by Laura Kaye
He nearly jumped away from her. “You’re here early.”
Was she having déjà vu? It was running into Eric all over again, although Eric had sounded way happier about seeing her than Marco did. She shrugged, finding it hard to focus on words when the black button-down he wore emphasized the broad expanse of his chest and the bulk of his arm muscle underneath the rolled cuff. “Just wanted to be prepared,” she finally managed.
He pressed his lips into a line and shifted his feet. His gaze made a quick scan from her toes back to her eyes, and her body came alive, stomach flipping, heart tripping over itself.
Damn, if a simple glance—and a scowl, at that—could elicit such a strong reaction, imagine what it would feel like if he ever looked at her with lust, or love. She shivered. “Well, uh…” She stepped past Marco. “I’m gonna go drop off my stuff.”
“You do that,” he said in a low voice.
What the hell? She’d let yesterday’s gruffness go unexplained, but no way she was accepting this—whatever it was—as their new normal. She turned back to him. His blue eyes went wide, and it drew her attention to the dark circles under them. Something was wrong. Really wrong. The memory of the enormous sadness that had swamped her as they stood in this same hallway last night returned. She stepped up to him and had to tilt her head back to meet his wary gaze—it was the only way she could describe how he was looking at her—but she couldn’t help herself.
Slowly, she reached up and cupped his cheek, her fingers extending into the soft edge of his dark hair. She brushed her thumb once, twice over those worrisome dark shadows. “Are you okay?” she whispered.
His gaze bored into hers, so pained, so intense, she struggled to resist averting her eyes.
Marco grabbed her hand and pulled it away. For a long moment, he gripped her fist between their chests. Expressions she couldn’t read played across his face, which was as troubled as it was gorgeous.
“You could tell me,” she said.
“Yeah?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting.
Alyssa nodded.
“And why would you understand?”
Alyssa’s stomach dropped. For all the world, she didn’t know why this suddenly felt like a test, but it did. “Because I’m your friend.” And because I love you. It took everything she had to hold in those words. Only the feeling it would be a monumental mistake to say them now gave her restraint.
Van rounded the corner. “Hey, guys.” His expression darkened, then turned into an outright grimace as he glared at Marco’s grip on her hand. “You all right, Alyssa?”
Marco released her and she said, “Yes, of course.”
Then Marco was gone, disappeared around the corner from where she’d come moments before. From down the hall, there was a thump against the back door as if it had been punched open. A moment later, the click of it shutting echoed just loudly enough for her to hear.
What just happened?
All at once, she became aware of Van staring at her. She attempted a small smile and continued down the hall to the locker room.
He followed and entered right behind her.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked as he worked at his combination.
She opened a locker and dropped in her purse. “Yes, I’m fine.”
Van slipped into his chef’s jacket but left it unbuttoned over a white T-shirt, then ran a hand over his spiky blond hair. “Look, Alyssa, you mind a little unsolicited advice?”
Her belly squeezed with dread. She secured her lock and turned to face him. “I suppose not.”
He crossed his arms. “You might want to stay away from Marco Vieri.”
“What?”
“Guy’s got a quick temper and a loner complex a mile wide.”
Alyssa shook her head, unable to find words. She’d never heard a less likely description of Marco in her life, despite how uneasy their conversations had been. Frowning, she opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.
“Look, it’s your life. And no doubt he’s a hero ten times over.” Van’s face softened, like he regretted his next words. “But I’m telling you, not everybody comes back from war…right.”
Her throat went tight, her gut dropping to the floor and the room doing a little spin around her. “You’re wrong,” she managed to say, but was he really?
Van frowned. “I don’t think so. I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped.” He looked at her for a long moment, then left.
Alyssa shuffled over to the world’s ugliest blue couch—clearly a used piece donated to the cause—and sat heavily, her hands falling loosely into her lap. What’s going on, Marco? The uncomfortable, forced conversations, the dark circles under his eyes, the anger she felt roiling under the surface… Her first urge was to call Brady. Not that she could, or would. But after all Marco had done for them, the idea he was in trouble or in any way hurting made her insides vibrate with the need to help him, comfort him, just be there in case she could do the littlest thing for him.
“Hey, there you are,” came a voice from the doorway.She looked up and found Eric leaning in around the jamb, a bright smile on his face. “You ready to help me?”
Had it been a half hour already? Crap. She’d never managed to make her way to Pete, but she supposed she could do that later. Maybe helping with this would clear her mind and allow her to figure out what to do. “Uh, sure.” She pushed off the couch.
“Did you remember to punch in?”
“Oh. No.” She looked to the table beside the door, where an ancient beast of a time machine sat below a rack of cards. “Pete didn’t have a card for me yesterday.” But it was there today. Alyssa pulled it from its slot and held it above the machine. She’d never used one of the old punch machines before. “Like this?”
“Here,” Eric said, grasping the card. His fingers brushed hers and Alyssa tensed. Eric was attractive. Nice. Uncomplicated. Yet her body didn’t warm to his touch even a little. She couldn’t help but compare that with the head-spinning adrenaline rush touching Marco elicited. “Turn it this way. Then slide it in and the machine stamps it.”
She did as he instructed. The machine made a loud clacking noise, and then she returned the card to the slot. “Thanks.”
“No worries. Come on.”
Eric went down the hall to the right with a three-tiered metal cart, but Alyssa’s gaze strayed to the left. Was Van right? She’d just assumed Marco would always be Marco, no matter what. Guilt washed over her and she shuddered. How had she not at least considered what he’d gone through?
Hustling to catch up with Eric, Alyssa resolved to keep an eye on Marco. She swore he’d been about to say more before Van interrupted. Maybe she could pull him aside later and finish their conversation.
Two facing doors flanked the next hallway, and at the end was a set of black double doors with big signs reading QUIET—STAGE on each. Pete had shown Alyssa the equipment room on the right yesterday. Eric pushed into the room on the left, the green room, and she followed. The lights automatically came on overhead.
“Hey, this is pretty nice,” she said. It was twice the size of the lounge and had much nicer furniture—two plush couches sitting perpendicular with a large square coffee table in front of them, a double-wide set of dressing tables with lighted mirrors, and a long table with chairs. A little nook featured a small bar with a full-size refrigerator.
“Yeah, not bad.” Eric lit the Sterno pots under the chafing dishes.
“What’s back there?” she asked, pointing down a tiled corridor.
“Couple of dressing rooms and bathrooms. Have a look if you want.”
Like in the main room, the lights turned on as she explored first the hallway, then two full bathrooms and two dressing rooms with lighted vanity tables and couches like the ones out front. Wow, this was way nicer than the hotel she’d stayed at, though hopefully not better than whatever apartment she’d ultimately rent. Alyssa smiled to herself at the thought and returned to the main room.
Eric was loa
ding water bottles and soda into the fridge. He smiled as he passed her, hands full. “You could almost live in here, huh?”
She did another scan around the room. “Pretty much. So, what can I do to help?”
“Let’s get the food started first.”
Once the water in the pans heated, Eric dropped in large trays of appetizers, pasta, barbecued ribs, and chicken. Meanwhile, she set out several cold salads, the plates, and silverware.
When they were done, Eric picked up a pile of papers. “Pete said you hoped to eventually work on the event side of the house, so let me show you this.”
Alyssa came around the table and peered down at the sheet in his hands. Checkmarks preceded each entry on a long list.
“Pete places a lot of emphasis on keeping the bands happy,” Eric continued. “All the special requests they make are on this spec sheet. It’s very important to double-check it before they arrive. You need to go down line by line and make sure nothing got skipped. Sometimes they ask for some weird shit.”
Alyssa chuckled.
He cast her an embarrassed glance. “Oh, man, sorry about that.”
“No need. My brother’s in the army. I’ve heard worse. Trust me.”
“Oh, yeah? Over in Iraq?”
“More Afghanistan, I think. He’s Special Forces, so I never really know.”
Eric paused in the middle of his checklist. “Hey, I think Vieri was Special Forces, too.”
“Yeah. He was. He and my brother were on the same A-team.”
His gaze narrowed. “Did you know him before you worked here?”
“Marco? Yeah. Most of my life.”
Eric made a noise low in his throat as he busied himself with gathering lids and trash. “I think we’re all set. Band will be here in twenty minutes, so we should clear out. Any questions?”
Oookay. First Van’s warning, now Eric’s weirdness. Her heart felt heavy that these men had such a jaded view of Marco. Maybe she really didn’t know him anymore. The thought created a sharp emptiness in Alyssa’s chest. She followed Eric and the cart out the door. “Who cleans that up at the end of the night?”
He grimaced. “Whoever draws the short straw.”
“Seriously?”
“Not exactly, but that room’s often trashed by the time the acts clear out, so it’s no one’s favorite job. Pete gives whoever does it a bonus, though, so that helps.”
“Could I do it sometime?”
Eric frowned. “Why would you want to?”
“I’m trying to save up for an apartment. I’m not above cleaning up after a party to make a little extra money.”
“Well, then, I guess. Just tell Pete you’re interested. See what he says.”
Which reminded her about a conversation she needed to have. “I will, thanks. Do you need me for anything else?”
He grinned, his cheeks going curiously pink. “Nah. Go do your thing. I’ll catch ya later.”
With a wave, she set off in search of Pete.
…
The bar was like a goddamned cage.
Marco paced back and forth, taking orders and delivering drinks in a way he knew was barely civil, but unable to force even the cursory niceties he usually managed.
Ever since Alyssa had cornered him in the hallway, peered up at him with those imploring brown eyes, and cupped his face in her hand, Marco had felt raw and exposed, like his skin no longer protected his insides.
Jesus. If Van hadn’t interrupted them, Marco wasn’t sure what he might’ve said, what her gaze and her touch and her very presence might’ve drawn out of him.
“What’ll you have?” he asked a woman who pushed through the crowd to the bar.
She perfected her posture and smiled from under her eyelashes. “Two Coronas with limes, please.”
Marco ignored the offer in her too-broad smile and too-deep cleavage and concentrated on the mechanics of retrieving the bottles, popping the caps, and placing the wedges of lime into the necks. He’d just turned to the next customer when he heard a voice call for an order at the side counter.
As his hands worked through the motions of the customer’s drinks, he cut a quick glance to the waitstaff counter and found Alyssa standing there, smiling in a way that looked too much like hope for his sanity. Just what was it she was hoping for? I’m your friend—that’s what she’d said earlier in the hallway. But that wasn’t the story her gaze told.
He traded the man his drink for money and called to Alyssa, “What do you need?”
Her smile wavered. “Two chardonnays and a Sam Adams.”
He kept his back to her as he worked. With no intention of making eye contact, he settled the drinks on her tray.
“Thanks. This band is really good, isn’t it?”
He felt her expectant gaze on him but didn’t return it. “No time to pay attention.”
Disappointment washed off her and made him feel like a total asshole, especially given how much they’d always connected over music, but her eyes were too damn full of concern and affection. His plan to keep his distance couldn’t afford even a single slip, no matter how awkward, tense, and long the dinner service felt.
Because he’d wanted to slip. Wanted to open his mouth and let her help him shoulder the living nightmare of the last year. Affection and acceptance burned in her gaze, and he couldn’t let himself give in to it. The last thing she needed in her life—all fresh and shiny and just starting out in the world—was the burden of someone as fucked in the head as he was.
And that wasn’t even taking into consideration the shitstorm that would likely be Brady’s opinion.
When he glanced back, Alyssa was gone.
“Order in,” another voice called.
Marco found Kim standing on the far side of the bar, tapping on the countertop to the beat of the current song. She rattled off her drink order and Marco got to work filling it. “I’ll be right back,” she said before darting through the STAFF-ONLY door.
Marco settled the drinks on her tray, but by the time he’d taken care of two more customers, Kim still hadn’t returned. Scanning the bar, he found everyone satisfied for the moment, so he checked Kim’s tickets on the computer connected to the register and found the table to which they belonged—close enough he could run them out before any fires erupted behind the bar. He scooped up the tray and walked onto the floor.
Without permission, his gaze sought and found Alyssa two rows over. She was crouched down next to a table with a man’s arm around her shoulders. She sidled out from under the guy’s grip, but then he grabbed her hand. Blood roared through Marco’s ears and his head throbbed. As she freed herself, Alyssa offered the man a polite smile that Marco knew was uncomfortable, not genuine.
A hand settled on his arm and he flinched.
“Thanks, honey,” Kim said with a smile, pulling the tray out of the death grip he had on it. Though they didn’t talk much, Marco respected the older woman. She did her job, avoided the drama some of the other waitresses engaged in, and was always kind.
“This been going on all night?” he asked.
She followed his gaze. “She’s fine. Handling everything like a real pro. I’ll keep an eye on her, though.”
Marco dragged his eyes away from where the man continued to hold Alyssa’s attention. He nodded and swallowed a thick knot suddenly filling his throat.
“You go on, now, before there’s a mob scene at the bar.”
“Right.” He stalked back to work, restless suffocation morphing into a head-splitting ache and murderous fantasies every time his brain very unhelpfully resurrected the image of the man groping Alyssa.
And damn if the thing most likely to trigger the memory wasn’t Alyssa herself. Each time she came into the bar, Marco’s blood pressure spiked. It took every ounce of discipline and restraint he had to keep from making a big scene of the beating-the-shit-out-of-a-customer kind. And now he couldn’t not look at her, because he had to be sure she was all right. And that meant he couldn’t avoid noticing h
er beautiful smile, the column of skin that ran down her throat and continued somewhere under the V-neck of her shirt, the full mounds of her breasts pushing against the white cotton. It wasn’t long before lust joined the rage flowing through him and he found himself fighting the urge to throw her over his shoulder and drag her the fuck out of there. Away from the eyes and hands of that man—of any other man.
Problem was, right at this moment, Marco couldn’t promise to let her go once he had her in his arms.
…
The dinner service turned out to be a total madhouse, proving Pete’s insistence that Alyssa complete three training shifts before she waited her own tables probably made sense. The venue was sold out, the bass of the band pounded through the hall, making it so loud she had to lean close to the patrons to hear them, and the drink orders flowed in steady all night. It was so crazy, Kim needed her to run a big table with a party of ten largely by herself.
All those drink orders necessitated a constant back-and-forth to the bar, where Marco filled her tray with an alternating cycle of grunts, glares, and dark expressions that made her body hot, no matter how unfriendly they seemed on the surface. At one point, he sloshed the foam off a glass of beer, slamming it down too hard in front of her. And it wasn’t just with her—Marco didn’t seem to be playing well with anyone. The men around the bar eyed him with a hard-edged respect and the women with something that made her a whole lot less comfortable, but none of them tried to chat him up. Marco was far from the outgoing, gregarious bartenders she knew from her old waitressing jobs. If this was what Van and the others were seeing, no wonder they questioned Marco’s character. He was downright surly. Still freaking gorgeous, though, and wasn’t that annoying.
She needed to talk to him but was just too busy to do it during the dinner service. By the end of the night, her feet were tired, her ears were ringing, and she longed for a hot shower—or another dip in the pool. But at least Kim had let her keep the tips from the table she’d managed, putting fifty dollars in her pocket and ensuring she had enough for another hotel room.
But first, she had to figure out what was going on with Marco.
