Drake’s party. They’re in a suite upstairs.”
“Drake Peterson?” I nod and her mouth twists, eyes narrowing. “Everything go okay up there?”
A muscle below my eye flutters like a butterfly’s wing. I casually press my finger to it. “Yep, all good.”
Her sharp gaze tracks the action. “Don’t let those bad boys take advantage of you.” She glances at the lounge, fuller than before. “I’ve got his drinks, you’re busy in here.”
My mouth compresses. She’s like a psychic or a mind reader. I mumble something unintelligible I hope resembles a thank-you, and thrust the cocktails onto her tray when the bartender finishes the order. I might be brave enough to stay at my job (or stupid, depending on how you look at it), but I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
As soon as Maryanne leaves with the drinks, second thoughts hammer me. Maryanne’s tough, but is she tough enough for Drake and the drunken perverts? What if they do something to her?
I pace the lounge, wearing a track in the carpet in front of the bar. I’ve checked on my customers so often they’re giving me dirty looks, and I’ve sorted condiment picks by color. Nothing reduces the anxiety in my gut.
I scan the room, searching for Jaeger, a security guard—someone strong enough to help me rescue Maryanne, because I’m convinced something’s happened—when she strolls to the East Bar.
Before I think better of it and the fact that my interest supports her suspicions, I walk over. “Everything go okay?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Your friend Drake Peterson was surprised to see me.”
My gaze shoots to Mason. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact he’s eavesdropping.
“Oh—well, thanks. For helping.”
“No sweat.” She turns and unloads empty glasses from her tray.
I frown. Maryanne just saved my ass—after Lewis saved it. And before that it was Jaeger with the A-hole, then Cali any number of times. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I fight my own battles?
Lewis is a large, intimidating male. I see how he’d make Drake think twice, but Maryanne? She’s four inches shorter than me.
I hate that people like Drake believe I’m weak and take advantage of it. Why didn’t I poke him in the eye when he shoved his fingers up my crotch?
God, that memory.
I take a steadying breath and swallow the bitter taste in my mouth.
I’m not defenseless, but I choked. My brain froze and I didn’t react. I’m tall, athletic, and strong for a woman, but mentally I shut down when things get heavy. It served me in the past to keep quiet. I would have been a pariah in junior high and high school if people had known what my mother did to make ends meet. But clamming up isn’t working for me anymore—it makes me vulnerable.
I could tell management what happened like Lewis suggested, but Drake wasn’t circumspect in the least. It was almost as if he and the men were in on it together. What if management fires me the way they did Cali? She said she didn’t know why they let her go, but Cali’s feisty. Maybe she looked at a manager the wrong way, instead of groveling, and he had her fired. Who knows what these jerks are capable of?
Before I do anything, I need to figure out what’s going on in this place.
I pull out my ordering pad and stare at the Web address for the Alpine Mudder. Nessa was right about stepping out of my self-imposed box. I’m so bottled up I don’t know how to react when I need to. I was put in a bad position upstairs, and sure, I squirmed around a bit, but I should have done more, said more. Anything would have been better than mentally locking up.
The mudder looks dangerous and filthy, and there will be tons of macho guys participating. My comfort zone will be so far away I won’t be able to see it, but if I don’t learn how to fight, I’ll always be pushed down.
I unlock the iPhone I grabbed from my locker and punch in the address, registering for the race.
A bachelor party hoots in the corner as I enter the sports bar the next night. They’re the only customers in here. Why the casino packs two waitresses in what’s generally a customer dead zone is beyond me, but I’m happy to escape Mont Belle Lounge for one evening. Nessa tucks a few bills in her caddy and spots me, a bright smile lighting her face. Several men from the bachelor party ogle her ass as she walks my way.
She sets her tray on the counter, her expression serious. “Hey there. How are you?”
My first instinct is to panic.
She knows.
But Nessa can’t know about Drake. I haven’t told anyone, and for some reason, I trust Lewis won’t either.
I smile instead of replying. Nessa blinks as if she suspects something’s off.
Cali left town before I returned from work last night. She texted that she’d be at her mom’s in Carson City. When I asked when she was coming home, she didn’t say.
Cali is still so angry. We didn’t get a chance to talk about our fight—and I didn’t get a chance to tell her about Drake. Without Cali’s support, I feel doubly vulnerable.
I grab a Styrofoam cup from the bar and pour coffee, adding a packet of processed hot chocolate. We get creative when business slows. Making use of the various bar supplies seems a good utilization of time, and it’s the perfect opportunity to get Nessa’s attention off me. She follows my lead and pours her own bastardized mocha.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said—about stepping out of my comfort zone,” I tell her. She glances up with interest. “Have you heard of the Alpine Mudder?”
After registering for the race, I researched it. I’ll need to train if I’m to have any hope of surviving. Normally, the mudder isn’t a race, but a physical challenge for those wishing to torture—I mean,
test
—their mental and physical endurance. This year’s Alpine Mudder costs more to enter and provides cash prizes to top finalists. The leftover proceeds go to a national charity. Already, the number of entrants has doubled from previous years.
Typically, people join to have fun, but with cash prizes within grasp, pro triathletes have entered. The shift from challenge to competition has blogs blowing up. There’s talk of increased security to keep participants safe from overzealous competitors. I’m trying to not think of all that. I want to do something that will make me stronger, more capable, and the mudder seems a good fit.
Nessa’s face lights up. “Yeah! Are you thinking about doing it? That would be perfect. The guys did it last year. It’s pretty hard-core though. They came back looking like hell, except for Lewis. The mud somehow added to his hotness. He looked all rugged and shit.”
My throat constricts and I blink off a wave of emotion. Lewis can’t be in the race this year. I need the Alpine Mudder to toughen me up. I can’t do that if I’m stumbling around, my concentration impaired. Putting aside the fact that his presence zaps my coordination, Lewis has seen some of my weakest moments, and that makes me emotionally exposed.
None of which I can explain to Nessa. “Cool, yeah, so I’m doing it, but I’m looking into how to train.”
“You should talk to Zach. He and Lewis trained together last year. Lewis ended up doing really well.” Her face scrunches. “He finaled, or won—something like that. Anyway—” She grabs my cup and sets it on the counter, gently pushing me toward the casino floor. “—go see Zach while it’s slow. I’ll cover for you.” She rests her elbow on the edge of the bar, as if there’s no doubt I’ll leave my station to seek advice about a rogue triathlon.
So of course I go.
I glance back nervously. Nessa flitters her fingers above her head and saunters toward the bachelor party. “Say hello to Zach for me.”
I speed walk across the casino, determined to make this quick and return to my station.
Zach glances up as I near. “It’s the hot dog girl!”
So
not how I want to be remembered.
The customer in front of him turns and does a full body scope. Excellent. Really don’t want to know what that guy is thinking.
“Hey,” I say quietly, attempting to dampen the attention, “Nessa says hi.”
A wide smile spreads across Zach’s face as he clears cards.
So weird; why don’t these two just date? Zach obviously has a thing for her, though I’m not sure about Nessa … Shit, who am I to judge? I have a history of going after guys I’m not attracted to in order to avoid emotional involvement.
Zach deals a new hand. “How are things in the sports bar?”
“There’s a bachelor party perving on Nessa. Other than that, it’s slow.”
Zach’s gaze goes flat and he stretches his neck as if he’s suddenly tense.
That was an immediate reaction. If he really likes Nessa, he should do something about it before another guy swoops in. She’s too pretty and wonderful to stay single forever. “Do you have time to chat about the Alpine Mudder? Nessa mentioned that you participated last year.”
Zach’s dark look dissipates, his cheeks tightening into a deep grin. It’s not natural for this guy to be angry, which solidifies my belief that he has a thing for Nessa. “That was a blast. I electrocuted my ass off.”