by R. S. Lively
"I am not going anywhere." I stuff the tips back in my apron and slide the bowl in front of me, popping my fingers and neck to get ready for this event. "You're bribing me. What is it?"
I always know when Tops needs something, because these wings aren't on the menu tonight. He usually makes them for me when he needs me to cover a shift or work a double.
He brushes his hands on the white apron hanging on his hips. It has so many stains from the years, and I can't believe he hasn't thrown it out. But he thinks it's his "lucky apron," so he never takes it off. "Well, I do need a favor."
I bite into the juicy wing. The hot flavor bursts across my taste buds and stings my tongue as the heat incinerates it. I love it. The hotter the better, if you ask me. "I know. You always whip these out when you do. Considering the sauce and how many are here, I'd say what you want will either upset me or cause me a headache even more severe than the one I have now." I say around the meat that fills my mouth. Mmm, so damn good.
"You know me too well, Red. Maybe I need to hire another waitress."
Like he could ever replace me. I snort, causing the sauce to go down my throat the wrong way. The attack of a cough assaults me and tears fall down my cheeks, probably landing in the bowl so the hot sauce can laugh at me.
"Girl, you're gonna kill yourself if you don't take a breath while you're eating those."
My voice comes out a little high-pitched, filled with complete agony. "It's worth it."
"I need you to wait on a special table for someone tonight."
I pause mid-bite, considering what he is saying, before continuing to sink my teeth into the warm, tender meat. "Okay."
"Yeah?" he sounds relieved.
I shrug a shoulder. "No different than what I usually do."
"It's for Logan Stone."
The wing falls from my fingers, splashing into the pool of sauce. The momentum from the fall sprays red sauce all over my apron, making it look like I killed somebody. "What? Is he coming back here again? No."
"You already agreed. You can't go back."
"Tompkins!" I gasp, putting my hand to my chest, before narrowing my eyes at him. "You played me! You wooed me with the chicken wings, making me half out of my mind like they always do, and you took advantage while I was weak and vulnerable. You got me to agree when I didn't know what I agreed to. Dirty. That's just dirty!"
"He isn't the kind of man you think he is. I need this, Whitley. It's my only chance to get better."
And like a damn semi-truck, the words plow me down until my eyes water, too bad it isn't from the sauce. "I know."
I know that this is what he needs, and I also know, due to my stunt last night, that Logan has good intentions. I don't know why I’m fighting him so much. Maybe I think he is too confident and cocky. Maybe I think he thinks he owns everything because he is all rich and successful. Maybe I am fighting with how he makes my body feel. When I saw him last night, as angry as I was, I felt utterly captivated by him. It’s something I never thought I'd want to explore.
"He asked for you specifically."
"Of course he did," I mutter under my breath. I have a feeling he is the kind of man that is going to drive me crazy with his perfect smile, perfect hair, flawless skin. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Ugh! Damn him.
"Why, did something else happen that I don't know about?"
Tops leans against the counter, folding his arms and staring at me with his tired eyes. His face seems a bit thinner, and the dark circles around his eyes sag more than they did before.
I try to remain calm when a lump of emotion clogs my throat as I remember that my favorite person in the entire world has cancer. I play with the hem of my apron, averting my eyes from his so he doesn’t see the pain behind these green eyes. I don’t want him to feel bad for being sick. It isn’t his fault, and knowing Tops, he’ll feel bad for getting cancer. "No, nothing happened. I just think he’s a jerk face," I sniffle, wiping my eyes. "Dang hot sauce. Gets me every time."
A few seconds later, he wraps his arms around me, holding me tight to try to make me feel better. Gosh, here he is, the one with cancer. If anyone should be consoling somebody, it should be me comforting him. I pull away, grabbing a paper towel to wipe my eyes.
Bad mistake.
"It burns! It burns! Oh, my god! My eye is on fire!" I yell, waving my hands to create a cool breeze. I glance at the paper towel I used, and I'll be damned if it isn't the one I used to wipe my hands on after I ate that damn wing! I have damn hell sauce in my eye!
"Tops! It burns!” Tear after tear falls down my right cheek, trying to get the atomic wing sauce out of my eye.
"Good lord, Whitley. Your eye is red. Here, we need to wash it out." His hand falls on my lower back, guiding me to the large industrial sink.
My vision is blurry, reminding me of what my sight is like when I drink one too many.
"Tops? What the hell is going on back here?"
Oh, this is so not the time for him! What the hell is he doing here? Tops said I would be waiting on him later!
"Logan, Whitley has a bit of something in her eye. She’ll be right out to help."
"I can take care of this, Tops. Go back to the kitchen. I'll help her." His deep voice makes my lungs freeze and my heart palpitate.
I narrow my eyes at Tops in warning. "Don't you dare leave me here with him," I whisper as low as I can, so Logan can’t hear me.
Tops darts his eyes back and forth between us, unsure of what to do. “Um, I can handle it, Logan. Thanks, though.”
Out of my good eye, I see Logan’s large, wide palm land on Tops’ shoulder. "Really, I got it. Whitley and I need to talk anyway."
No, we don't!
I plead with Tops not to leave, trying to show desperation in what's left of my eyeballs. The way he looks at me speaks volumes. Yeah, he is going to owe me so many chicken wings, he’ll be cooking them for the rest of his life!
"Okay, well, if you need anything, let me know." His gaze lingers for a bit, silently apologizing for the interruption. Tops spins on his heels and walks into the kitchen, leaving me alone with the man that plagued my dreams last night. Oh, and it was such a good, satisfying, mind-blowing, earth-shattering dream.
I clear my throat, trying to focus on anything but the pain in my eye. But then my thoughts go too far, and I can’t shake the very unwanted images that flash through my mind, like: him without his shirt, him not wearing any pants, him only wearing his expensive suit jacket, him only wearing tighty-whities. I have a thing for those. I love the way they hug the package of a man, making it look like a big bulge. Anyway, right, clearing my head. "If you're going to help, can you turn on the water? My eye is killing me."
He reaches over and turns on the faucet, testing the water with his fingers, and then softly touches the back of my head with his other hand, causing a myriad of sensations to course through my body. He removes my hand from my eye and puts a small amount of pressure against my head, bending me over until my face is under the cold stream of water.
I pull away for a moment. "Don't even think about waterboarding me. I won't ever give in." My head interrupts the steady flow, and I sigh when my eye stops burning. Finally.
“Give in to what?” he chuckles. “I'm just trying to help.”
I snort. "Unlikely. A man like you always wants something."
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just a man trying to help a beautiful woman."
I yank back, spitting out the water that had flowed into my mouth. I wipe my face with my hands, trying to press off all the water. "Oh, my Aunt Fanny!"
He holds out a towel, and I snatch it from him to dry off my face. "I'd love to meet her sometime, maybe get a drink," he winks.
"Oh, I don't think so."
"Don't forget our deal."
The words stun me, and I pause the towel over my face as he reminds me of what we spoke about last night. "I didn't think you were serious. I don't want to go on a date with you." Oh, I do, I am just too proud t
o admit it.
“Well, I’ll have to press charges then, since you trespassed last night. I hate to do it, but since you can't hold up your end of the bargain…" The ruffle of his clothes makes me yank the towel away. His phone is in his hand, dialing a number.
I grab it to see that he has the sheriff's office on speed dial. "What the hell is this? Are you kidding me? You were going to call?"
Logan reaches to grab the phone from me, but this time I grab his wrist. Being this close to him sets off alarms in my head. The smell of him invades my lungs. He smells of pure masculinity: pine, wood, and a hint of soap. It's like he just came out of the shower, and my body is loving it.
"I never bluff, Whitley." He slants his head toward me. Half of me wants to slap him, but the other half can’t stop focusing on his heart-shaped lips. Despite everything, despite how rude and mean and arrogant he is, I slightly pucker my own, readying myself for a kiss. A kiss that I don’t want. No, I can’t. Not at all. And yet…
He breathes his minty fresh breath against my lips. "You'll do well to remember that."
My breaths come out uneven at his closeness. Everything about how he feels near me made my body come alive. The hair on my arms stands up. My skin pebbles from the intensity of his stare.
He smirks, teasing his lips close to mine before pulling away and straightening out his suit sleeves. "So, will you go on a date with me or do I need to call the cops to arrest your criminal self? You obviously have… rambunctious tendencies. It might do you well to spend a few days in jail."
He shrugs his wide shoulders that I may or may not have imagined gripping onto while I ride him. Logan's dirty blonde hair shines off the light from the product that slicked it back. The golden hue to his brown eye’s glimmer, twinkling like the night stars as he gives me one last look before turning and walking away. "Maybe I should call them."
He stuffs his left hand in his pocket and rubs his mouth with the other as his expensive shoes carry him away. My heart detonates against my chest and I reach for him, placing my hand on his shoulder.
"Wait! What? No. I'll go out with you. I'll go." I have to keep telling myself it's because I don't want him to call the cops, not because I want to go out and be seen in public with this good-looking, fine, hot, sexy, handsome, and irritating man. So, irritating. I need to remember that. Ugh, he needs to come with a manual.
"Do you want to go? Or are you just saying that, so I don't call that cops?" He smiles, and oh my god, he has a dimple, people.
"Yes." I draw out, unsure of which one I wanted.
He tosses his head back and laughs, holding his hand over the button that latches his blazer together. "Okay. I'll take that. Tomorrow. I'll pick you up at eight. Tonight, I need an amazing waitress."
Right. That. "Okay, well, don't you need my address?"
He tugs the lapels of his suit, his watch shimmering in the light. "No. I know where you live, Cherry."
I gulp. "That isn't frightening or anything."
He takes two long strides towards me, eating up the checkered floor with his legs. “It’s not like that. I had to look up everyone who works here because of the paperwork.” His hand rises like he wants to touch my face, but it falls, and my heart tumbles with it. I hate that I want it. "You'll be getting a delivery tomorrow morning. Be on the lookout, okay?"
The most frightening part is the fact that I like how he took the initiative to figure it out. And he is having a package delivered? Seems like a man who knows what he wants. I don’t know if that is good or bad, but some part of me likes it. "Um, okay."
Habitually, I tuck my hair behind my ear, even though it’s braided and rolled into a tight bun.
"Okay what, Cherry?" he asks, the high angle of his cheeks glowing from the mirth illuminating in his eyes.
"Okay, I'll be on the lookout for the package tomorrow, Logan." I watch his eyes darken, lust and primal instinct swirling in them, and I can see he is holding himself back, but I also know my answer pleases him. And that also frightens me, because knowing it pleases him makes me happy, too.
Freaking frightening.
Logan
My thumb itches to touch her soft cheeks, but I hold myself back. She seems skittish, and I don't want to make her any more apprehensive than she already is. If I breathe the wrong way, she’ll run. I almost have her right where I want her—in my arms, which will lead to my bed.
Fuck, just the thought of her red hair spanning across my pillow sends a bolt of electricity down my spine.
I need to pull myself together. I never lose composure. "My driver and I are in the corner booth."
"Where you were the first time I saw you," she says with a roll of her eyes.
"Don't roll your eyes at me."
She scoffs, unrolling her hair and removing the braid. I am transfixed as I watch it cascade down her shoulder in waves. Her beautiful red locks flow effortlessly down her breasts, stopping at her ribcage. I imagine her standing in front of me, naked, strutting out of the bathroom wearing nothing but red heels that match her red hair.
Fuck, I'm getting hard just thinking about it.
"And what will you do? Spank me?" she says like a joke, but we both know it’s not that much of a joke.
"Amongst other things." I stuff my hands in my pant pockets and rock on the soles of my shoes, straightening my spine, so my chest looks bigger.
In a split second, the smile drops from her gorgeous face. To my surprise, with her pale skin and red hair, she doesn't have a freckle on her. At least, not on her face. I can't wait to take the time to explore her body, if I am to ever get that lucky.
And I consider myself a lucky man.
"What!" she chokes, and it makes her cough until the red hue of her face matches her hair.
"Are you okay?"
"I'll get back to you on that."
The kitchen doors swing open, and Tops strolls in with a bit of flour smeared across his cheek. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I can't keep running the area by myself. I'm not as young as I used to be, I'm afraid."
He gasps for air, bending over to try to catch his breath.
"Tops," Whitley whispers. Her green eyes open wide with worry, and she darts over to Tops’ side, placing her hand on his back. She rubs soothing circles, trying to calm his fatigue. "Are you okay? I'm sorry it took so long. It won't happen again." She glances at me like it's my fault he has cancer and can't do much anymore.
This girl is going to try my patience. I can feel it.
"I'm fine, Whitley. It's just old age catching up with me."
"It isn't, Tops. You can't be doing all the work anymore. What if I took time off my classes? I can re-enroll next semester when you're better."
His chin jiggles as he shakes his head. "Absolutely not. I won't have you ruining your life because I have a little cold."
Her lips start to tremble as she tries to rein in her emotions. "A cold? A cold! You have cancer, Tops! This isn't something that you can pop Dayquil with. This is serious. You can't do it on your own. You won't even be able to maintain the kitchen for very long. We need to hire another chef. I'll look for another waitress. I'll be here from sunup to sundown."
I want to help with what she is dealing with, but I don't know how. I've blocked those emotions out for so long and been so focused on my business and my career, that the concept of feeling—heartbroken, is almost foreign.
I take a step toward her, but she holds her hand up. "I think you've done enough." She unties her apron with jerky movements and throws it on the counter. "I'm going outside for some fresh air. I'll be back in a minute." She wipes her cheeks again. The poor apples must be raw from all the crying she’s done lately. The grey kitchen doors swing with force as she walks through them.
Tops sighs, holding himself up on the counter. "She'll be fine. She needs a minute."
I stare at the revolving doors for a minute too long and snap my gaze back to him. "And you? What about you, Tops? Is she right?"
"I hate to say so
, but yes. I can't keep doing it much longer, Logan. I'm afraid. I don't know what I'm going to do when I'm laid up in a hospital bed. I'll be going out of my mind."
"I'm sending everyone home for the night. Let me talk to her. It's time we all sit down and have a meeting. She can't keep wondering what's going to happen if you're acting like nothing is. It's better for her to be prepared than for you to lie to her about how serious the situation is. Alright?"
I can see the pain in his eyes—the unbearable hate of the truth.
"Okay. You're part-owner of this place now, anyway," he says, plopping in a seat and opening a bottle of water.
"Damn, right." I pat him on the shoulder as I walk away, pushing through the revolving doors. "Everyone, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Tops’ is closing for the night. Please, leave your food immediately. You will not have to pay. Come back tomorrow. Everyone has a good night."
I have to hold back my own eye roll when people groan and moan about not being able to finish their dinner. Boo fucking hoo. "Yes, have a great night. Drive safe," I wave as they walk out the door. All except Frankford. He still sits in the corner booth, sipping his coffee.
"Hey! Why doesn't he have to leave?"
I turn to see a young man, younger than me, shooting daggers at me with his muddy-brown eyes, pointing his index finger at me like it's supposed to threaten me. I glare at him. He can't be serious. "He’s here because he’s with me. Someone who makes more in one day than you will in an entire lifetime, so think twice before you disrespect someone. Have a great night." I spread my right arm, pointing him in the direction that he needs to leave.
"Whatever. I'm taking my food." The man picks up his plate and carries it out the door, fork in hand and everything.
"I do believe, sir, that is what you would call an ‘ass,’” Frankford pipes in from the corner booth, as he takes a sip of his coffee.
It always makes me smile how formal he is. There is no reason to be, no matter how many times I tell him otherwise. "Hold down the fort, would you? And check on Tops. I'm going to go look for Cherry."
