Love Is In the Air Volume 1

by Susan Stoker

  “Did you get his number?” Tracy quips as I pass by her to pull out a fresh batch of cleaned glasses.

  “No,” I giggle. “Do you know him?”

  “His name is Randy and he lives near the nest,” she says with a stern tone. “You need to be careful.”

  The nest is what the fearing locals call the mafia hub, sitting less than twenty miles away. Daddy has fought to shut the place down for years with zero success.

  The stranger is good looking, but he is bad news.

  And I will ignore how he is making me want to be a real bad girl.

  RANDY

  What the fuck am I am thinking?

  Stormy, if that is her real name, is probably half my age. I return to glancing through my email in between watching her dance with the bottles behind the bar. I zip off a text message to Tank.

  “Do you know who Stormy is at Clint Ray’s? She works the bar.”

  I’m making a bit of an assumption that Tank will have an answer because he is a local, in an MC, and knows everybody. He might not know her, but it’s worth a shot. His text flashes on my screen.

  “She’s from Mississippi. Grew up in Sugargrove. Her father is a minister.”

  “Good fucking Lord,” I mumble beneath my breath as her eyes bounce to mine. I flick a brow and motion for her to unbutton her blouse a little more. She spins away from the crowd, and I peer down at my phone.

  With a tremble in my fingers, I text, “Do you know her story?”

  “I can find out her story if you give me twenty-four.”

  I don’t have twenty-four. I want this girl on my dick in twenty-four minutes. I sigh, knowing I’m getting way too worked up over an availability I do not want or need in my life. I polish off my beer and notice she has removed her blouse. She’s wearing a taut pink tank top and showing loads of cleavage and ink.

  In awe, I wait to place my dinner order and slowly sip my way through another three beers over the next two hours. The place is emptying, with most of the bar seating open. I grab my jacket and wander over as Stormy is making drinks on the other end.

  Tracy and Clint emerge from the kitchen, and I inquire, “Hey, you going to the festival?”

  “We’re about to leave in ten minutes,” Tracy says with a smile. “You going?”

  “Nah…”

  “You haven’t eaten yet,” she mentions, rather maternally. “What can I get you?”

  “Medium rare strip and rice.”

  “You got it,” she obliges. “Have a seat. Ain’t no one else showing up tonight with the shindig going on.”

  I laugh as she disappears to the kitchen, and Stormy walks toward me. “Can I get you another beer?”

  “Iced tea.”

  “Sweetened?”

  “Noooo!” I shake my head, and she laughs. “Never. That’s a sin!”

  “You’re not from the south,” she guesses.

  “You’re right; I’m not,” I reply, getting comfortable on the barstool. “Washington State.”

  “Wow,” she mutters. “You’re far from home.”

  “This is home now.”

  She places the glass on the coaster in front of me. “I’ve never seen you in here.”

  “I’m a busy fella,” I remark, pointing at the container of lemons. “Have you eaten?”

  “I’ll eat when I get off work.”

  She hands a wedge of lemon to me, and I wrap my hand around hers. Her silky smooth skin sends a jolt to my cock as her big bluish-green doe eyes bounce to mine. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  Holy fuck.

  She’s less than half my age.

  She notices the astonished look in my expression. “Not what I was expecting.”

  “How old are you, Randy?”

  I shift my body and shake my head with a grin plastered on my face. This girl is doing things to me that I know better than to let occur. “Almost fifty.“

  She stops and stares at me. I can tell I hit a nerve and a deep one at that. “I was studying to be a nurse eighteen months ago when my boyfriend was brought into the emergency room on a gurney. They pronounced him dead on arrival.”

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t have any words to come back from that. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, stunned. “That had to be terrible for you.”

  “It was tragic,” she whispers with tears welling up. “So I suggest you question if you really want what your eyes say you do.”

  Fuck.

  She’s broken.

  Not just broken but annihilated.

  She tries to turn away, but my grip gently tightens on her hand. “Don’t make any assumptions.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  I nod and let her hand go despite wanting to keep her with me. I understand she has a job to do with the dozen tables still full and the three men sitting at the bar.

  “Okay, Randy, I put your order in,” Tracy says as she and Clint prepare to leave. “You gonna be here long?”

  I eye the odd pairing. Tracy is a short, round thing with a buzz cut. Clint is a bean pole with gray hair to his waist. They’re cute together despite the differences.

  “I have nowhere to be.”

  “Stormy is closing up. Can you keep an eye on her?”

  “Of course,” I eagerly reply. “Anytime.”

  Clint snarls with concern, “… You carrying?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny the presence of such,” I laugh as he lays his hand on my shoulder. He knows I am because I always am.

  “I don’t care,” he says. “Just don’t let anything happen to her.” He cocks his head over toward the young lady shelving the bottles. “Pastor Jennings is already riding up my ass about her working here, if something were to happen to her, he’d kill me.”

  Nothing is going to happen to her.

  But something may happen.

  “I got you,” I reassure. I have no issues on protecting what is mine—and tonight, Stormy Jennings is mine. They depart along with another couple of the tables. “Everyone is going to the festival.”

  “They always do,” Stormy says.

  “You closing early?” I ask, locking my fingers together, so I don’t accidentally reach out to touch her again.

  “I will lock up when the last customer leaves.”

  “I’m not a customer,” I point out. “I’m your personal bodyguard for the night.”

  “Is that so?” She quickly pivots to face me head-on with her hand on her hip. “I could’ve sworn you were in the mob.”

  I shrug and smile it off. “I am who I am, sweetheart.”

  Leaning on the bar, she inquires, “And what do you do up in the nest, Randy?”

  “Dirty things,” I snarl, flirting. “And your daddy will skin me alive if he knew what I was thinking about doing to you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Hmm,” she says, backing away and aimlessly wiping off the bar for the fourth time. “So you work for the mob and you have manners?”

  “It isn’t written in the rulebook that I have to be a dick.”

  “Does your dick have manners too?” she giggles, blushing and not believing she said it. I’m pretty shocked by her bluntness as well.

  “Sometimes,” I flirt. “You’re pushing his limits though, and he’d can be a rude little fucker.”

  “Because I’m twenty-two?”

  Her side-eye glance catches my smirk. “No, because you’re showing entirely too much flesh for me not to react.”

  “Do you like what you see?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  She cannot stop smiling. “I should go check on your food. Be right back.”

  A few more customers leave the restaurant as I sip my tea and wait. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I read the text message from Tank, “Bethany Mabilene Jennings. 22. She’s trouble. I’d advise staying away.”

  Sounds good but unlikely.

  I’m undeniably attracted to her piercing eyes and radian
t smile. Her tight jeans framing that ass aren’t hurting either. Neither is the blessed rack she is rocking.

  Stormy returns with my plate and sets it in front of me. “Why do they call you Stormy?”

  Licking her lips, she smiles and darts her eyes to an older couple shuffling their way to the door. “Have fun!”

  “Oh, I plan on it!” The woman giddily responds. “I’m going to watch my grandson race!”

  After her polite gesture, she returns to my question, “Because I was always causing a stir—a storm—and I proved my name when I ran away from home at fourteen.”

  Tank handed over everything I needed to know from a layman’s perspective—“she’s trouble”—and Stormy just confirmed it.

  Sometimes it doesn’t matter what I know, social status dictates the rules of engagement and enforcement.

  With deepening concern, I inquire, “Why did you leave?”

  “I’m the preacher’s daughter who was dating a biker five years older than me. The relationship was frowned upon.”

  I fathom a guess. “The boyfriend who passed?”

  “Yes.” She waves as the last of the customers sitting at the bar leave. “Have a great night!”

  With only five tables of people, she slips around the bar and sits down beside me. I cut the steak and offer her a bite. She doesn’t hesitate and readily takes it. “Daddy didn’t like the biker and you did.”

  “His name was Nolan Raine,” she volunteers as I take a bite.

  “You were going to be Stormy Raine?”

  “Yes,” she giggles. “We ran off, rode around the country, and ended up at his older brother’s club in Mississippi. After he died, I tried to stay there for a few months, but I just couldn’t do it. I moved about for a bit, went to bartending school, and landed back home a month ago because Clint and Tracy needed a full-time bartender.”

  Listening to her talk, I’ve rarely felt so at ease with anyone. There is a fluidity between us that I’ve never experienced—not even with Joe’s mother. The worst part of that is she is less than half my age. “How do your parents feel about you being back?”

  She takes a deep breath. “It’s not easy, but I need to stay with them because they’re helping me out.”

  “Family is tough,” I say. “I left my life in Florida to be near my son.”

  “Any regrets?”

  “Nah,” I say, feeding her a spoonful of rice. “You could be my daughter.”

  “I could,” she whispers, bumping her knee into my leg and laying her hand on my thigh. “But I’m not looking for a Daddy. I already have one I’m not real fond of. When his baby girl left, the line in the sand was drawn. He’ll never forgive me.”

  “Do you care?”

  She tilts her head from side to side. “Sometimes. I miss things. Moments of happiness in a family before it all went to shit.”

  I hate to say how much I understand this from the other side. Things haven’t been easy with Joe. I didn’t raise him and we struggled to find common ground for a good bit. “Have you tried talking to them?”

  “Many times,” she says. “But it’s a hard sell to convince them that Nolan liked defending my honor, even at that age.”

  “Nolan sounds like a helluva man.”

  “He was,” she says. “But there were problems.”

  “There always are,” I contend. “You know I didn’t plan on having dinner with a delightful young woman.”

  She laughs. “I didn’t plan on one of my customers feeding me half of his dinner.”

  I smirk and ask, “Are you having a good time?”

  “For the first time in a long time, I am,” she admits, rubbing her lips together. “Dinner is on me.”

  “No way,” I argue. “I’m too much of a gentleman for that.”

  “Daddy wouldn’t be happy if he knew I was breaking bread with someone he hates the most.”

  I wipe my mouth and say, “What’s that?”

  “You work with the mob. He’s fought for years to make them go away.”

  “That’s not happening,” I inform as the last of the diners leave. “How much staff is left?”

  “A handful of kitchen workers, cleaning up. When they get done, I’ll count the drawers and get out of here. Thank you for staying. You’ve been here for hours.”

  “The pleasure has been all mine, Stormy.”

  “I need to go lock up the front door.”

  I should wait outside before she locks me in here with her…before I cannot keep my hands off of her creamy vanilla skin…before I do something that will only cause a war.

  She slides off the barstool, and our eyes meet. Our exchange says more than either of us will. She leans in closer, and it takes everything I have not to kiss her sweet lips.

  “Go lock up,” I suggest, understanding how slippery this slope is becoming.

  “Okay.”

  She walks away, and I close my eyes.

  Fuck.

  STORMY

  I twist the locks trapping the older gentleman in the restaurant with me. A few employees are still cleaning up in the kitchen. I head back to the bar and flip the main lights before walking over to him. I feel the heat of his gaze focusing on me. My skin ignites with intrigue and salacious thoughts I haven’t encountered since before Nolan passed.

  It would be so easy to slip into the memory of the past I held so dearly. The look in Randy’s eyes brings the spark of a future and a hope I forgot existed.

  I was still alive.

  Still a young woman.

  With plenty of time to fall in love again.

  I slowly approach him and take the dishes from the counter. He rapidly rests his hand on mine. “Can I do anything for you, Stormy?”

  Many, many things.

  Like, make the heartache fade into nothing more than shadows, ghosts passing in the night. I’ll never see them again. I’ll never feel their pain. I’ll be shielded and surrounded in the comfort of myself.

  “Give me back what I lost,” I honestly remark.

  “Can I do that by washing my plate?”

  He smirks, and I do the same. “It’s a start.”

  “Better than an end,” he alleges. “Let me help you.”

  In this case, he might be right. If we knew the whole story with someone, would we go back to the beginning and do it all over again, even if we knew the bitter end? The truth was, I wasn’t sure about Nolan.

  We met when I was a teenager, and I didn’t know myself. He defended me, and I fell in love with his warrior spirit, but it wasn’t truly who he was. It was a blink, a hiccup, a half-second where I tumbled into the arms of what I perceived to be my hero.

  Nolan was only a hero one time.

  But I made choices, running off, and leaving the family I loved behind. He was my pipe dream, but soulmate? No. Nolan was not my soulmate. If anything, we were friends who became lovers in the pressurized setting of his brother’s club. His need to claim me would cause others to scatter like roaches. I was practically married, taken by a biker, and set to become his old lady.

  His protection was dwindling, and his love was fleeting.

  By the time I fully understood what I had committed myself to, it was too late. My parents were hurt. My siblings were pissed. I had no choice but to remain in the fortress of a man I loved but wasn’t in love with. The vast difference changes the meaning with one—in.

  In love.

  To be in love—I had never been in love.

  I loved. And the scars he left on my soul ache with desperation for someone else to repair—stitching, mending, and reminding me of who I am. It’s selfish but true. I need a man brave enough to trek into my darkness and recover the shattered spirit of the girl I once was. It’s a rescue mission, and a guy like Randy would be perfect for the job if he weren’t…

  More than twice my age.

  We shuffle into the kitchen to find the crew leaving. “Are you going to be okay?” Misty asks, scrutinizing over the handsome stranger beside me. Years of abus
e have led to her trusting very few men, and I can’t blame her concern. “I don’t mind waiting.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I assuage with an easy smile. “Randy is friends with Tracy and Clint. Enjoy the festival!”

  “Are you sure?” she whispers. “I don’t mind staying.”

  “I will be fine, Misty. Go and have fun!”

  All the workers depart out the back entrance, and I glance at him. “How do you know I am friends with them?”

  “Because I overheard you and Clint talking.” I place his dishes in the sink. “I need to go count the till and put the money in the safe.”

  “I’ll wash these up,” he volunteers. “I used to work in a diner years ago.”

  “Back in the fifties?” I giggle and turn away with a grin on my face.

  “No, it was the eighties, kid,” he says, smirking at me. “Go on.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, laying my hand on his arm. Shit. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “The way we’ve been looking at each other is a lot more than a friendly gesture.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I spin away on my toes and head back out to the bar to grab the cash register drawer. Thankfully, most of the transactions tonight were via credit card. I’ll stack the receipts for Tracy, count the little bit of cash, and call it a night. I don’t want to hold him up any longer than necessary.

  I click on the light for the small office in the storage room and start counting out the bills. “You’re missing my dinner.”

  “I told you it was on me.”

  “And I told you no,” he says, dropping two hundred dollars onto the pile. “Keep the change.”

  “You had three beers and a half of a steak.”

  “I’m well aware what you ate,” he laughs. “And I’m paying for it.”

  A few minutes pass as I resume counting, focusing hard not to mess up. “How many people have you killed, Mr. Sexy Mob Man?”

  “I can promise, you won’t be one of them.” He squats and lays his hand on my thigh. “I don’t know what is going on here between us, but I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of you all night.”