Scorched (The Frenemy Series Book 4)

by Kate Benson

  The next two hours are pretty dull – which is really saying something since my first was spent talking to my goldfish – but I welcome it. My life before I moved to this place was never dull, which might sound exciting on paper, but it was never that, either.

  When people tell you they’re busy, or that they came from a place where crazy was the norm, you should never assume that every one of those circumstances was bred from adventure. I learned that reality far too early and though I’m still pretty young, when I look back at my formidable years, it’s hard to feel like those experiences made me a better person.

  They had to, right? Or at the very least, they will.

  I have to assume that somewhere deep down, buried beneath years of therapy I still can’t afford the health insurance premiums to pay for, there’s some magical growing experience just itching to happen. I can’t be destined to forever remain a single woman who spends each morning talking to her goldfish, asking him the big questions because I’ve managed to push almost everyone else in my life as far away as possible.

  See? Growth.

  I eventually move back into my bedroom and begin thumbing through my hangers, fending off the memories of last night, which hadn’t been dull at all. In fact, in the year and a half that’s come and gone since I took the job at Walt’s, I can easily admit it was one of the stupidest, most annoying shifts to date. I stifle a shutter, plucking out the now familiar fitted work shirt and a pair of jeans, tossing them both on the bed before I release a long, low sigh and reach for my phone.

  It only takes a minute for me to scroll through the images and find my copy of the schedule. When I see who I won’t be spending the rest of my last night for a week at the bar with, I can’t help the large smile that breaks out over my lips.

  “Thank God!” I gasp, my eyes fluttering shut for a split second before I bound back toward my mattress and pick my clothes up with more enthusiasm this time.

  I try to be a good boss, a team player, and for the most part, I love my crew so it’s easy to do both. However, I’d be lying through my teeth if I didn’t admit there’s one employee there who I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than spend five nights a week with.

  He’s the same employee who’s been a thorn in my side since the day I started training and had turned down his lame attempts at flirting, unknowingly earning myself a lifelong enemy.

  The same guy that the owner Walt, in no uncertain terms, had forbidden me from replacing, no matter how massively or frequently he’d made my job ten times harder than it needed to be.

  He’s also the same guy who overheard that conversation and has been egging me on ever since, knowing the only consequence he’d ever see would be me losing my temper and storming off in an effort to not be imprisoned.

  And I’d completely forgotten I’d given him the night off.

  A quiet chorus of angelic voices sing out my praises, the low, imagined sound aww-ing in the back of my mind becoming the beat to my euphoria. I pull my clothes on like I’m in the forest and my animal friends are helping me drape my work shirt magically over my small frame. A simple twirl toward my keys as I bend to grab my bag and kiss the side of Marvin’s bowl have me floating toward the front door to my apartment.

  In this moment, despite the smoldering heat surrounding me the instant I step out, I’m sure that if princes disguised themselves as lawn maintenance workers, the nearby buzzing of industrial grade weed whackers would be the anthem to my happily ever after.

  I’m about to spend the next ten hours surrounded by rowdy bikers and factory workers. By the time I pull back into this parking spot, it’ll be pitch black out, I’ll be covered in beer and tired in ways I always seem to repress by morning.

  But none of that will pull this smile from my lips because regardless of all of it, I’ll do it knowing I won’t be within a hundred feet of my nemesis.

  For the next twenty-four hours, I won’t have to speak a single word to Mason King.

  chapter three

  alex

  “What the hell is this shit?” I grate out as I pull into the small lot behind the bar behind the familiar Acura and throw my hands up. “Why is he here?”

  Okay, Alex. Breathe. Think this through rationally.

  Maybe it’s someone else’s car. Lots of old ladies drive Acura’s. I bet that’s it. It’s a lost old lady who’s wandered into a bar in the middle of the day looking for help.

  Of course, that’s what it is.

  I force myself out of my car and grab my things, cutting my eyes slightly at the Acura just quickly enough to catch sight of the familiar, half-faded bumper sticker on the back.

  I cease all movement and cringe.

  “Ugh!” I grate out, stomping my foot childishly in the gravel at my feet before my muscles seize up and I begin making my way to the back door once more. “No, no, no, no, no!” I chant under my breath.

  This was supposed to be my time, my day of all days to be happy and liberated from jackasses.

  Why is the universe shitting on my freedom?

  I remind myself that he has no friends, no life at all really, since his family all moved away – probably to get away from his horrible personality – and silently bet he’s only here to annoy the other employees for a few minutes before he goes off on some made up adventure he can drone on about for the next two months. After all, he begged for me to give him the night off and he got his way. Why would he come in if he didn’t have to?

  I blow out a deep breath and pull the heavy, metal back door open, the gentle clatter of glasses and movement inside familiar and welcomed, even for this early in the day. You’d be amazed at how early people drive across town for a shot of whiskey. To each his own, though. Who am I to judge anyone for anything, right? Lord knows, I’ve made more than my fair share of shit decisions and not firing the one rounding the corner when I had the chance is a perfect example of that.

  “Hey,” he starts as he approaches, his voice holding about as much enthusiasm as I’m feeling right now. At least we have that in common, I think to myself.

  “Hey,” I reply as cordially as possible, though I can feel the niceness slipping out of me the moment I glance over and find his hand stretched out. “What’s up?”

  “I need the key to back stock.”

  “For what? I put in an order and it was due to be delivered this morning. Didn’t they show up?”

  “Yeah, they did.”

  “Was something missing?” I ask, prompting him to shake his head. “So, what’s wrong? What do you need to pull out of back stock?”

  “I need another case of Cuervo up front. I don’t know if they put it in there or what, but I’m only finding one.”

  “Well, you can look, but I doubt you’re going to find more in the back.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I didn’t order any extra this week,” I explain as I continue fishing for my keys. “Just the usual.”

  “Why did you do that?” he demands, pulling a low, deep sigh from my chest, cursing the depth of my purse for keeping me out in the hallway with this moron.

  “Because we didn’t need it, Mason.”

  “Yes, we do,” he argues, eyebrows raised in the all too familiar way they always do when he’s about to start annoying the hell out of me. “That’s not enough. There’s no way in hell that’s going to last them for the entire week.”

  “It’s actually more than we need, Mason. On an average night, we sell it to maybe four people.”

  “And those four people kill a bottle every night they come in, which is most of them. Not to mention, Big Mike said he’s coming in here on Friday to celebrate his retirement and they’re gonna go through more than usual, so they’ll need a little extra for padding. I mentioned it to you on Tuesday and assumed you were actually listening to me, but that was obviously a mistake.”

  “Watch it,” I cut him off, turning to face him with a look of pissyness all my own.

  “Get mad all you want, but th
is is just as much for your benefit as it is for mine.”

  “I find that very hard to believe,” I deadpan, glancing down into my purse once more, cursing the darkness of my beloved designer bag for hiding my escape plan so beautifully in its base.

  “Look,” he says, his voice lower and forcibly more restrained than it had just been.

  I glance up and swallow hard, hating the sinking sensation in my chest that comes when I am looking at him, especially in such close quarters.

  He raises his gaze until his eyes are piercing through me. Even here in the semi-dark hallway, as he crosses one arm over his midsection, the other raises so he can pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, his muscles pulse just enough to make my throat go dry. He blows out a hot breath, the feel of it washing over my skin enough to have me stifling a shudder I’d rather die than let him see and I swallow hard again.

  I hate it when he gets this close to me, his scent swarming around me, making me forget what an ass he is.

  If I’m honest, I find Mason King devastatingly hard not to look at.

  “I’m trying to stock enough to get them through until Tony’s back in on Saturday, but they’ll be out by Wednesday at this rate,” he rambles on. I feign as much interest as I can muster for him – admittedly not very much despite my current tumultuous state – and almost squeal when I feel the edge of a keyring-like structure against my fingers, my energy falling slightly when I realize it’s the edge of a spare bottle opener instead. “If you’re sure there’s not anymore in stock, I’ll run up to the warehouse before we get busy and grab some more, but I need cash out of the office. Enough for two cases.”

  “Two cases?” I reply, my voice strangled with unamused laughter at his nonsensical demand.

  “Yes.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense!”

  “It makes perfect sense!” he throws his arms up, all forced calmness slipping away instantly as his frustration levels reach mine. “It’s basic math.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s you wanting to overstock the bar so you can feel like you’re doing something, but it doesn’t need to be done. All you’re accomplishing by doing this is your making less room in the galley for everyone who’s covering the week, Mason,” I insist, finally finding my keys. “I’ll give you cash for one case, Mason. One.” His eyes bulge slightly in fury at my compromise and I shake my head. “But it’s going into backstock, not on the line. We don’t have room for all this shit right now,” I insist. “I’m leaving the key to back stock in the safe for Tony. In the unlikely event that they go through two weeks worth of Cuervo before I can make it back here in one, he can go in there and get the other case. Otherwise, you’re just going to have a bunch of shit up there that we don’t even need.”

  “But we do need it!” he rails.

  “No, we don’t! All you’re doing right now is throwing a fit for no reason.”

  “Alex-”

  “We. Don’t. Need. It,” I ground out, cutting him short.

  “Yes. We. Do,” he mimics me. “We need two cases at all times and with Big Mike ret-”

  “Who the fuck is Big Mike?” I cut him off, throwing my hands out and he stares back at me like I’ve grown two head.

  “Are you serious?” he asks as he stops his pacing in front of me. “He’s the giant dude with a patch on his shirt that says Mike. He comes in here every single night and guess what he orders?”

  “Cuervo. I know.”

  “And he’s retiring next week while we aren’t here and that’s why we need the third case. Even with the backup, we’re still short one. If you’d listen to me on anything, you could’ve avoided this entire conversation, but you didn’t and now you won’t even admit that you were ignoring me.”

  “What the hell do I care if you know I’m ignoring you?” I shrug. “I always ignore you, but this time, you’re wrong, Mason. You didn’t say anything about Big Mike. I’ve never even met the guy.”

  “Fine. God forbid you don’t get to be right about everything,” he shrugs, ignoring me when my jaw sets. “Whatever. I’ll just tell your crew they’re fucked all weekend because you want to prove an asinine point. This is exactly what I was talking about.”

  “You’re not talking about anything! You’re just showing your ass in the hallway,” I counter, looking around at the empty space. “You’re literally doing all this shit for your own amusement.”

  “I told Walt he needed to leave the ordering to me because you have no idea what we use on a day to day basis up there,” he argues as he turns to make his way back to the bar. “But he said you had this. I told him you didn’t, that Dash trained you and he was notorious for buying too low, but he didn’t listen.”

  “Wait a second,” I demand, making him turn back to face me. “Why the hell are you going to Walt on me? Better yet, I gave you the day off. Why are you even here?”

  “Because Tony’s sister is in the hospital and I’m covering his shift. You’re welcome,” he snips back immediately. “And I wouldn’t have to go to Walt if you listened to me, Alex. I’m your lead bartender and I spend more time back here than anyone else. I know what we need.”

  “I do listen to you, but nine times out of ten, all I get from my ‘lead bartender,’” I start in a mocking tone as I throw up air quotes and glare back at him. “Is fart jokes and complaining. If you had told me we needed Cuervo, I’d have ordered it, but you never said anything to me. Instead, you tattled on me like a fourth grader and when I called you out on it, you lied and said we had an entire conversation that never existed anywhere but inside your delusional mind,” I fume, leaning into my chair in exhaustion. Jesus, my shift hasn’t even started yet and I need a fucking nap. “Seriously, Mason. What the hell is your problem? Are you trying to get me fired?”

  “Well, the district had to cut bonuses again this year,” he shrugs sarcastically, making me clench my jaw. “I guess I just figured not dealing with your smartass mouth might be a nice alternative.”

  “Are you insane?” I start, squaring my shoulders. “Listen, like it or not, I’m your boss, Mason,” I remind him, still seething. “Going behind my back and trying to start a bunch of crap with Walt is crossing a line. I won’t even get started on the way you fucking talk to me. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I’m your lead bartender.”

  “Which means you’re supposed to be setting an example for the other employees, showing some semblance of professionality while you’re in here on the clock. Not using that title and your seniority to talk shit and go behind my back and trying to get me fired for things that don’t even matter.”

  “It does matter. It’s important, Alex,” he counters. “And like it or not,” he continues, punching each word arrogantly to mirror mine. “I’ve been here longer than you. I know the ins and outs of this place more than just about anyone else, including Walt most days. And before you try and threaten me with reporting back, don’t bother. I’m not afraid to say it to his face, too, because I know he’ll back me on it,” he seethes. “The bottom line is that I’m asking for stock that we need to cover your employees while we’re out. If you don’t find that important, maybe you shouldn’t be in charge of shit around here.”

  By the time he finishes his tirade, I’m fuming. No, scratch that – I’m hovering somewhere in the vicinity of needing an orange jumpsuit. I want to scream at him. Rant, rave, tell him exactly what a self-serving, uppity asshole he’s being, but I don’t. Instead, somehow I settle on flared nostrils and the signature death glare I hadn’t acquired until I took this job in the first place.

  “If it’s so important, why didn’t you talk to me about it before today?” I grit out through my teeth, hoping desperately that the shake in my voice isn’t as obvious as it feels around the words.

  His eyes bore into mine, the same heady frustration coming off of him in waves as he takes a half step closer, infiltrating my space, invading my senses. I grip the keys in my hand tight enough to cause a sharp pinch in m
y palm that makes me wince almost instantly. I curse my own stubbornness silently, but not before I commend myself for keeping a straight face in front of him. He leans over, his voice just above a whisper.

  “I did,” he smirks. “And you very professionally told me to, and I quote, ‘go eat a bag of dicks.’”

  I blanch at the memory, internally kicking myself for my own quick wit and for not remembering that little gem before I brought it up in my recoil argument. Clearing my throat, I do my best to shake it off and round my shoulders once more.

  “Well, did you?”

  His jaw sets, nostrils flare and he hums quietly in his own effort to maintain composure before clearing his throat and finally returning his gaze to mine.

  “I’m taking money from my register to buy more Cuervo. If you’ve got a problem with that, you can send me home and close the bar down yourself,” he grounds out, turning toward the galley on the other side of the wall. He’s a few feet away when he turns back to face me, beaming sarcastically. “And to answer your previous question, no. You’ve had a day off since I have. I assume with your charming personality, you’re capable of covering that yourself, boss.”

  mason

  “Len! I need ice!” I shout toward the back of the bar, the familiar clatter of glasses, loud music and bellowed shouting coming from the other side of the bar oddly comforting despite the chaos.

  No! at least three quarters of the crowd cries out, their attention locked on the heavy flat screen hung just a few feet above me in the corner. It’s followed by more than a few long spews of profanity, a few glasses busting on the floor and even one that flies over our heads toward the wall.

  “Hey!” I call out, my eyes scanning the patrons before they lock on the culprit. With lightning speed, I reach below the bar and pull out the bullhorn I’ve had stashed next to the register since Amy gave it to me as a gag gift last Christmas. “Mooney, what’d I say about throwing shit at my screens, man?”

  “Sorry,” he calls out, the bashful shame in his gaze a few feet back lost on the neanderthals surrounding him in tonight’s mayhem.