I salute him, a sense of security hitting me. “Got it.”
This man could tell me never to eat chocolate again, and I’d do it.
Okay, maybe I’d do it for a month.
A girl has to have her s’mores frapps in the fall.
The wind whines around us while we walk side by side, our strides coordinated. My skinny frame next to his muscular one. There’s a sense of safety as I walk with this man. With another bite of the wind, I catch a whiff of his cologne—masculine, subtle, and expensive.
We stop at my car, the parking lot light shining over us.
I tug my keys from my purse. “What’s your last name?”
He pauses and averts his gaze. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
A flicker of anguish flashes across his face, and he forces a smile. “You plan to cyberstalk me when you get home?”
“Damn straight.”
He shakes his head. “Nope, not letting you in on my secrets yet.”
“Yet?” I raise a brow. “Does that mean there will be a time when you do?”
“Get in your car, trouble.”
He chuckles and tips his chin toward my shiny red BMW coupe—another item my parents let me keep after the snip-snip of my financials. I unlock my car, and he opens the door, stepping to the side to allow me room to slide in. I start my car, rubbing my freezing hands together, and curse myself for not remote-starting it earlier.
“Good night, trouble.” He peeks through the door. “Drive safe.”
“Good night, Lincoln.”
He offers me one last smile, gently shuts the door, and waits until I leave the parking lot before returning to the bar. I replay our conversations in my head on the ten-minute drive to my duplex. After parking, I grab my bag and scramble into my apartment.
Noise flows through my neighbor’s walls. The closest we’ve been to a conversation is when he screams at his video games at three in the morning and I bang on the wall.
I check my phone for Georgia updates and then shower, savoring the steaming water pelting at my sore muscles. Tipping my head back, I groan as my real-life problems evade my thoughts. Work was a temporary reprieve from them.
A reprieve from Quinton.
Stepping out of the shower, I dry off. My skin crawls when my phone beeps with a text.
Quinton: Quit ignoring me. We need to talk.
I stopped blocking his number when he found other ways to contact me. He’d randomly show up where I was or call me from different numbers, and once, he even had some rando kid deliver a letter like we were in the Cold War and I was his wife, waiting at home for him. Answering his calls is easier than dealing with his weird alternatives.
I stab my fingers against the screen like I want to stab him.
Me: We’ve talked plenty.
Quinton: I don’t trust you.
Me: I don’t trust you. We’re even.
Quinton: Don’t make me fuck up your world.
You already have.
Chapter Five
Lincoln
A week has passed since Georgia’s fall.
A week that I’ve been covering for my pain-in-the-ass brother.
His absence has created a major disruption at the bar. I’m the only one who knows where he is, and I’ve refused to share that information, crowning me as the most hated coworker.
Out of guilt, I’m covering his shifts. It’s not like I have shit else to do anyway. Working helps me pass the time, clears my mind from the bullshit, and it’s better than sitting at home alone since Archer and I live together.
“Your brother pull his head out of his ass yet?”
I stop counting inventory at the sound of Cassidy’s voice and sweep my gaze over the bar. Cassidy’s marching in my direction, her hips swaying from side to side with each step. With me covering for Archer and her filling in for Georgia while she recovers from a concussion, we’ve been working together all week. Like with working, being around her keeps my mind off my problems.
“Hello. Good afternoon to you too,” I say instead of answering her question—the same one she asks daily.
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m up for kidnapping his ass … wherever he is …” She leaves the rest of her sentence hanging.
“Hmm …”
On the outside, I’m acting cool.
Inside, agitation speeds through me.
Archer’s actions have been putting me through hell. I’m trying to be understanding, but it’s hard when everyone around is pointing out what an idiot he is.
“If only someone—say, you—knew where we could find him.” Her oval-shaped eyes sharpen as she glares at me.
I ignore her comment, not even bothering to hmm this time.
Too bad Cassidy isn’t one to steer clear of sensitive subjects.
“What’s his deal?” She ties back her glossy blond hair in a high ponytail. “Can’t you force him to do the right thing or tell Georgia where he is, so the girl can rip him a new one? She at least deserves that.”
“Archer is … complicated.” Defending him makes my jaw twitch. He doesn’t deserve it.
“How about you uncomplicate the situation, force him to pull up his big-boy panties, and face Georgia?”
I scrub a hand over my face. “You have siblings?”
“A sister. Two brothers.” She pauses and holds up a finger. “Shit, three brothers. I recently found out about a secret half brother that my dad hid for fifteen years. And now, my brother is marrying his sister.”
I cock my head to the side, replaying her words. “Jesus. That sounds messy.”
“Yep.” Her red nails make a tap, tap against the bar, and her voice turns stern, almost parent-like. “I know complicated, and if one of those siblings was acting as if they were still in Pampers, I’d make them face the consequences of their actions.”
“Your parents still together after the whole secret baby thing?” I’m still processing what she told me and desperate to turn the conversation away from Archer.
“Nope. They tried, but it was hopeless.” She props an elbow on the bar. “Not that I blame my mother for leaving him. If I found out my husband did what my father did, I’d file those divorce papers in a heartbeat.” She smirks. “If I didn’t kill him so he no longer had a heartbeat.”
I can’t help but chuckle.
Apparently, I find homicidal innuendos made by tiny blondes funny.
“What about you?” she asks. “Your parents still together? Any other siblings?”
My mouth turns dry, and I gulp in an attempt to fix it.
I shouldn’t have asked her any family questions.
Should’ve known those questions always circle back.
“It’s just Archer and me,” I reply, a pain in the back of my throat. “And my father … he’s dead.”
My chest tightens in surprise at my revelation. While I’m not as closed off as Archer, I don’t openly talk about his death. It’s a sore subject for me. I’m not sure when it won’t be.
Her face falls in apology. “Lincoln, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
He died in prison shortly after I was released. He died somewhere he shouldn’t have. Sure, maybe he deserved his place of residence for his actions, but no one should die there.
That’s why I fought so hard to prevent it.
And failed.
It nearly killed me when I got the call.
Slaughtered my mother.
Crushed Archer, even with their strained relationship.
Lucky for him, he had Georgia at his side.
Me? I had no one.
I clear my throat, shaking my head. “Nah, it’s cool. I asked. You asked back. No biggie.”
“You get to work with the cool bartender today, ladies and gents!”
Our attention shifts to Silas as he saunters across the bar. His leather jacket and shredded jeans break the dress code per our employee handbook, but from what I’ve discovered about Silas, he’s the epitome of
a man who gives no fucks.
I was him once.
Parties. Drugs. Booze. Sex.
I lived my life day to day and traveled to exotic locations on a whim, and rules were only for those who couldn’t afford to break them. A slice of that changed after my grandfather’s death. That was when I stepped up in our family business since Archer refused to. Within a year, I went from a highly educated trust-fund kid to the VP of a multimillion-dollar empire.
How did that give no fucks attitude evaporate from my body?
When my father started committing felonies and leaving me to cover up his crimes.
“I beg to differ,” Cassidy argues, wagging a finger at him. “Linc is the coolest-slash-best-slash-hottest bartender here.”
Her compliment wipes out the sorrowful thoughts of losing my father.
Not that they won’t resurface later.
“That’s my girl.” I hold my arm across the bar.
She grins and high-fives me.
Silas jerks his jacket off his shoulders and peers at Cassidy. “I’ll let you have that one because Maliki would kick my ass if I ever touched you.”
She scrunches up her face. “You’re not letting me have anything.” She pats his chest. “No offense, pretty boy, but only one bartender has my heart.” Blowing a kiss, she turns and strolls toward the employee entrance.
My gaze is trained on her, her curves, the pep in her step as she walks.
“Safe to say, she likes you, man,” Silas comments, his lips curving into an amused smile.
I don’t look away from Cassidy until she disappears through the door. “She’s young.”
“Twenty-one isn’t that young,” he scoffs. “What are you, twenty-six?”
I nod.
“Five years ain’t shit. Which means you’re using age as an excuse, and I have the best solution for that.”
I raise a brow.
“Telling Cohen to schedule you and Blondie together.”
“Girls are the last thing I need to worry about.”
What do I need to worry about?
Getting my life in order, moving into my own place, and adjusting to this new world.
I’ll never be the same man I once was.
Sports and shouting customers consume my environment as I sling drinks—a margarita here, a shot there, a beer here. I went from ordering drinks to serving them. Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful as fuck for the job. My only experience upon being hired was that I’d drunk a whole lot of liquor.
Bartending isn’t my passion. Making small talk with people isn’t my jam. Hearing people whine about their problems like I’m a damn therapist is hell. I came from the corporate world, and in the corporate world, we told people to shut the fuck up when they whined about their problems.
What was once my passion?
Business. Finance. A salary with six numbers.
That was the name of my game.
Until that game ended and I was the loser.
“Silas. Oh, Silas,” Cassidy sings out at the end of the night. “I volunteer as tribute to take over your closing duties.”
Silas stops collecting trash. “Seriously?”
All night, as I poured drinks and ignored people bitching, I thought about Cassidy. The girl, she’s getting to me.
Whether it’s platonic or sexual attraction, I want to spend all my time with her.
I want to learn everything about her, every single damn tidbit I can.
I want all of that … while also desperate she doesn’t learn about the real me. As much as I don’t want it to happen, it will eventually. My past hasn’t been a secret, given everyone knows me as Archer’s brother.
They all know my story.
Do they judge me for it?
I’d bet every damn dollar in my bank account that some did at the beginning.
Now, not so much. They invite me into their homes, they allow me in the bar’s cash, and I’ve never given them a reason to worry.
Cassidy eagerly nods. “Seriously.”
Silas peers over at me. “You cool with that?”
I shrug, striving to appear casual. “Sure. Whatever.”
Cassidy helping means I’ll leave later, and even though I’m as exhausted as people are after Thanksgiving dinner, I’d rather spend time with her than sleep.
“Cool.” He snatches his jacket, and when Cassidy turns around, he elbows me playfully.
I shove him away.
“Catch you guys later!” Silas salutes us before leaving.
“Who volunteers for extra work?” I ask on my way to lock the door behind Silas.
“It’s better than going home to an empty apartment,” Cassidy replies with a shrug.
“I feel you on that. It’s the same with Archer being gone.”
“Another reason to drag his ass home.” She clears a table of two drinks before spraying it down with cleaner and wiping it.
“Me doing that equals working less … which means less time you get to spend with me.”
The towel falls from her hand. “He can come home for Georgia, and you can still work. Dude probably needs time to clear that stubborn head of his and grovel at Georgia’s feet. I suggest he take classes on how to be a good boyfriend.”
I bite back the urge to ask if she’s ever been in a serious relationship. For someone who thinks she’s Dr. Phil, has she even dealt with real-life problems yet?
“If you understood Archer and his past, you’d think differently,” I reply.
She cocks her hip against the bar and levels her hazel beauties on me. “Tell me about it then.”
Well, shit.
Not where I was going with that statement.
I thought it’d shut her up about my brother.
“Archer, he …” I clear my throat while searching for the right words. “He sees himself as the Grim Reaper. He thinks it’s safer for Georgia to stay away from him. In his weird-ass head, he’s punishing himself, not her, for what happened.”
“He might think that, but Georgia is being punished in the process.”
Returning to the bar, I snatch the universal remote and power off the TVs. “Trust me, I tried explaining that, but he’s hardheaded.”
So are all of us Callahans.
It’s why my brother and father could hardly stand to be around each other.
“What about you? What would you do in that situation?”
I draw in a deep breath as her question sinks into my blood, pulling out honesty. “I wouldn’t run.” My response is a sellout to my brother—me agreeing with everyone but him.
A satisfied smile stretches along her lips. “Good. You weren’t lying when you said you were the cool one.”
I match her grin. “Told you so.”
We make small talk while finishing up cleaning, and I learn:
She was voted Miss Teen Blue Beech, to which I replied, “That sounds like the honkiest shit I’ve ever heard.” That resulted in a napkin being thrown in my direction.
The night she found out about her father’s affair, she lit every birthday present he’d ever given her on fire.
She lost her virginity on prom night but lied about it because she didn’t want to seem like a cliché.
What do I share with her?
I graduated with a finance degree from Stanford.
I used to lie about being allergic to shellfish, so I wouldn’t have to eat nasty-ass caviar because my parents served it on the regular.
Before prison, I embarrassingly didn’t know how to work a washer and dryer.
“Do you live around here?” I ask while we walk to our cars, leaves slashing along the concrete.
She nods, unlocking her car. “Like, ten minutes away. What about you?”
“About twenty.” I fail to mention the reason I’m crashing with my brother. That the feds took nearly everything with my name on it, not caring if I had two nickels to rub together.
“I’ll have to come see it sometime.” Standing on her tiptoes, she smacks a k
iss to my cheek and flashes me a playful grin. “You can give me a tour.”
As she leaves, I glide my finger over my cheek, feeling the heat of where her lips were.
I grin like the damn Grinch.
“Georgia,” I greet when she walks into the bar.
Georgia narrows her eyes in my direction. “Unless you’re here to tell me where the hell your bastard of a brother is, I’m not speaking to you.”
She’s the CEO of my haters club—not that I blame her.
I’m also waiting for her to castrate me, per her threats.
As much as I want to defer the topic away from Archer, I can’t. He called last night and asked for a favor. I drove to his hiding place—our grandparents’ lake home—and prayed he decided to get his shit together. No such luck.
All the little prick did was hand me an envelope to give to Georgia. When I questioned what it was, he wouldn’t tell me. I had an urge to open it on the way home, but I didn’t. My brother might have thrown me smack dab in the middle of his mess, but I’m trying to distance myself from the situation.
And a mystery envelope isn’t my damn business.
She stares at the envelope as if it’s tainted when I pull it out and offer it to her. “What Archer needs to do is grow some balls, face me, and tell me why he left.”
Facts.
I thrust the envelope closer. “Archer doesn’t always do what he needs to do. You know this.”
“What’s his plan then?” Cassidy asks, leaning back in her stool and crossing her arms, always joining in conversations that have nothing to do with her. “He’s just never coming back?”
“I think that’s his plan,” I reply even though I’m as clueless as she is.
Cassidy’s eyes widen, and her voice rises a hitch. “What about you? Are you leaving too?”
I shrug, the thought forming a rock of dread in my stomach. “I have no idea.” I thrust the envelope further toward Georgia. “Now, take the envelope.”
“What’s in it?” she asks with a glare.
“He didn’t say. Only asked me to give it to you.” I hold up my hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
Straight Up (Twisted Fox Book 3) Page 3
