Risk It All (MacAteer Brothers Book 4)

by ML Nystrom

  He shrugged and picked up his half-drunk glass for another long pull. “She needs a long, hard fuck, but more than that, she needs to feel like a woman should. Admired, desired, and appreciated. I gave her that without compromising her vows.”

  I hummed a response. “Nice of you to do that, Patrick. I figured you’d be in bed with her an hour ago.”

  He lifted one corner of his mouth. “Aye, I could have, but there are some lines I won’t cross. Way too many complications and Clara would be one of them.”

  “You mean Maggie.”

  He grinned and picked up his beer. “Yeah, Maggie.”

  I needed to perhaps reassess my opinion of him. There was more depth to the Irish boy toy than I thought.

  He finished the beer and reached out to tweak a piece of my bright red locks. “You know, Sloane, you could’ve told me about her.”

  My belly surprised the hell out of me by flipping when he reached out to touch me. I also noted that he never forgot my name. Even though that idea gave me warm fuzzies, I wasn’t naïve enough to think it meant anything. He’d been coming in often enough he damn well better know who served him and put up with his shenanigans. I covered my reaction by flipping the mass over my shoulder along with the dishtowel. “And spoil a good show? Believe me, baby, the shit that goes on here is better than any reality program.”

  He looked straight into my eyes, and for a moment, my heart stopped beating. Then he threw his head back and roared with laughter. Patrick was back to normal.

  My alarm blared, and I reluctantly got up to face the day. Ten might seem late to some people, but since I crawled into bed around four thirty, I still only got about five and a half hours of sleep, and that was on a good night. If lucky, I’d be able to take a nap later should I get an opportunity. Wishful thinking on my part, but there was always hope.

  Patrick left before I made last call. After the bar closed, my work didn’t end. Cleanup, receipts, running the day’s financial report, cashing out the register, and carrying the deposit bags up to my loft apartment over the building. All of that needed finishing before I could rest. I had the top-floor unit, which was smaller, but came with a cool outdoor deck area on the roof. My brother, Gordon, had the big second-floor unit along with his girlfriend and daughter.

  I dressed and made coffee in my tiny kitchen. No need to shower as I’d done that when I staggered up the steps after work. After slinging booze all night, I always felt nasty from being covered in dried sweat and bar goo. No way could I crawl into my nice clean bed that way.

  During the week, the bar opened at four and closed at midnight, but on weekends, we opened at two and closed at two. We had a couple of waitresses on weekends and party nights, but Gordon and I did most of the work. This kept our overhead as low as possible and so far we stayed in the black, but it wouldn’t take a lot for that needle to slip over to the red.

  We co-owned the business. But for mortgage and credit purposes, my name was on the building. The original idea I had in purchasing instead of leasing was to rent the two apartments to cover the loan payments. The revenue from the bar would pay for its own expenses and make a nice profit. Didn’t quite work the way I expected. Asheville is not a cheap place to live; therefore, we decided it didn’t make sense for someone to pay us rent, while we had to pay rent ourselves for separate living quarters. As of now, the bar’s earnings covered all expenses and had enough profits for us to collect small salaries. We managed to produce a decent living, though not a rich one.

  After coffee, I munched on a Pop-Tart and opened my laptop to catch up on the books. Once a quarter, I had an accountant come in to straighten out anything I’d missed and file taxes. Otherwise, I handled the day-to-day money. The bank bag sat on my kitchen table and I counted coins, tattered bills, and credit card receipts. Most people ran a tab on plastic, but there were always a smattering of locals who preferred cash. I picked up a one-hundred-dollar bill that had a phone number scribbled on it along with a smear of red lipstick.

  Automatically, my mind shot straight to Patrick MacAteer.

  Almost two weeks had passed since the St. Patrick’s Day party and he’d become a regular customer. Angus came with him most nights, but a few times, the handsome party man came by himself. I swear he had to be the biggest, most outrageous flirt ever born. No woman was immune to him, at least none that I’d seen, and being female was the only requirement. Big, small, tall, short, blonde, brunette, he turned on that supernova smile of his and panties dropped. From the bar talk I’d overheard, he’d nailed more than one woman already and broken a few hearts along the way. One girl wailed to her companions that he called her Arianna twice when her name was Maudie.

  I popped the rest of my breakfast in my mouth and stacked up last night’s receipts. Patrick MacAteer was not my problem. He was gorgeous, built like a brick house, and exceedingly fun to be around, but definitely a prize that the single female population wanted to land. His smile had enough power in it to even charm me a little. Already I’d found myself laughing and teasing back with him as we got to know each other.

  I discovered he did have some scruples though. Last night, I watched him reject a guaranteed night in bed with a more-than-willing woman. Perhaps there was more to him than the manwhore image he put out.

  The sudden loud banging on my door scared the piss out of me, and I dropped the hundred-dollar bill on the table.

  “Sloane? You up?”

  Gordon didn’t wait but came straight into my loft. “You have coffee? Cammie forgot to get it yesterday. She’s not feelin’ too well the last few days.”

  I gestured toward my kitchen. “Whole pot full. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks. Bar did good last night?”

  “Good for a Thursday.” I placed the stacked cash and card receipts inside the money bag. “I’ll take this to the bank in a little while. We need a June party.”

  He shrugged and sucked back a long drink of the strong brew. “What’d we do last year?”

  “June fourteenth. National Bourbon Day.”

  “Works for me.” He put the empty mug in the sink and filled a travel cup for Cammie. “Did you see the shelves in the back storeroom? I think there’s a leak in the wall. The paneling looks warped, and some shelves in that back corner are starting to buckle.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I saw it. I’ll go by Home Depot after the bank and get what we need.”

  “How ’bout hiring that Patrick fellow or one of his brothers to do the work? We’re not destitute, you know. In fact, between the two of us, we’ve managed to save quite a bit. It would be a great time to….”

  Shit, here it comes. Again. “Not yet.”

  “Sloane, think about it. Expanding into a restaurant makes sense. We have Grandma’s recipes, and Cammie can run the kitchen….”

  Gordon had raised this idea for years now. The bar had the space to put in a kitchen with a little reconfiguring. It was doable, but Gordon couldn’t quite grasp the magnitude of the project. The bar would have to go through a huge remodel, which meant potential lost revenue. Add in the cost of labor, materials, hiring full-time staff, food, equipment, advertising, inspections, and all the other shit needed, it would take a small fortune. We had enough money between us, but this venture had the potential to take every penny and send the needle way into the red. I’d already paid off one massive debt and was saving for something else. I thought he was too.

  “The money you’ve been saving up you told me was earmarked for a house. Cammie’s told you time and time again how she feels about living above the bar. She wants a nice place in a family-friendly neighborhood for you two to raise Courtney.”

  Gordon scoffed and slashed his hand. “Courtney is still a baby, and Cammie said she would love to run her own kitchen someday.”

  He didn’t lie.

  Before she got pregnant, Cammie worked as a sous-chef in one of the fancy five-star places in the high-dollar district of the city. “Your daughter won’t stay a baby. Children have th
e tendency to grow. Fast.”

  “Cammie understands.”

  “I don’t. Gordon, I have one more year to go. Don’t fuck with me while I wait.”

  Gordon made to argue further but gave up. He knew exactly what I referred to even though he forbade me to talk about it out loud. He heaved a gigantic sigh and picked up the travel mug. “I got it, sis. Maybe after next year?”

  “We’ll see. Now take that bean juice to Cammie before she leaves you.”

  He grinned. “She loves me too much, and I’m buying her a house someday.”

  “Still need to put a ring on it.”

  Gordon ignored my parting shot, and his clomping steps echoed through my loft as he descended.

  Chapter Four

  “Jameson and a Guinness, please, Sloane.”

  Patrick eased his aching body on a stool, and Angus did the same. They’d tag-teamed recently on five massive deck jobs with Owen, as well as putting in the fencing and eating area for a dog run at the back of a coffee shop. Connor had not lied to them about business opportunities in the mountain city. They had more jobs lined up for the next few weeks in Black Mountain and Woodfin that meant long hours and huge pay. Rain stalled them last week for two days, but they had caught up by putting up large halogen lights and working past dark.

  Sloane worked the bar solo, which was rare for a busy Thursday night. She faced away from them but raised a finger to say she’d heard and would get to them shortly. She finished blending three margaritas and serving them to some women, then pulled two pitchers to fill from the tap.

  “Where’s Gordon?”

  Sloane didn’t look up from her task. “Cammie’s been sick for a few days, and he had to take care of the baby tonight.”

  “She gonna be okay?”

  “Don’t know. She’s pretty bad. Gordon’s tried to convince her to go to the doctor, but we don’t have a great insurance plan.” Sloane distractedly pulled the beers. Patrick noticed she didn’t execute the perfect pour as she usually did. Normally, she tilted the tulip-shaped glass to form a beautiful foam head and let it settle before topping off. Tonight she jerked down the tap handle and handed them glasses immediately, letting the head froth heavily.

  “You okay, darlin’?”

  She answered with an eye roll and a huff. “I’m fine. Just busy. I called one of the weekend girls to come help, but she’s at her other job. She’ll come in when she can.”

  “Yo, sweetheart! We gonna get served sometime this century?”

  The call came from a group of businessmen sitting at a table near the back. Sloane lifted two full pitchers in one hand and a tray of glasses in the other. “Be right back.”

  Patrick winced at the weight she carried in her arms. Ropey with muscle but toothpick thin. He looked around at the other patrons as he shot back his whiskey. The burn traveled down his throat and settled with a comfortable warmth in his stomach. The counter had puddles and debris scattered over its surface, where he’d only seen it meticulously kept. Fuck, she was clearly overwhelmed.

  Angus tipped his glass back. “She’s having a rough night, eh?”

  “Yeah. Those assholes aren’t helping much.”

  Patrick sipped at the beer and watched Sloane grab a few empties from a table and give it a brief swipe. Dammit, the woman was about to work herself to death. He saw her lean on the table as if catching her breath.

  “Fuck this shit,” he muttered and stepped behind the bar.

  Angus grinned at him. “Tryin’ to work up some brownie points or helpin’ out?”

  “Shut up, brother, unless you’re gonna come back here and help.”

  Angus shrugged and joined in.

  Sloane came back with a round tray on her hip and a frown the size of Texas on her face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Patrick pulled a beer from the array of taps for a customer. “Saving your ass, what little of it is there. When was the last time you ate? Christmas?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, smartass. I ate this morning.”

  He looked at his watch. “It’s going on nine o’clock, darlin’.”

  She waved away his concern. “I’ll eat later.”

  “How ’bout now?”

  “I have too much work to do.”

  A text message ding from her phone interrupted his answer. The utterly defeated look on Sloane’s face made him want to hug her. “Shit. Jeanie can’t come in after all.”

  Angus dumped a pile of glasses into the sink with a rattle. “Good thing we’re here, eh? We can’t mix any fancy drinks, but we can pour beer and bus tables for you. Sit your ass down for a few minutes. You got this, Patrick?”

  “I’m on it. Sloane, you like roast beef or turkey?”

  She put a load in the dishwasher and closed the door. “You ordering food? You don’t have to get me anything.”

  “I know I don’t have to, but I’m going to. What’s your choice, or shall I make it for you?”

  Thankfully she gave up without further argument. This told Patrick the depth of her fatigue more than the dark circles under her eyes. “Either is fine.”

  “Cool. McAllister’s Deli it is.” His fingers danced over his phone and he grinned at her as he ordered. “Grubhub, baby. Best app in the world.”

  Angus pulled two more beers. “Get us some of those Cinnabon cheesecakes they have. That will put some meat on your bones.”

  Sloane sat on a stool near the back of the bar area. “I have plenty of meat on me.”

  Angus laughed. “I think you’ve been taking those diet pills. Heard of them? No-ass-at-alls?”

  Sloane didn’t laugh with him. Patrick stopped what he was doing and glanced over. Her eyes were down, and she seemed to be biting her lip. Angus’s teasing should have brought out a bit of fire. Instead, she looked… well… hurt.

  “Ahh, you gobshite arsehole!” He threw a paper coaster at Angus’s head. “Your latest lady love is a yoga teacher. All bendy like a pretzel. I bet she isn’t heavy in the ass, either.”

  Angus caught the coaster and tossed it back. “Sloane knows I’m messing with her.” He turned to the seated woman and made a cordial bow. “I sincerely apologize for insulting your delectable ass, madame.”

  She tried to get huffy, but Angus accomplished his mission, and she laughed out loud. “You two are the biggest clowns I’ve ever met.”

  Patrick pulled another three beers and handed her the wad of cash the customer gave him. “Here, love. You can run the register.”

  The table in the back called for another refill, and Angus carried the pitchers this time.

  “They want to know about the karaoke machine. You gonna fire it up?”

  Sloane shook her head. “Not tonight. Gordon is the one who knows how to work that thing. Pete helps sometimes, but he’s not here.”

  Patrick took the empty pitchers and loaded them into the washer along with the sink full of glasses. “I can do it. I ran one of these when we had a job in Ocean City.”

  “No, thanks. Karaoke is for the weekends, and frankly, I’d rather those guys leave as soon as possible. They’ve been a pain in my ass all night.”

  “Good point, darlin’. They been giving you a rough time?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle, but I’m still ready for them to pay up and go.”

  The food arrived, and Patrick argued with Sloane to go to the tiny back office.

  “Stubborn wench. The bar’s not gonna implode in the fifteen minutes it’ll take for you to eat.”

  “It’s my bar, Patrick MacAteer.”

  “And it will still be your bar in fifteen minutes. Go.”

  Her face screwed up at him. “I don’t like you very much right now.”

  He let it slide right off his back. “Oh, darlin’, I know you secretly love me. Now go.”

  She finally left with a growl, and he chuckled at her pique. If her eyes had lasers, he would be ashes by now.

  By eleven o’clock, most of the place had emptied. Last call came an
d went, leaving only a few of the regulars and the loud businessmen. Angus swept the floors while Patrick emptied the dishwasher. Sloane ran the day’s reports, then moved to clear and wipe tables.

  “Thanks, guys, for helping out. I doubt I could’ve made it tonight without you. I got it from here if you want to go home.”

  Patrick stood from his crouched position, and his back cracked loudly. “No problem, sweetheart. Always glad to help. I don’t know about Angus, but you can pay me back in booze or….” He waggled his eyebrows up and down at her.

  She barked a laugh at his obvious play. “Booze it is.”

  “We need two more pitchers over here!” an overstuffed suit yelled across the room.

  “Last call was a half hour ago, buddy. Bar’s closed,” Sloane called back as she placed a handful of glasses on a tray. A moment later, a hand seized her arm and jerked her around, banging her hip against the table hard enough to move it. Glasses fell and shattered on the floor.

  “I said, we need two more pitchers! You deaf?”

  Sloane leaned her head back as the man’s rancid breath and spittle sprayed in her face. “No, not deaf, asshole. You apparently are. I said last call is over!”

  The man’s jowly face curled in on itself as he prepared to explode. He didn’t get the chance.

  Patrick saw red as fury erupted in his head. He rushed over and dropped his arm over the asshole’s head, jerking back on his neck and cutting off the shorter man’s air. The drunk man was thrown off balance and released Sloane to claw at Patrick’s arm, trying to break free. Patrick wanted to squeeze harder. He barely noticed the man’s attempts at freeing himself, his rage was that great.

  “Patrick, let him go. I’m okay.”

  He didn’t want to. He really didn’t, but the pleading expression on Sloane’s face had him easing his death grip. His arm dropped, and the man bent over, coughing and choking.