The Beard (Haylee Thorne)

by Haylee Thorne

  The Beard

  Haylee Thorne

  Contents

  1. Famous last words

  2. Desperate times call for desperate measures…

  3. Pigs must be flying…

  4. Choices…

  5. New beginnings…

  6. Like putting lipstick on a pig…

  7. The bad Walker brother…

  8. The little green-eyed monster…

  9. 99 bottles of beer on the wall…

  10. The last supper…

  11. Keep dreaming…

  12. You are only as good as your word…

  13. House of cards…

  14. Hide and seek…

  15. Un-break my heart…

  16. Diary of a jackass…

  17. Mr. & Mrs. Walker…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Haylee Thorne

  Breaking Benjamin Excerpt

  Love Notes Excerpt

  Copyright © 2018 Haylee Thorne

  All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied or transmitted in any medium, whether electronic, internet, or otherwise, without the expressed permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, locations, and names occurring in this book are the product of the author’s imagination, or are the property of their respective owners and are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, or persons (living or dead), is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. All trademarks and names are used in a fictitious manner and are in no way endorsed by or an endorsement of their respective owners.

  Contains sexual situations, violence, sensitive and taboo subjects, offensive language and/or mature topics.

  Recommended for age 18 years and up.

  Dedicated to my readers, without you, I would be nothing.

  “Today is the last time.”

  Those are the words I uttered to myself this morning when I left my tiny studio apartment in the epicenter of the city’s counterculture movement of the 1960s. I think my bedroom growing up was about the same size as my whole apartment, but getting to live in the coveted Greenwich Village is worth living in the cramped space. As I stepped outside my door this morning, greeted by a chilly breeze, I clearly remembered thinking there would be absolutely nothing that could ruin my mood today. And up until about three minutes ago, it was true. I didn’t let it get to me when my twat bucket of a boss, Paul Manfred, called me “toots” as he slapped my backside. I didn’t let the fact that my idiot coworker, Marco, insisted on calling me “Mac and cheese” instead of Mackenzie bother me either. Even when I tripped over a bag of potatoes that someone carelessly left lying on the kitchen floor, which made me drop an entire pan of béarnaise sauce all over my pristine white double-breasted jacket, I cracked a smile and let it go.

  Because I knew that today was the last day of all of that crap.

  Because tomorrow morning I was poised to march into the bank and start a new chapter of my life.

  My lifelong dream of opening my very own restaurant is finally going to come true. After years of working my butt off and saving every penny I could, I finally found a place I can afford. It’s small and needs some work, but it’s in a prime location, and I just know it could be everything I have ever dreamed of, and so much more.

  Instead, I find my home completely trashed and emptied out when I arrive after a long day of being on my feet in a kitchen. I had rushed home to get a change of clothes, so I could spend my evening being on my feet some more, all to serve tables at a catering event to make extra cash. Now that is something even Mother Theresa couldn’t put a silver lining on. I quickly walk around the entire place, which doesn’t take long since my apartment is a glorified shoebox. Every drawer in the apartment has been pulled out and carelessly emptied onto the floor. Every muscle in my body tenses more and more with each step I take. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket to call my boyfriend Chris, but then my gaze lands upon the piece of paper in the middle of the floor, right where my coffee table used to be. The sheet of paper is folded in half, and my name is scribbled on it. I immediately recognize the handwriting, and dread flows through my veins. My fingers tremble as I pick it up. I unfold the paper and read:

  M,

  I’m sorry.

  C.

  If this wasn’t so pathetic, it would be funny. Even though the note only has two actual words on it, I read the note a dozen times before the words actually sink in. I’m sorry? That’s all I get? My heart sinks when the next thought pops up inside my brain. We have a joint bank account. My stomach knots up. My cell phone is still clutched tightly in my hand, so I swiftly tap the passcode onto the screen to unlock it and open up my bank app. I hold my breath as the app loads, and when my balance shows up negative on the screen, I slump down in the middle of my now barren living room, as the tears that have been banished to hide behind my eyelids for years, finally break through and stream freely down my face. The last time I allowed myself to cry was years ago, but right now I couldn’t stop myself, even if I wanted to. What the hell am I going to do now? He’s not only taken most everything that might have some value, he has taken every penny out of our checking and, most importantly, our savings account. Even though not a penny of his money was in there. Panic grabs me around my throat, and I struggle to suck in enough air to take my next breath. My chest constricts, and I think I literally feel my heart breaking. My mind is running a thousand miles a minute, but I am not able to string together a coherent thought. I rise to my feet and mindlessly pace around the apartment, wiping the tears from my face with the back of my hand as I try to collect myself as best I can. My phone buzzes on the floor, and I move toward it in a daze. When I see Amber’s number flashing on the screen, I realize that I’m supposed to be at the catering event right now. And now that Chris has left me completely ruined, I need this job more than ever. I grab the phone from the floor and answer.

  “Hey,” I say as greeting. By some kind of miracle, I manage to keep my voice from breaking, even though I don’t even recognize my own voice.

  “Girl! Where the hell are you? Manfred is on the warpath.”

  I really don’t want to go, but I have no choice.

  “I’m coming. I…I had to deal with something, but I’ll be there in ten. Cover for me, please?”

  “Sweetie, I’ll try. Get your butt over here pronto.”

  “I will, promise.”

  I cut the call and rifle through some clothes that are haphazardly piled up on the floor and fish out an appropriate outfit. I get dressed in record time. I don’t have time for full makeup, so I slap some blush on my cheeks, some eyeliner and mascara on my eyes, and quickly clip my hair up. I’m out the door within minutes. When I get to the bottom of the steps, I am happy that I loaded my subway pass this morning, or I would have had to go by foot. After a short walk to West 4th Street, I take the E train and get to my stop in five minutes. I sprint from the station to the restaurant and arrive completely out of breath, but only twenty minutes late. I rush toward the back to drop off my bag.

  “Nice of you to show up.”

  I curse inwardly. I was hoping to sneak in undetected, but clearly this is not my day. I’m not sure how he spotted me so fast; the place is crowded. I stop walking and turn toward my obviously pissed off boss.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, but I’m here now,” I tell him, smiling my most convincing fake smile, reserved just for moments like this.

  “You are half an hour late, and you don’t even bother calling?”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Listen Toots, you are good at what you do, and easy on the eyes, but you are not
irreplaceable. I figured you were a no-show tonight, so I already replaced you.”

  “What? No! Listen, Paul, I really need this gig tonight. You can’t just—”

  “I sure as hell can, and I did. Sorry Toots, you snooze you lose.”

  Asshat.

  Damn it. I want to tell him that to his face, but I need this job now more than ever. I close my eyes in an attempt to reign in my temper. I count to ten in my head.

  “Paul, I really need to talk to you. I need this job.”

  He raises a brow.

  “I thought you were quitting?”

  “My plans have changed. I really would like to stay.”

  “I’ll have to think about it, Toots. After all, who says you won’t decide to quit on me again next week?”

  I have no idea what to tell him. I’ve worked for this creep for three damn years, and never have I been late or even threatened to quit.

  “Listen Toots, I don’t have time for this right now,” he says, annoyed, before he stalks off.

  Tears are burning behind my eyelids, but I refuse to let them out. After everything that has happened today, my mood is teetering between anger and desperation. I turn to leave but slam into my friend Amber instead.

  “Girl, I’m sorry. I tried, but he’s in a foul mood today,” she says with an apologetic smile.

  I sigh.

  “It’s not your fault, sweets,” I tell her, unable to keep my voice from breaking this time. I start walking away, but Amber rushes toward me and pulls me into a one-armed hug.

  “Oh honey, it’s not the end of the world. It was going to be your last night tonight anyway, right?”

  Afraid that my voice will betray me once more, I shake my head.

  “Oh honey, what’s the matter?”

  I put on a brave face.

  “I will tell you later, I promise. You need to get to work,” I tell her.

  She assesses me, concern painted all over her face.

  “Wait for me at the bar. You look like you need a drink.”

  I’m not sure if drinking is something I need to be doing in this frame of mind, but right now that sounds really good. Then I remember that I don’t have a penny to my name.

  “I can’t, I have no money with me. I—”

  “Girl, don’t sweat it. Alex is working; he’ll keep you in drinks. Besides, you’re hot. I bet they will be lining up to buy you a drink,” she says conspiratorially.

  She must notice my hesitation because she quickly adds, “I am not taking no for an answer. Get your gorgeous ass to that bar and wait for me.”

  I smile gratefully at my friend and nod.

  “Fine, but I’m taking these,” I tell her, as I grab the tray of smoked salmon potato bites I made earlier this evening.

  I follow her inside and take the last empty spot at the bar.

  “Hey M,” Alex greets me brightly.

  “Babe, she needs to get drunk. Give her a shot and keep them coming. Keep her ass here till I get off work, please.”

  “Got it, muffin,” he says with a smirk.

  Amber grimaces.

  “No?” he asks with a snicker.

  “Nope, keep looking buddy. That one is also a big fat no,” she tells him, nose wrinkled.

  It seems to amuse him, and I suspect that he’s enjoying making up these silly names to get her riled up. Amber walks off to get to work, and when I turn back around to face Alex, two shot glasses have been placed in front of me.

  “Drink,” he tells me.

  Judging from the salt and lime, I’m assuming it’s tequila. I lick my hand and shake some salt onto it. I take the first shot, welcoming the burning sensation as the golden liquid slides down my throat. I pick up the second shot glass and don’t even bother with salt this time.

  “You keep up with that kind of pace and you’ll be passed out within the hour. Whatever is troubling you, believe me, it won’t get fixed by getting wasted.”

  I turn to look at the guy sitting next to me, who has decided to interfere in my business, but I have to crane my neck to look at him properly; he’s tall, even sitting down.

  “That’s a mighty large scotch you are nursing there, buddy. Maybe you are projecting your own motives onto mine.”

  He chuckles.

  “Well, you’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you? Although, you might have a point there,” he says as he proceeds to drain the amber liquid in his glass.

  The timber of his voice is pleasant, almost soothing. I am on a roll though, ready to fire off another smartass remark, but then our eyes meet, and something happens. It’s not attraction, although the man is admittedly drop-dead gorgeous. He’s without a doubt very well-groomed; his dirty blond hair is perfectly styled, not a single hair out of place. He’s clean-shaven, and has cheekbones even I would kill for. His emerald green eyes sparkle brightly with amusement. I can tell it’s not attraction for him either, but genuine kindness.

  “I’ll have another,” he tells Alex. “And whatever the lady is drinking,” he continues, nodding his head toward me.

  “I’ll have what he’s having, Alex.”

  I turn back to the handsome stranger.

  “If we are going to be drinking buddies tonight, I should at least know what to call you,” I tell him as I offer him my hand.

  He takes my offer and clasps his hand around mine.

  “Brock Walker.”

  “Mackenzie Hart, but my friends call me M.”

  “M it is, then,” he says with a smile.

  It’s not long before Alex has poured our drinks and places them in front of us.

  “Well, Brock, what are we drinking to?” I ask.

  He raises his glass, and I follow suit.

  “May whatever is troubling us melt away as fast as you downed those shots,” he says with a wink.

  “Cheers,” I say, chuckling.

  Our glasses make contact, and I take a sip. Hmmm, this man is getting drunk in style.

  “So, you like them young then?”

  Brock looks at me, a little confused.

  “You lost me.”

  “This beauty is a mere eighteen years old,” I tell him with a smirk.

  He raises a brow.

  “I’m of course referring to the Macallan,” I say as I nod my head to the drink in his hand.

  “Hmmm...interesting. But it could be a lucky guess, or you saw him pour it.”

  I shrug.

  “You could be right, of course, but I guess we will never know for sure,” I say, my tone challenging.

  Amused, I pop a potato bite in my mouth and motion for Brock to take one too.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he says, leaning in closer. “Fifty dollars says that you can’t do that again.”

  I scoff.

  “I don’t get out of bed for a mere fifty. Make it a hundred and you’re on.”

  Maybe it’s the alcohol starting to get to me, but when he smiles, I feel my insides warm. Brock takes his wallet out of his suit jacket, pulls out a crisp one hundred dollar bill, and places it on the bar. I feel bad taking this man’s money because I know for a fact that I will identify every single scotch he puts in front of me. While I was in culinary school, I worked in a whiskey bar to help make ends meet, and we were encouraged to try all of the whiskeys. I developed quite a taste for it, and I guess you could say that I’m a connoisseur. I smile at him.

  “I feel bad taking your money, I—”

  “Just as I thought, you can’t do it,” he interrupts.

  “Fine, I’ll take your money then.”

  Brock motions Alex over.

  “Okay then, Kenzie, turn around.”

  I roll my eyes, both at his shortening of my name and his request, but say nothing and just obey. It’s only been a couple minutes when he tells me to turn back around. When I do, there are three glasses placed on the bar, and the hundred dollars has been joined by a few more bills.

  “You tell me all three of these and you get five hundred dollars. Get it wrong, a
nd you owe me a drink.”

  “That hardly seems fair.”

  “Okay, fine, you’ll owe me two drinks.”

  “No, I mean for you. That money is as good as mine,” I tell him smugly.

  I shoot a look at Alex, who’s standing there smirking. He has known me for years, since he started dating Amber, and has spent many nights at the whiskey bar with us. I take the first glass and take a sip, a smile tugging at my lips.

  “Well, I hope you are going to make it a little harder, and with a little better quality,” I tell him as I place the glass back on the bar.

  “Well, Miss Smarty Pants, what was that one?”

  “Johnnie Walker, Red Label. It’s nice, but there are definitely better ones.”

  I pick up the second glass and bring it to my lips, the honey-colored liquid sliding smoothly down my throat.

  “Well, that’s more like it. And it seems that I was right; another teenager. You have a thing for eighteen-year-olds, Brock? Yamazaki, single malt.”

  I feign disinterest, sighing dramatically when I pick up the final glass.

  I swirl the amber liquid inside the glass and bring it to my nose. When I take a whiff, I already know what I’m about to drink. It isn’t without difficulty that I keep my facial features schooled to neutral, especially with Brock staring at me, clearly expecting me to fail. He’s chosen another Macallan, only this time a different year.

  “Well duh, this is another Macallan.”

  He smiles wide.

  “You sure?”

  “Yup, only this time she’s legal. A quarter-century, very nice.” I say as I smile sweetly.

  He simply stares at me for a moment before throwing his head back laughing so heartily that it’s hard not to join in.