Zale

by Brynn Hale

  ZALE

  Graffiti Street Bad Boys Book 2

  Brynn Hale

  Copyright © 2019 by Brynn Hale

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contact Brynn at brynnhaleauthor@gmail.com for more information.

  Acknowledgment

  Thank you to authors Lana Dash, Tarin Lex, Mazzy King, Kali Hart, Kate Tilney, Carly Keene, and Lana Dash for making this story and this adventure amazing and inspiring. <3 Brynn

  Contents

  1. Zale

  2. Ella

  3. Zale

  4. Zale

  5. Zale

  6. Ella

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  One

  Zale

  I check the calendar to make sure. Yep. It’s Thursday. My nerves rattle my bones inside of me like my skeleton is a puppet on her string.

  Thursday is the day she comes in and the day when I almost always have to stay behind the bar. Hidden because I have to hide the raging boner I get every goddamn time. It’s both a curse and a fucking blessing.

  No woman has ever had this effect on me, and I can only imagine if she makes me go rock hard from just walking into my joint, the Graffiti Street Bar, that when I get my arms around her, I’ll be thinking horrible thoughts to keep from coming. And if I get her into my bed…

  I shake my head as the blood rushes to my crotch. Even thinking of her makes me have a reaction I can’t stop.

  I kept a distance for three long years. There are reasons. But tonight, I’m not going to fight it. In fact, I’m going to embrace the boner. I’m going to take a chance.

  “What’s the massive sigh for, boss?” My best bartender, Marissa—Rissa to me and the regulars—drops a bottle of vodka back into the premium bin in front of me.

  I push off the counter. “Just thinking about what drink to make for the special for the next week?”

  She tips her head dramatically, the side of her lip lifting. “You’re a horrible liar.”

  The front door creaks open. My eyes flash to the sliver of daylight that bursts into the room.

  “Oh,” she stretches the word and crosses her arms. “So, you’re waiting for someone?”

  Normally, Rissa is all business, but my action seems to pique her interest in something other than earning great tips. As a single mom, I know she needs all she can get.

  “Who is it?” Her eyes widen. “Please don’t tell me it’s that woman who orders extra garlic on her pizza. Is she warding off vampires?”

  I chuckle. Nothing against Garlic-Lacy, but it’s definitely not her.

  My woman smells like rolling around in a field of wildflowers and since we live near Sin City in a small town called Kildare, the scent is a welcome change from what’s only twenty miles away. I don’t venture into Vegas that often, but when I do, I come back with the same thought, fun for a day or night, but not a chance of living there. The miles between me and the glitzy strip of chaos and debauchery isn’t barely enough.

  Rissa leans back against the bar. It’s still early and we only have a couple of regulars at the bar top. “Weldonna?” Her mouth drops open and she holds up her hand, with an extra from the others. “She has six fingers on one hand. Six. Could be fun…”

  I chuckle, but wave her off. “Stop. Weldonna’s a sweet lady. You just leave her and her fingers alone.” I consider Rissa a friend, but I’m not interested in talking about the woman I’m interested in with my dudes. I’m less interested in talking about one with my employee. “You have work to do and I have to create this drink.”

  Every Thursday I create a new drink for the following week’s Specials board. Usually it’s something that’s inspired by the chef’s pizza creation, but it always keeps my girl’s favorite alcohols in mind.

  The door opens again and a pit cracks in my stomach.

  Not her.

  But it is two of my buddies, Cray—he’s like Cher or Bono, first names only—

  and Leif Valore—the single dad who I might’ve divulged my feelings to once or twice.

  Damn tequila.

  “Regular?” I ask both and they nod.

  Cray’s a beer guy and Leif is an iced tea or water guy. He’ll say it’s because of the heat and being in the sun all day, but I know it’s not. It has a lot to do with the gold coin he keeps in his pocket.

  Living this close to Vegas, I’ve seen plenty of people succumb to the ethyl alcohol monster and most of the time if I see them continually as repeat customers, I have a little conversation with them. It wasn’t that way with Leif. Leif realized out his problems after his wife left him face down in his puke and called me and Hemi, our friend from high school, to get him out of the house before their child came home from school, threatening him that he’d never see his son Dillon again. It about killed him, but I’ve supported him every step of his journey. Sure, he probably shouldn’t be back in here, but I know I’m not fucking going to serve his ass, so he’s probably safer here than anywhere else.

  My bar is pretty laid back, more of a place to hang out, than a party scene. We used to have a reputation as a meat market—a place where people go for hooking up—but now, when people get to know us, they find they’re either very disappointed or they’ve found a place to have a respite from the crazy in their life. We don’t hit on our guests and in fact, our bartenders have to take an oath that they won’t sleep with the regulars or the irregulars. Granted, I haven’t had to enforce this oath, yet. But I really feel it makes them take their job seriously. They’re not here to find someone for a night. They’re here to provide high quality service, tasty cocktails, and a smile, if they have an extra.

  And that’s reason #1 why I’ve stopped myself so many times from asking Ella on a date. Yeah, Ella…Ella Tremble—that’s her name. I almost can’t even say it out loud without feeling a quake in my chest. It fits her and what she does to me. The name is angelic and floats off the tongue. But tonight, tonight, I’ll ask her on a true date, not a drink in the dark corners of my bar. I imagine taking her to dinner and maybe a movie, bringing her flowers that mimic that soft scent that she wears.

  The jukebox turns on. It’s one of those systems that a patron can request a song to be played through the internet. “Tubthumping” by Chumbawamba starts and my heart pounds with the music.

  It’s her.

  I chuckle, but quickly stop. Instinctively, I know she’s having a bad day. She only starts a song to walk inside to when her day has gone sideways on her. I steady myself. If I really want her in my life, I’m going to have to be there on the good and the bad days. I’ve watched my buddy Hemi and his woman, Cece, Ella’s best friend, and how as partners support each other, even when they barely have strength to blink.

  I have a smile on my face when the door opens and Rissa whispers in my ear. “I knew it!” She walks backward toward the three-part sink to wash glasses. She lowers her voice, “Nice one, boss. Good luck.”

  I finish pouring Cray’s beer and hand it over. My heart pounding in my chest. I’m ready.

  Cray glances over his shoulder, probably hearing Rissa’s declaration. At one time I thought he was competition, but Cray’s love life is more love ‘em and leave ‘em and I know he wouldn’t do that to Ella. Plus, she probably knows more about all of us than we know about her and what Cray’s shared might scare any woman away. She has a way of bringing out what’s wrong with people and what’s right. Sometimes there’s a lot more of the earlier than the latter.

  Until now, I kept my feelings well hidden, but no more. I’m tired of feeling like she’s u
nattainable and now that she’s divorced, she’s actually attainable. If I can just keep my shit together.

  “Ella… hey,” I start, but as soon as I see her face in the neon of the bar lights, I can’t breathe. She’s beautiful, but that’s not the reason. “What the fuck?”

  Her lips purse. “It’s nothing.”

  The dim lights of the bar aren’t giving me enough light to truly see what I think—slash that—I know is on her face.

  I round the bar and Cray meets me at her. His training from the military probably won’t come in handy, but he’ll be ready to take on whoever did this.

  And now her song choice is not funny to me.

  “Ella, who did this?”

  “I’m fine, Zale. Let’s just move on.” That’s Ella. Never concerned for herself.

  I lift her chin and examine the grey and green darkening on the side of her face near her eye.

  “This isn’t fine.”

  I guide her to a stool and she sits, her fantastic ass rounding on the black pleather seat, but now my body is not 1% turned on. Okay, maybe 2%, but she’s fucking hot as Sin City, I can’t be held to greater standards. But my concern outweighs any thoughts of how much I want to tell her my feelings.

  Cray rumbles, “I’ll go get some ice.”

  I sit next to her and take a closer look. “Ella, come on…”

  The front door opens and the final light of the day rays through. Ella stiffens and her eyes darting like a mouse toward sound.

  I recognize the three guys from last Friday. The biggest one has his hood up over his head. That’s something we don’t allow in here. We need to see a person’s eyes to know what state their actually in, but part of me wonders if it’s worth saying something, considering the mess I have on my hands next to me. The one leading has a full arm tat that includes some sort of emblem and the last seems like he could be a lawyer or doctor—super clean cut with a smile on his face, he’s definitely different from the other two who appear to be able to kill with a look.

  “Did one of them do this?” I ask her quietly as she seems to cower.

  “No.” She shakes. “But who are they?”

  “They were in here last Friday. I’m not sure. Rissa took care of them.”

  We don’t have wait staff, so people have to come to the bar. The one with the hood paces across the floor with intention.

  “Hey,” I chin jut at him.

  “Hey…” he stills when he sees Ella. His head tips and his jaw tightens. “You do that to her?”

  I straighten my back, my hand on Ella’s shoulder. “Not any of your business, bro. Just get your drink and head back to your table.”

  I stand upright and although at six-three I’ve got about four inches height on him, he’s got a good fifty pounds—and more—of weight on me, and his number probably means more.

  Growing up I was that skinny kid who used to try to show power with his fist, but now I know that muscle doesn’t mean strength. If he swings, I’m still going to try to avoid it, but this is my bar. I can kick out anyone I want to and he’s getting close to that place in my mind.

  He steps closer and I see the scar down his throat and probably why he has his hoodie up. “I asked you if you did that and I won’t ask again.”

  I put myself between Ella and this testosterone fed beast.

  No one. And I mean no one is getting near her.

  Bring it on, Sweatshirt Guy.

  Two

  Ella

  I hear Cray’s big black boots cracking on the stained concrete flooring and a part of me is relieved. Zale’s not a big guy and I’m concerned for his safety.

  I huff at myself. Concerned for others but never for myself. That’s the way it’s always been. I’ll stand up for a stranger, but cower in the corner when it comes to standing up for me. I don’t know why and part of me hates that I’m this way. It’s one of the reasons my first marriage ended, but there were a lot others, too.

  Cray moves himself between Zale and whoever sweatshirt guy is. “Hey, hey…What’s going on?”

  In Cray’s presence, sweatshirt guy actually looks small. That’s just how big Cray is. He’s like two guys in one. But that’s not what I like in a guy. I like the guy I can wrap my arms around. And that’s Zale. But he doesn’t know that. He’s always dating girls who probably wear those jeans that say 00. That’s like a negative number in sizing, right? Believe me, I’m not jealous or hating, just amazed. I like food way too much. And that’s kinda why I’m here. I need carbs to feel better and this place has the best pizza. Bread, cheese, sauce, meat…it’s like the perfect food. My stomach growls thinking about it.

  But I almost didn’t show tonight, I knew the fuss that this remnant of my boss’s assholery on my face would gather. But when you’ve hit rock bottom, it’s best to admit it. And today feels like the moss on the underside of a rock. It’s the bottom of the rock bottom.

  Sweatshirt Guy’s gaze holds on Zale. “I asked him if he did that to her… and I’ve yet to receive an answer.”

  And now the other two guys that Sweatshirt Guy is with stand and start walking over. Leif jumps from his seat to join Cray and Zale, and I’m behind a wall of dudes. I should feel protected, but I only feel the fear. Fear that someone will get hurt. Fear that I’ll get in the middle. Fear that this bruise on my face will end up being my scarlet letter. I could have stood up to sweatshirt guy, but I’m too drained to even think.

  Cray hands back the ice pack slowly. “No pressure, just hold it to the bruise, sweetheart.” He turns back, as cool and calm as I’ve ever seen him. “Now, here’s the deal guys, if you want to stay, you’ll follow the rules. First, no hoods up. So, put it down. We need to see your eyes.”

  Sweatshirt Guy complies without a blink or word. The cleft in his skin that runs from the side of his shaved head down his neck is like the Grand-Canyon-level of scars. I want to look away to give him privacy, but I can’t. My injury is nothing like that and part of me now thinks that all of this fuss is ridiculous.

  No. A man hitting a woman is never ridiculous.

  “Second, I’m Cray and this is Leif. I feel the need to tell you that I’m ex-military, special ops, and Leif here has a black belt in six marital arts. Six.” Cray growls the word and crosses his arms, puffing his chest and muscles. “And this is Zale.” He nods over his left right shoulder. “He owns this bar and he’s not looking for trouble, so if that’s your M.O. I suggest you find another bar outside of Kildare.”

  For the longest time there’s silence. Three guys facing off with three guys.

  The guy with a full arm tattoo slowly extends his hand. “Slater.”

  Cray reaches for his hand and by the way Slater grimaces for just a second I can tell that Cray has let him know who is in charge in the situation.

  The clean cut guy on Slater’s right holds out his hand to Leif. “Blade.”

  Leif’s brows creep up slightly. “Like as in a knife?”

  “Like as in Arnis.”

  I’m not sure what that is.

  “Oh…cool. I’ve always wanted to do Kombatan.”

  Oh…stick and knife fighting.

  Cray grunts, “And you are?” to Sweatshirt Guy.

  The guy’s dark eyes rise from being down cast and I shiver. I’ve seen that intensity and I cringe behind Cray.

  “Vice.”

  “I’m gonna assume all of those aren’t your real names.” Cray crosses his arms again.

  “You can assume whatever the fuck you want to,” Vice replies with a chin jut. “Now, who the fuck did that to her and what the fuck are we going to do about it?”

  And that’s when I finally inhale a breath. Vice isn’t here to start something. Something that I should’ve been done with a long time ago.

  Cray actually chuckles, something I’ve never heard him do before and a tiny brick of the anxiety wall I’ve built falls away. “I think I like you, Vice.”

  Vice moves to the bar. “Can I get three of your tap craft beer, please?”<
br />
  The nicety coming from his mouth makes me smile. Even marshmallows that have gotten hard on the outside still have a gooey center and I can tell Vice is gooey.

  “What Spec Ops, Cray?” His hand lands on Cray’s shoulder. “Can I buy you guys a round?”

  And just like that everything is back to normal.

  Well, not normal.

  Nothing is normal in my life right now.

  Leif and Cray take their beers to the table to sit with the new guys. I haven’t told anyone what happened or who did this and I’m not sure I will. And I don’t know what they’re talking about and part of me doesn’t care. I just want to be left alone right now. But Zale has taken up a seat next to me, silent but with a brooding look on his face.

  I usually like Thursdays in the Graffiti Street Bar. It’s low-key without some of the early twenty-something crowd that comes in on the weekend. I like how it’s the regulars and tonight a few newbies, but those guys seem less scary than some of the regulars. There’s Jack—the guy who has thirty-seven dogs. There’s Willie—the lady who has thirty-seven personalities. And there’s Charlotte—the homeless veteran who has been living on the streets for five years after her hubby died and she was kicked out of her two-bedroom apartment. I’ve tried to get her help, but people have to want help to make it work.

  Rissa fills a shot of something and hands it over. “A little kill-the-pain juice.” She puts a lime on a cocktail napkin and slides the salt to me.

  I throw it back and the tequila coats my throat with a lightly fruity tang of a Blanco type. I know my tequilas and thankfully, Rissa knows what I like.

  “You. Me. Back room, now.” I recognize the voice and I figured someone would call her.

  I motion to Rissa for another shot, she pours it right into the shot glass and I throw it back.