“That’s right. Because, despite you being family and the one I’m raising to take the reins over the guys, I won’t fucking hesitate to snuff the life out of you.”
He cocks the gun, and the sound seems to ricochet off of the cement walls, ringing in my ears. My palms are sweaty, but I stand tall and look him squarely in his gray eyes. Any sign of weakness, any sign of emotion, and my life is over.
After a minute, he nods his head, seemingly satisfied, and takes the gun away. I stifle my sigh of relief as he uncocks it and sticks it into the back waistband of his pants.
“Now, get upstairs.” I don’t pause and I don’t look back.
Later that night, he tasks me with taking the pizza boxes down to the basement. I’m about to toss them in when I see the puppy at the bottom of the can.
“I won’t think twice.”
I start at the sound of Uncle Mick’s voice. When I look behind me, I see him watching me from the doorway.
“And I’ll throw you out with the rest of the garbage.”
With that, he leaves me alone in the basement, where I continue to watch the garbage can for a few minutes. I should have known better. He’s proved that I can’t afford to care about anything or anyone except myself. Taking a deep breath, I expel any emotions remaining inside me as I exhale. A wall cements itself around my heart, crushing it until it is no longer there.
Stupid puppy.
I throw the blanket over my shoulder, grab the mugs, and walk back to the kitchen. There is an industrial size washer and dryer in the back room, so I throw the blanket into the bin beside it for the dirty uniforms. The coffee is cold, so I toss it down the sink and rinse out the cups before placing them in the dishwasher. Next, I open the refrigerator and contemplate what to make for breakfast even though I know damn well I have no appetite. I slam the door shut and look around the kitchen, trying to find something else to do to keep myself busy.
Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s almost nine. The life of a bar owner means late hours, but the rest of the world doesn’t shift to meet my schedule. I need to get ready and start my day. I have too much shit to do to be . . . moping around.
You know that’s what you’re doing, dickhead, so just admit it.
Climbing the stairs, I force myself to go straight into my room my eyes deliberately voicing her door. After grabbing some clothes, I take a look down the hall to make sure the bathroom is empty. The last thing I need is for either of us to be running into each other while we’re half naked.
The door is wide open, so I walk in and shut the door behind me. A little bit of steam lingers in the air, the sweet smell of vanilla floating in on each breath. I rub the ache forming in my chest and lean back against the wall. It baffles me that I regret what I said to her. When did I turn into such a pussy?
I push away from the wall and hang my towel on the hook behind the door. After reaching into the shower and turning it on, I brace my arms on the sink and look at myself in the mirror as the room slowly fills with steam. I can see the hardness in my gray eyes—the fatigue from the life I’ve chosen to live. I suppose I can count myself lucky that I’ve lived to be thirty. Maybe this change of pace will mean I’ll live a whole lot longer. The problem is that this future looks just as bleak. Because I’ll be just as alone. As it should be.
Shoving away from the counter, I strip off my clothes, and step under the steady stream of hot water. What would it be like to have a future like everyone else? A woman I deserved to grow old with. Not just any woman.
I shake my head and tell the pansy boy inside me to shut the fuck up. But I can’t help thinking about the dark-haired beauty in the next room. Sighing, I reach out and turn the knob to the coldest setting.
I finally make it downstairs, and as I approach my office, I notice freshly washed dishes drying beside the sink. Good—she ate something. I walk inside and shut the door. The desk faces the exit and when I sit down in my rolling leather chair, my back is to the wall. Old habits.
I boot up the computer and get to work, making a few phone calls and arranging for deliveries of new uniforms and some furniture. Then I dive into the tedium of finances and scheduling. There was a day when I would have scoffed at the idea of work like this. But now, I find it oddly comforting. It stretches my mind and keeps me busy.
Sometime later, there’s a knock at my door. I grunt in annoyance at the interruption. I’d finally found some focus and have been buried in work for almost two hours.
“What?” I ask gruffly.
When the door opens, J is standing there in a huff, her claws clearly bared and propped on her hips. She gives me a scathing look, to which I respond with the lift of a single eyebrow. Surprise crosses her features as she stares at me for moment, but then the little hellcat returns.
“Exactly what should I be doing, Warden?” Her tone is belligerent, but her eyes are holding back some reaction to me that I can’t figure out.
I sigh and lean back in my chair. I go to scrub my hands down my face, but I remember I have my reading glasses on. That must be why she was surprised. Since I only wear them when I have to be staring at a computer for an extended length of time, most people don’t see me with them on. Removing them, I toss them on the desk and stand up, stretching my cramped muscles.
“Your job as a server doesn’t really entail anything else, but if you’re bored, there are some things I could use help with.”
At the mention of “help,” her expression turns a little sour. But her need to keep her boredom at bay wins out.
“Fine. What can I do?”
I grab a stack of paperwork and hand it to her along with a pen. “I need inventory done. Just count the supplies and make a note of what we are running low on. The number next to the item tells you at what point we need to order more. So check this box if we’ve gone below it, and then make a note as to how many we are short.” I reach back over the desk and grab a clipboard. “Here. Use this.”
She takes it from me, carefully avoiding physical contact. Inwardly, I sigh. I was wondering whether we’d settle into something comfortable or awkward.
Awkward it is.
She scans the forms, then nods before turning to leave.
“Oh, wait.” I can’t stop myself from reaching out to touch her arm.
She looks at me then pointedly down at my fingers until I pull them back. This time, I roll my eyes.
“Relax, J. I just wanted to tell you to look out for two deliveries. Do not answer the door. Do you understand? Come and get me when they arrive.”
Before she can argue, I gently place my hand over her mouth.
“Reign in your claws, kitten. Safety first. Got it?”
The reminder that she is here for her safety and not being held hostage—poor choice of words, jackass—takes the fight out of her eyes. She inclines her head in agreement and retreats out the door.
I sit down and put my glasses back on, returning my attention to the computer. But, I find myself staring at the door for a few minutes more before sternly reminding myself to get back to work. After several useless attempts to get back to my paperwork, I decide that it’s time for lunch. We need to eat.
Throwing my glasses back on the desk, I head to the kitchen to make lunch. Not once does it cross my mind that I’ll be in her space, forcing her to spend time with me.
Bullshit.
THE FUCKING NERVE of that man.
My mind replays his words over and over again after what was one of the hottest kisses I’ve ever experienced. “For being such an innocent girl, you sure kiss like a woman, Jill. You could give Niki a run for her money.”
Rage fills me again when I think about it. Earlier, I attempted to lose myself in inventory, but really, all I did was stew over our encounter. He’s just a prick.
I pull open my laptop to send Dad another email. There’s no way I can continue to stay here under these conditions.
Scrooge,
Get me out of here.
Jill Who Hates Her Boss
/> Dad must be waiting for my messages, because he immediately responds.
Jill Who Needs To Be Patient,
I will . . . but not yet. Please just hang in there. I’m so sorry about all of this.
Scrooge
Tears well in my eyes. I wanted him to have a solution—to say that everything was resolved and I was Joss again. Nope. Still Jill.
Scrooge,
How long will I have to live with him?
J
While I wait for his response, I pull my hair into a ponytail since my shift will be starting soon. I have my work shirt on, but I’m still wearing jeans. Mr. Asshole took all the skirts.
Ping.
J,
Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Decades. I don’t know . . . but you’ll stay there until I’m a hundred percent positive you are safe. Chin up, girl.
S
I nearly swipe my laptop to the floor with his answer. I’ll run away if this goes longer than months. There’s no way I can live with him for years or decades. I’ll become either suicidal or homicidal.
“Knock, knock,” a feminine voice calls out from the other side of my door.
“You can come in unless your name is Slade.”
Delia pushes through and raises an amused brow at me. “He’s on my shit list too, newbie.” She motions to her slightly girly, black man-pants and my eyes widen. They’re horrible!
“Um. Wow,” I start before curling up my lip in disgust. “Ew.”
She rolls her eyes and tosses me a pair. “These are yours. Put them on.”
While I begin changing, she walks over to the window and looks out.
“He’s not a bad guy—he’s just trying to learn the ropes of managing a bar.”
I ignore the way she sticks up for him and say, “Delia, I can’t wear these.”
And it’s true. Mr. Asshole didn’t take into account that my legs are a mile long. The pants are at least four inches too short. On Delia, they fit like a glove. But I look like a dweeb.
When she turns to see me, she bursts into a fit of giggles, and I join in. I want my damn skirt back.
Maybe I can have my skirt back.
“I have an idea,” I smile as I make my way over to my suitcase.
Dad actually did a pretty good job of packing up the clothes I would want. I have a scarf fetish and was pleased to see he’d packed all of them. So, after grabbing the heap, I toss them on the bed.
Her brows furrow together in confusion. “What are we doing?”
I grin wickedly at her. “Wardrobe change. Have you ever made a skirt from a scarf?”
Dark, conspiratorial eyes twinkle at me. “No, but this hussy is willing to learn. I hate these fucking pants.” She immediately begins unbuttoning and then wiggles her curvy body out of the man-pants.
It takes a few minutes and some adjusting, but soon, we’re wearing matching scarf skirts. They’re short and tight, and Slade will flip his shit. Good. It’s not like he can fire me . . . or Delia for that matter. He’d sink without her and he’s burdened with me. This will serve him right.
“That orange brings out the lovely tan color on your legs,” I compliment.
She eyes my long legs and smiles. “That black brings out the white in your legs. You’re like a Goth wet dream.”
We giggle as we grab our aprons and head to the door. On the way out, I grab the unused scissors that were meant to take off my hair. After I cut a few holes in the man-pants, we hook our elbows together and prepare to meet the firing squad.
“Now we can go.”
Jill is a bad girl.
I am slightly disappointed when Slade is busily working in his office with the door closed. My body flares with rebellious anger, ready for a fight. Instead, I set to following Delia around, helping her as the crowd begins to pick up.
“Slade really outdid himself with the new uniforms,” Simon laughs and waggles his eyebrows as we pass him.
Each time he sees us, he can’t keep the goofy grin off his face and teases us. This job would actually be really likeable if Mr. Asshole would stay in his cave.
When someone walks in, Delia nods her head over to the front door. “Newbie, you picked it up pretty quick last night. I thought I’d let you have a few customers tonight just to get your feet wet. Want to go help that guy out?” she questions as she hands me a menu. “And by the way, he’s eyeing up your legs. I think he’ll leave you an extra-special tip.”
I try to force down the excitement of having my own table and take the menu from her. “Thank you!”
She rolls her eyes at my apparent overexcitement of work and leaves me to my own devices. Yanking the pad and pen from my apron, I saunter as sexily as I can over to what I’m quickly seeing is a good-looking man who’s slid into a booth alone.
“Hey there, sugar. What can I get you to drink?” I purr. If I’m going to get my own tables, I’m going to get some kickass tips.
His eyes bug out of his head as he drinks me up. “Holy shit. You’re . . . uh . . . You are gorgeous.”
My cheeks redden at his compliment. It’s nice to hear such a sweet thing from a nice-looking man. I try not to focus on the pang in my heart when I realize he has many similarities to Kent. This man has longish, blond hair, dark-blue eyes, and one dimple on the right side of his mouth that’s quirked into an adorable lopsided grin. Kent didn’t have a dimple, but they could be related based on their similarities.
“Thanks.” I’m still just smiling at him but am confused on what to do next.
He composes himself and now introduces himself politely. “Jack Bronson. Nice to meet you.”
Very Kent of him. I shake his hand. Very Joss of me.
“Jill Anderson.”
He quirks up a brow. “Hmmm. You don’t look like a Jill. Maybe something a little more exotic? Judith? Jasmine?”
Joss.
His eyes are questioning. Suddenly, I feel very wary of my fake persona. Am I that transparent?
“I, uh . . . I hear that a lot,” I stammer.
He narrows his eyes as if to question why I would lie about something as simple as my name. “Okay. I’ll have a Corona with lime and a side of Jill,” he says with a wink.
My cheeks go crimson again. Kent was the king of corny pickup lines. Once again, my heart aches for the normalcy of my old life. Instead of giving him an answer, I turn on my heel and sashay—for his benefit—over to the bar. The bartender isn’t here yet, so I slide behind the bar and bend over to open one of the small refrigerators under the bar.
When I hear something slam hard on the bar, I nearly drop the Corona in my hands. Then I stand and turn to see who made the racket. My eyes find the beautiful, steely, pissed-as-hell ones of Slade.
Oh shit.
In attempt to not show my fear, I lift my chin and snatch up a bottle opener. Once I’ve opened it and poked a lime in the top, I pivot on my heel and storm toward him. As I pass him, I can almost feel the furious heat suffocating me. I don’t give him a chance to chew me out and all but skip over to Jack.
Jack’s eyes are all over my body as I approach. It makes me feel wanted—appreciated—unlike the way Slade makes me feel. Today, Slade made me feel like a piece of trash. Like I wasn’t even good enough to be one of his “tenants.”
“Your Corona,” I beam as I sit down in the booth beside him, “and a side of Jill.”
His eyes widen with surprise, but he quickly recovers. And again he hits on me with his Kent-like flirts. “I like my Coronas cold and my side of Jill hot.”
I giggle at Jack’s corniness but can’t help when my eyes flit over to Slade who’s pacing behind the bar like a caged animal, his eyes never leaving our table.
“Do you want anything to eat?” I ask and pull out my pad so it will appear like I’m working.
Jack’s eyes study every feature of mine, from my dark, pulled-back hair all the way down my long, slender neck. “How old are you?” he asks softly as his eyes search mine.
Shit. I wasn’t prepare
d for that question. I’m afraid that, if I lie again, he’ll think I’m a total weirdo. But I can’t be too trusting.
“Old enough to know that she isn’t supposed to sit with the customers while on the clock,” Slade’s low voice grumbles from beside me. “Jill. My office. I’ll finish with this customer.”
Tears sting my eyes, and I’m horrified. Rather than embarrass myself further, I scoot from the booth and push past Slade without sparing him a glance. I hate him. My long strides don’t slow until I’ve burst into his office and pushed the door closed behind me. I’ve blinked back my tears, but they’re barely at bay.
Seconds later, the door opens and Slade slips inside.
“Okay, first of all,” he snarls as he reaches down and pinches the fabric of my skirt, “what in the ever-loving fuck is this?”
I bite my lip and shake my head, willing the tears to stay away. My eyes refuse to meet his. “The man-pants were too short.”
“Man-pants?” His voice holds a slightly humorous edge to it, and I hope that it indicates he’ll go easy on me.
“Yes,” I sigh dramatically. “High-water man-pants. Why do you want me to be ugly?” This time, the tears well in my eyes. I don’t understand him.
His hand slips under my chin and he lifts it so he can see me. For a split second, I think I see regret in his eyes. I hope it’s regret for his awful words from earlier.
With narrowed eyes and complete seriousness, he practically breathes out his next words—they’re that soft. “You could never be ugly.”
My heart does a little flutter and a tiny smile tugs at my lips. His eyes fall to them and then they darken. After clearing his throat, he once again glares at me.
“What the hell was going on at that table? You know you have to be wary of everyone who comes in here.”
The tears come back and roll down my cheeks. “He isn’t after me, Slade. I was just making small talk.”
He growls, “No more small talk. It’s fucking dangerous.”
“I hate it here,” I whisper and look down at my feet. When big, fat, ugly tears fall and splash on my tennis shoes, my eyes fixate on the wet spatters. “I just wanted to talk to someone. He seemed interested in me.”
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