HUDSON (The Beckett Boys, Book Six)

by Olivia Chase

  There’s a knock at the front door. Is Marissa here early? Why would she knock? I open it and see Smith standing there, a wide smile on his face.

  He lets himself in, taking a look around and giving a low whistle as he eyes the interior. He lifts his right hand and thrusts a cheap bottle of wine toward me. “I’m guessing this wine is probably better than any of the swill you’re trying to sell here.” There’s raw smugness on his face; he’s totally judging me. “This place is a shithole.” His face smooths to a neutral mask. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” he continues lightly. “Good luck, Hudson. You’re gonna need it.”

  I clench the bottle, not giving away any of my emotions. He’s just trying to psych me out. I won’t let him. “Thanks. And good luck to you guys too, Smith.”

  He leaves, and I close the door quietly behind him. I’m irritated by his smugness, of course. But I’m not like my knuckleheaded brothers. I want Smith and his brothers to underestimate me. It’ll make it that much sweeter when I’m victorious.

  My brothers arrive soon after. I keep my façade of confidence firmly on my face, in my body language. I have to be in control. I won’t let myself be otherwise. Of course, deep down, I have grave concerns about the gamble I’ve taken by opening this bar…and what could happen if it all crumbles.

  We can’t fucking fail. Too much is riding on the success of Fugitives.

  Precisely at ten, Marissa comes through the door. My brothers pause their work and eye her outfit.

  Holy fuck. As opposed to yesterday, when she was casual and informal, today she’s dressed to kill. Her little black skirt flares out, skimming her thighs in a way that reminds me she isn’t wearing panties—assuming she followed my orders, of course. Her white top is filmy and clings to her breasts, showing her lacy white bra underneath. She has on makeup, her lips in a perfect red pout. Her hair is slicked back into a ponytail.

  She’s slaying it.

  Axel whistles. “Fuck, you clean up pretty good, Marissa.”

  Her crooked grin does something to my heart. “Thanks. Figured I’d do my part. Boss man wanted me to dress appropriately.” Her smile grows wider as she eyes me boldly.

  Fuck. This woman is going to wreck me. She’s pushing my buttons…and totally on purpose. I struggle to keep my professional attitude in place. “Cool. I have some tasks written down for you to start with.”

  We rush around to finish things up. But even if we had two more months, we wouldn’t be ready.

  This is just going to have to do for now, and hopefully once some money comes in the door, I can work on getting things in better shape…

  At noon, I flip the sign out front to “open,” and we wait.

  And wait.

  After a half hour of waiting, Axel and Hale sit down at a table and start playing poker. Marissa remains patiently behind the bar, dusting the top of the already spotless bar top. I’m fucking tempted to grab a beer to take the edge off, but I need to remain fully sober today.

  The minutes crawl by into an hour. Then two hours.

  Four hours.

  Thoughts of all the money I spent and still owe start to spin around my mind, and I try to push the creeping anxiousness away.

  It’s still early yet, I tell myself. I pretend to be cool and calm.

  There’s a creak as someone pushes open the front door. We all straighten up and look over. An old drunk in mussed clothing staggers in. “Hey!” he says, then stops and looks around. He frowns, shaking his head. “I’m… Is this Outlaws?”

  “No, that’s across the street,” Marissa says evenly. “This is Fugitives. It’s our grand opening.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I got confused. Wrong place. Sorry.” He stumbles out.

  We all move toward the window and watch the man enter Outlaws.

  My back is stiff. My jaw is tight. Hale, Axel, and Marissa are all watching me now. Seeing how I react to this flop of an opening day. I force a laugh. “Well, that was entertaining.” Then I move into the office, leaving the door open.

  Staring at the desk, the papers scattered everywhere, my stomach gives a heavy lurch.

  Is this the beginning, or the end? One week, and I have to have a decent chunk of money to pay Conor McAllister, or it’s all finished. We’ll be fucked. We’ll lose the house and the bar, and Butch will probably murder me for royally screwing everything up.

  A few more hours of utter silence pass by, with only the music and occasional conversation filling the bar. Day slides into night. I stay in the office; I can’t bear to go out there and keep faking like everything is fine. Like we’re not spiraling downward.

  And then, just when I’m about to go nuts from the waiting, someone finally comes in.

  The front door is shoved open, and a group of people walk inside, laughing.

  “Hi!” I hear Marissa chirp. “Welcome to Fugitives. Can I get you guys started with a drink?”

  I can’t help it—curiosity tugs me out of the office and into the main room. It’s a few of the guys from our street, ordering beer and chatting with Axel and Hale.

  The door opens again, and another group of people from our neighborhood stroll in. They make a beeline for a nearby table, and Axel goes over to get their drink orders.

  Holy fuck.

  Our friends, the people we’ve been tattooing, hanging with, protecting for years, they’re coming in and drinking at our bar. The first genuine smile I’ve had all day hits me, and I go around and chat with everyone there, thanking them for coming by. They all tell me that they wouldn’t have missed it.

  And the people keep coming. Soon we’re rocking, with loud conversation, beer and liquor flowing, along with cash…and Marissa is handling it all like a true pro. Her smile is spot on, and she interacts just right with the customers to make them all feel special. They’re ogling her breasts, flirting, and she responds with light, flirtatious banter.

  Something dangerously akin to jealousy tightens in my chest. Light flirting is part of the job of a good bartender. I know that. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s driving me crazy though.

  She’s fucking gorgeous, and watching her in her element, confident and smooth…it’s turning me on. I slip behind the bar, standing closer than I should as she rings a customer out. Our register is loaded with cash.

  Elation fills me at the sight. “You’re doing a good job, Marissa.” I’m so fucking turned on, smelling her, standing this near to her. My fingers are itching to brush across the curve of her ass.

  “Thank you,” she says in a throaty whisper. She’s impacted by me too. I can see it in the rapid inhalations, the way her lips are parted.

  “Your outfit is perfect.” I pause. Take a fraction of a step closer and look over her shoulder, like I’m studying the register. “Did you follow all my orders?”

  She sucks in a shaky breath. “Yes.”

  As she says it, I picture her bare ass and pussy underneath that skirt. My dick is hard from the thought that she actually followed through on going without panties just because I told her to.

  “Yes, what?” I’m pushing things. Fuck. I can’t bite it back though.

  “Yes, sir.” Her words are barely an exhalation, but still tinged with a challenge. She’s trying to push things too.

  I force myself to step away from her. Hearing her call me “sir” in that way, knowing that she’s probably having the same dirty thoughts I am…it’s making me crazy. I move from behind the bar and walk over to the window to see how Outlaws looks in comparison.

  Their parking lot is pretty empty. Dead in comparison.

  Adrenaline fills me. Fuck yeah. Things are turning around. Thank God.

  I get busy serving customers, thanking them for coming by for our opening. About a half hour passes before the largest group yet comes strolling in.

  At the very back of the group is Conor McAllister. He’s heavily tattooed with flaming red hair and a devilish grin.

  “Fuck me,” I whisper, as he struts into the room.

  People in the ba
r know who he is. Everyone around here does. People start waving and talking to him, and he gives them all a nod of the head, a wave, a word or two.

  Conor and his crew choose a small cluster of tables in the corner. When his men eye the group already sitting in those spots, they grab their beers and offer up the seats. As if they had a choice.

  Conor acts friendly with everyone, if a little aggressive. But beneath that humorous façade, his reputation for ferocity reminds me that he can turn on a dime.

  I muster myself and stroll over. “Hey, good to see you,” I say to him and his men smoothly. “What you boys doing in Rock Bridge?” We’re pretty far from his turf.

  Conor’s smile is wide and toothy as he stands up and gives me a hearty clap on the back. “Hey, Hudson! Came by because I like to keep an eye on my investments.” His gaze scrapes over the crowd. “Glad to see this one’s doing well. Besides, I’m buying drinks and therefore contributing to a friend’s success, right?”

  I don’t buy it. Conor’s not that generous of a guy. But I still have to play along. “Well, first round is on me. Let me get you gents set up. Our bartender will be right with you.”

  Conor’s money is just as green as anyone else’s, and besides, his crew is known to splash around when they’re flush with cash.

  Conor looks at the bar and pauses when he spots Marissa. His eyes get wolfish. “Fuck. Now I’m truly glad I came to the grand opening. She’s gorgeous. I’ll just go over and give her our orders myself.”

  Before I can say a word, Conor has made his way to the bar, planting his hands on it and leaning forward with that broad smile. Marissa seems to sense something about him and darts over immediately.

  My blood is pumping hot and furious as I spot Conor reaching over and trying to touch Marissa’s hair as he comments on how beautiful she is. She laughs and pulls back, swatting at him playfully, then pouring several beers.

  Conor waves at his men, who come over and grab the drinks, then distributes them. But Conor stays in place, his lust heavy and evident.

  I know logically that she’s just doing her job. Flirting to get tips, to keep him drinking. But I fucking lose it.

  “Hale,” I bark out. “Go take over bartending. Axel, watch the floor.” Then I stalk over to Marissa. “I need your help in the back room.” Before she can say a word, I grab her by the elbow and spin her into the storage room, closing the door.

  Marissa

  “What is your problem?” I say, ripping my elbow out from his tight grip. His nostrils are flaring as he glares at me. I know it can’t be my work. I’ve been on top of everything, slinging drinks like a boss. Making tips. Keeping customers smiling and drinking and happy. Exactly what I’m supposed to do. Exactly what he hired me to do.

  His anger makes me feel defiant…and crazy enough, aroused too, because after seeing him be so cool and collected all day, this sudden burst of emotion from him intrigues me. Even if it’s aimed in my direction.

  Where is it coming from?

  Hudson pushes my back against the cool brick wall. His eyes are loaded with warning as he scrutinizes me in that unnerving way of his. “You’re flirting too much. Some of these men are dangerous. You’re too naïve and young to understand what you’re getting yourself tangled up in, Marissa.”

  Is he serious? I scoff. “I’ve worked in bars and restaurants for years.” Unlike him, I want to add, but decide to hold that back. It’s evident he has no real hands-on experience at this. “I know what I’m doing. I can handle myself…and anyone else who tries to cross the line.” At least in an unwanted way.

  Because Hudson is definitely crossing the line—but I don’t quite want him to stop.

  Not even close.

  Hudson tightens his fingers, heat searing my upper arms from his scorching hands, and I’m reminded that I’m not wearing panties.

  Because he’s the one who told me not to. And though it was insane and inappropriate—I went along with it. Some wicked part of me wants him to tell me what to do.

  His breathing slows as he looks at me, his eyes drifting from my face to my throat. “That crazy guy with the red hair and tats, his name is Conor McAllister and he isn’t a man to fuck with. You have to be careful. Trust me, you can’t just handle it the way you normally do.”

  “I am careful.” My words come out far huskier than I intend. But his proximity, his touch, is making me dizzy. Making me want him to come closer and kiss me. I fight the urge to breathe his musky scent in. “And how do you know what I can handle?” I’m poking the bear, provoking him, but this tension between us is off the charts. I want him to do something. Anything.

  Hudson leans that firm, hot body against me, and my heart jumps into my throat. “I know that you will handle whatever I tell you to, or else.” He practically growls the words, his eyes hard on mine, and I can feel his cock growing against my belly. He is definitely turned on, and the knowledge of that gives me the courage I need to keep going.

  “Or else what?” I push.

  One hand removes itself from my arm and he slides down to stroke my inner thigh. I shudder, my pussy flooding with wetness from the intimate touch. Oh God. This is so wrong, and I ache so badly for him to move his hand up between my thighs.

  Which he does, blessedly, cupping my soaked pussy. “Fuck,” he gasps, his face tight. “You’re drenched.” One finger glides easily between my folds, and my knees get weak. I sag back against the brick, panting. He pushes another finger in and begins thrusting deep inside me.

  I reach up and grip his shoulders, needing something to hang on to. I feel like I’m dying for oxygen, unable to breathe, to think, to move. Every cell in my body is focused on what my boss is doing to me in the back room of the bar I’m working at. This is beyond dirty. Beyond anything I’ve ever had happen to me before.

  “I’ll tell you when you can come. Do you understand?” His words are hot as he presses his mouth to my throat. His lips brush my flesh in a miniscule motion, sending a wave of need shuddering through me.

  I swallow hard, throat still against his lips, and nod.

  That unleashes something in him. He begins to finger fuck me in earnest, pumping hard, his palm rubbing my clit. I hear the slapping sound from the action, his fingers gliding through my juices, and I begin to buck against his hand. There is nothing more than I want in the entire world right now than to come for him. I need to. I have to.

  My orgasm begins to near. My breathing is growing ragged, his own quiet but matching my speed as well.

  “Stay quiet,” Hudson warns, unrelenting in his movements. I’m rubbing against his body, aching for him to touch me elsewhere, but he keeps that other hand on my arm. Only his fingers and his breathing let me know he’s alive, aroused. And that cock, throbbing against me hard now. It’s a form of control. One that drives me wild.

  I emit a soft whine that I fight to suppress, but I can’t.

  Hudson removes his hand from my arm and puts it over my mouth. The power he’s exerting over me, the fire in his eyes…my orgasm pushes to the surface, and I’m about to explode.

  “Not yet,” he warns me.

  I almost cry, frustrated beyond belief. I’m so close, so close… I can feel my walls clenching around his fingers.

  “You’re so tight. So tight for me.” He sucks in a breath. “Come for me, Marissa. Right fucking now.”

  And I do. The orgasm shreds me into a thousand pieces, and I scream into his hand, the sound muffled. I’m trembling all over, so turned on that I can barely move. My entire body throbs in time with my pulse, the orgasm sliding all the way down to my fingers and toes.

  When it finally fades away, I relax, and Hudson withdraws his digits from inside me. We just stare at each other, both of us panting. I can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling. As for me, I’m confused. What does this mean? What do we do now?

  Hudson’s fingers, the ones that were just inside me, twitch at his side. He raises them to his mouth and smears my come across his tongue, swallows. An
d then he turns around and leaves the storage room.

  Wow.

  I take a moment to compose myself. Fix my hair. Straighten my skirt. Wait for the flush on my face to subside. I keep my chin up and head back out to the bar, forcing a smile to my face as I resume bartending, like nothing happened. Thank God the scent of beer is so thick in here, because I know these men would be able to smell my arousal for sure. It clings to me.

  And he licked my come. That was so hot. If he kissed me, I would taste myself on him.

  The guy that Hudson said is dangerous—Conor—is on his phone, his glass of beer shoved aside. He turns the phone off and crams it in his pocket with a frown, then looks at me. “Sorry, gotta go, sweetness. Business calls.” He digs into his wallet and tosses two hundred-dollar bills down. “The rest is for you. Keep the change. And make sure to tell Hudson that I’ll be back.”

  The tip is insane. Entirely inappropriate. “I can’t take that,” I protest. “I’ll make change for you. Give me one sec.”

  Conor laughs and touches my hand. “Take it. I want you to have it. Just be nice to me the next time I come in, okay?”

  Shit. I try not to frown and instead, my mouth wobbles into a hesitant smile. I can sense a little more now what Hudson was talking about. He might truly be dangerous—that much is obvious by the hint of hardness in Conor’s eyes, despite his overt friendliness. And I can’t afford to make him upset—he isn’t the kind of guy who takes a no very well.

  I’ve known guys sort of like that before.

  But taking this big of a tip…it might seem like he’s buying me. What do I do? I’m stuck. I have to accept.

  So I force a phony smile. “Then thank you. I appreciate your generosity, and we hope to see you in here again sometime,” I say neutrally.

  He leans forward and winks. “You can count on it.” He waves over at his men, who finish swigging their beers, and then exit en masse. The moment they leave, there’s a shift in the air, like everyone around the bar is relaxing now that he’s gone.