by Cathryn Cade
“Thanks,” Lesa said, her eyes stinging. “Appreciate the words of encouragement.”
“I appreciate the chocolate.” Wanda held up a second cookie and grinned. “From what I remember, these are better than sex.”
Lesa nearly spit out a mouthful of coffee. She managed to swallow before she burst out laughing. “Oh, my God. I hope you’re not right. I’m kind of hoping to meet ‘that guy’, you know? The one who really makes it happen.”
“Well, according to the romance novels I read, you need to get out with your girls to those singles bars. Dress up and have fancy drinks, then dance the night away.”
“How did you and your husband date?”
“Oh, we went for ice cream, then to dances at the American Legion. We used to drive out in the country on nice summer evenings too. He had a blue Ford pickup.”
Lesa rolled her last bite of chocolate around on her tongue. “My boss has a vintage Ford pickup.”
When Wanda said nothing, Lesa blinked. She found Wanda smiling at her in a knowing way. “Well, come spring, get a ride in it,” she advised. “You can have a lot of fun on those plush seats.”
Lesa shook her head, snickering. “As if. Don’t think that’s going to happen. He has women following him around.”
“Then you be the one that doesn’t,” Wanda advised, slapping her hand on the table. “Men like to chase, not be chased. Girls need to remember that.”
“Well, I plan to give him plenty of time to do that.” Because she sure as heck wasn’t going after him. She needed a job, not hot sex. Also, she did not need a bitch like Marta on her case, and the redhead seemed the jealous type.
If only she wasn’t certain that Pete Vanko was the man who could show her sex was exponentially better than chocolate.
The temptation to let him catch her was strong, so strong that before she went to sleep that night, she gave her vibrator a work-out with his name all over it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
January 7th
After her sexy fantasy, Lesa was embarrassed to even look Pete in the eye.
But after giving herself a talking-to that he could not possibly intuit that she’d discussed him with her neighbor, and then done even more, she approached him before they opened the next morning. She explained what Streak had said about the little house being for rent cheaper to an employee of the Flyers.
Pete pulled out his phone and sent a text, then looked up at her. “Done.”
“Thank you,” she breathed, a little shocked by his swift help. She didn’t know what she’d expected … maybe that he’d give her an impatient frown and say maybe later, right now they were busy opening. A spot of warmth settled in her chest. “Just—thanks.”
“No problem. Also, I’m gone for three days, so I need you on late shift, Sylvie’s early this week. Rocker will be comin’ in to work the bar with Streak.”
Eager to express her gratitude, Lesa nodded. “Yeah, I can work the late shifts. So, enjoy your time off.”
He smirked. “I’ll do that.”
Lesa moved in two days later. Luckily, the little house was furnished. The tiny bedroom had a bed, a nightstand and a closet with one wall of shelves. The sitting room had a love-seat, a recliner and built-in shelves for TV and DVR, but since Lesa had neither, she set out framed photos of her family instead.
The tiny, u-shaped kitchen had an attached breakfast bar that separated it from the sitting room, which made her happy as it gave her just enough room to bake.
She was not lacking in utensils, either, as Wanda had handed her a farewell gift of a box of utensils for baking, including two new cookie sheets, a nice spatula, some rubber spatulas, measuring spoons and cups, and even a roll of parchment paper.
When Lesa had thanked her profusely, the old lady waved this off, merely requesting that Lesa stop in and see her from time to time, ‘cause Wanda sure wasn’t setting foot in that biker bar.
The first thing Lesa did was bake a fresh batch of her cookies, and take them in to share with her co-workers at the Hangar.
The pub was silent for a moment as Joe, Pico, Streak and Sylvie all chewed their first bites. Then three things happened at once.
“Oh, mahgawd,” Sylvie moaned, her eyes closing. “So good.”
The three men, still chewing, dove for the cookie plate and grabbed more of the moist, gooey treats.
“Jesus,” Streak said, licking his lips and admiring his second prize. “Don’t know what you put in these, but they are like crack.”
Joe nodded, stuffing another in his mouth, while Pico chewed in blissful silence.
“They’re called Chocolate Orgasms,” she admitted, snickering. “So, I had to make them, right?”
“Think I just had an 'o',” Sylvie agreed. Then she looked at the plate, which now held nothing but crumbs, and scowled. “Hey! I wanted another one, ass clowns.”
She looked to Lesa and smirked. “Typical guys. So busy getting their own, they don’t let a gal get off twice.”
Joe choked on his cookie, and Streak and Pico guffawed.
Lesa laughed. “Don’t worry, I have more at my place.”
“Good, I’m coming over,” Sylvie said.
Streak licked his fingers and shook his head. “Uh-oh, two chicks gettin’ off together, you know what that’s called.”
Lesa groaned, and Pico and Joe laughed. “Can I watch?” Pico asked.
Sylvie smacked his arm. “Shut up and get to work. We open in thirty.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But the two men headed back for the kitchen.
“Too bad the boss missed those,” Streak said, taking the paper plate and tossing it in the trash behind the bar.
“Where is he, anyway?” Lesa asked. He didn’t seem like the type to take a ski vacation. Snow-mobiling, maybe, since that was more like motorcycling.
“At a brewers’ con in Seattle,” Streak said.
“With Marta,” Sylvie added, giving Lesa a look that said they both knew why Marta had been invited along. The other waitress then walked away, shoving stools in as she went.
Lesa groaned silently. Pete had taken Marta to Seattle with him. No wonder he’d looked at her like she was a dork when she told him to enjoy his time off.
“So, he and Marta are still dating?” she asked, tossing her hair casually.
Streak gave her a smirk over the bar towel he was using to wipe crumbs from the bar. “No, they’re not dating. They were fucking, but they’re over now, so Sylvie’s wrong, she ain’t with him in Seattle. She just took the days off ‘cause he’s gone. Doesn’t mean he won’t hook up over there.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Right. ‘Cause bikers don’t date.”
“Yep,” he agreed. “And the boss likes it like that.” And now his glance held a friendly warning, as if he knew every woman who met Pete Vanko hoped she’d be the one to change all that, and make him long for monogamy.
Unable to think of a single reply to this, Lesa hurried away to get the service station ready.
Because, okay, she may have had that dream for about ten minutes. Pete giving her a smoldering, sweaty look as he did her long and hard, and his deep voice saying, ‘Babe. Gotta have you for my own. No one else, just you.” But once she’d orgasmed—with her trusty vibrator, not him—she’d accepted that was all it’d ever be, a sex fantasy.
But that afternoon and evening, she smiled with extra friendliness at her customers. Because she didn’t care one single, itty bitty iota who Pete Vanko was boinking, his gorgeous, slim bookkeeper or some Seattle chick. No, sirree.
And just to show how little she cared, when a lean, laughing blond guy with a big, western belt buckle gave her a look of frank appreciation and flirted with her, she flirted right back. And might have even accepted his invitation to have dinner with him her next evening off, had Sylvie not waylaid her at the bar.
“Frank there is married, just so y’know. Although I know his wife, and she’s about to leave his ass in the dust, ‘cause he’s already cheated on h
er once.”
Lesa stiffened, anger heating her throat. “What? He’s married?”
“Yup. He’s a local boy, his family owns Brenner’s Farm Supply east of here. His wife is a real sweetheart until she gets riled up, and then watch out. So if I was you, I’d serve his beer and then stay clear.”
“Oh, I’ll serve his beer, all right,” Lesa muttered. Cheaters—ugh. She grabbed her tray with the brimming glass and headed across the bar.
Reaching her quarry’s table, she smiled down at him with special sultriness. “Hey, Frank? When we have dinner, is your wife gonna to be joining us?”
His charming smile froze on his face, and his green eyes flickered away, and then back. “My … wife?” he repeated.
Lesa sighed. “Huh. So you do have one. That’s good, then you’ll have someone to wash your clothes when you get home.”
So saying, she jerked the tray, and the full beer toppled off, splashing full into his lap. He recoiled with a shout of protest, and she drew back, hand to her mouth. “Oops!”
He rose, and glowered at her, his face red. “Bitch.”
Lesa stepped back and watched him stalk away, a bit spraddle-legged with his tight jeans all wet. Then she headed back to the bar and slapped bills from her tips by the cash register. “Here’s for his beer,” she told Streak.
The biker shook his head at her, grinning. “Won’t take it. That was righteous, and I bet his jeans froze right to his junk when he walked outside. Though, the Heights ain’t that big, so you might wanna quit flirtin’ with married men before we run out of customers.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll try to contain myself. Now, I need two ambers, a stout and two chardonnays.”
The remainder of the evening, her customers were friendly until nine-thirty, when three lean, sharp-eyed young men strolled in to take a high-top near the pool tables. They all had reddish hair, cut in trendy styles, and high-cheekboned faces that were strangely familiar.
Lesa set out coasters for them with a smile. “Hi, welcome to the Hangar. What can I get you gentlemen to drink?”
One, who had the mannerisms of the leader of their trio, looked her over and smirked. “I will take a stout beer, and your top.”
She raised her brows. “You mean you want a shirt? Sure, we sell men's tee-shirts here.”
His smirk widened. “Yes, but I want yours. Then you will serve my drinks without it, and I will enjoy my drink more.”
The other two snickered. “I’ll have an IPA, and your bra,” one said.
“Make that two IPAs, and your panties,” added the other.
Lesa gave them a chiding look instead of bashing them all over the head with her tray, but really? Did all the men in this little town believe they were God’s gift to women, and could thus act and speak anyway they pleased, and have women panting at their feet?
“Not happening, sorry. And I'll need to see some ID.”
She was rewarded with two sulky glowers and one impatient sigh. “Everyone here knows us.”
“Well I don’t. And since I don’t want to lose my job …” she shrugged, waiting.
The eldest gave her a narrow-eyed look that she liked even less than she’d liked their dumb-ass requests for her to strip. But then he reached for his wallet, a slim, expensive-looking leather piece, and flipped it open.
Lesa had only time to see it was laid out horizontally, which in Washington state meant he was over 21. His last name was Sokolov. The other two licenses matched.
No wonder they looked familiar. They were Marta’s brothers. And no wonder the bookkeeper was kind of a bitch, growing up with these three.
“A stout and two IPAs for Marta’s charming brothers,” she told Streak.
He gave a dour look at the Sokolovs’ table. “They giving you shit?”
“Nah, nothing I can’t handle.” She didn’t want him getting into any trouble with the three, who looked to her like the type who might carry knives in their boots, or some sneaky crap like that.
However, she was relieved as she delivered their beers, to see Rocker saunter in. He made a beeline for her through the tables, and smiled, ignoring the three guys.
“Babe, how’s it goin’?” the biker asked.
“Good, thanks,” she said, so relieved to see him just then she gave him a brilliant smile. “You want a beer?”
“Naw, I’m here to work the bar the rest of the night. And make sure there’s no trouble. Pete’s away, we keep a close eye on the place.”
Although he didn’t look at the Sokolovs once, she sensed his words were meant for them as much as her. Which suited her just fine.
“Okay, you guys want anything else?” she asked them, not bothering to smile this time.
With a guarded glance at the biker, the two younger ones shook their heads. The eldest did not respond, acting as if she and Rocker were no longer there.
Rocker followed her back to the bar. “Those little shits give you any trouble, you just give me a signal,” he told her. “They aren’t known for their manners.”
She snorted. “I got that.” Neither was their sister, from what she’d seen.
His eyes narrowed dangerously. “They talkin’ trash to you?”
“I’m okay, thanks.” She didn’t like them, but she did have to work with Marta. So, she wasn’t crying to Rocker about raunchy talk. Although, she wouldn’t waste her time waiting for a tip, either.
The trio were gone next time she looked, but they left a twenty on their table, which covered their tab. Good enough for her.
And for the rest of her shift, her male customers treated her with respect. Whether it had to do with both Rocker and Streak being present, their black leather vests in full view, she didn’t know, but she’d take it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
January 22nd
Lesa’s third Friday at the Hangar started with a bang—literally.
As Lesa and Aysha were setting up for the lunch crowd, they heard raised voices through the beat of Jarod Niemann accusing his lover of not treating him good no more. They looked at each other, then turned their heads just as the door to the brewpub office flew open, slamming against the wall.
Marta stormed out, her high heeled boots snapping on the wooden floor in a sharp, staccato as she rushed through the bar and out the front doors, pulling her fur-trimmed coat on as she went, designer handbag flapping from her elbow. Her cheeks were scarlet, her face taut, and she spared neither of them a look.
“Mrr-row, Pete’s latest pussy is gone,” Aysha drawled.
Lesa didn’t have time to answer, not that she would have anyway.
Pete appeared in his office doorway and beckoned. “Lesa. Office, now.”
“Oooh, you in trouble too?” Aysha gave her a look of faux sympathy, batting her lash extensions.
“You wish.” Lesa set down her tray of napkin-wrapped silverware and hurried through the empty tables to Pete’s office.
He stood by his desk, arms crossed, his expression dour. “You have experience book-keeping, right?”
“Uh … yes?” Lesa answered, her heart hammering. How would he know that? She hadn’t listed her nearly 2 years as bookkeeper at Morey’s Transmissions and More, for a very good reason.
He gave her a strange look. “You do or you don’t? Thought I heard you telling someone that.”
“Yes. I do.” She faced him, doing her absolute best to keep her expression guileless. Please don’t let him ask questions about why she hadn’t mentioned it on her short resume.
Pete nodded. “Good. You can start tomorrow.”
“But … I’ve only been here two weeks.” Oops. What was she doing, looking a gift horse in the mouth? She wanted Marta’s job, she really did.
“Yeah, but I’m kind of in a jam here,” he said. “So you want the job, it’s yours.”
“Okay, great. Um, do you have someone to cover my shifts on the floor?”
As thrilled as she was by this sudden development, she hated the idea of leaving their custom
ers without good service. Sylvie was an awesome waitress, but Aysha needed someone there picking up the slack with extra smiles and an eye out for those who wanted another drink or more sauce for their fries, things like that. Not to mention smoothing the feathers she ruffled.
“Don’t worry about that. One of the brother’s old ladies is lookin’ to make some extra cash. She can come right away.”
Lesa felt a strange pang at the thought that her place out on the floor could be filled so easily. But she pushed it away. “Great. Okay if I just wear my usual clothes?” She sure couldn’t afford to dress like Marta, not to mention walk in those heels.
He raised a brow. “I say you have to wear short, tight skirts and high heels, you gonna believe me?”
Her cheeks heated, but she grinned at him. “That would be a no.”
He sighed, but his lips quirked up at one side. “Fine, wear whatever you want.”
“Okay, great. Well, better get back to work.” She hurried from the office, fighting the urge to toss her hair.
The smart thing would be to bundle up every day in her long, baggy, beige cardigan, the one she wore over her sleep tee and pants instead of a robe on cold evenings. But apparently she wasn’t that smart, because instead she was going to seize the opportunity to wear the short, fitted, cream sweater her sisters had given her for Christmas.
She might not be into short, tight skirts and heels, but she could play up her assets in other ways.
Lesa called her dad that evening to tell him the good news. Phil Boggs was silent for a moment. Then he cleared his throat noisily. “That’s good, baby girl. That’s real good. Damn, that’s … good news.”
She smiled into the phone, tears pressing hot against the back of her eyes. “Yup,” she said. “You can relax now. I’m back on track.”
“Right,” he agreed instantly. “And you like it there? This Pete—what’s his name—Vanker? He treat you right?”
“It’s Vanko. Russian. And yes, he’s nice. They’re all good people.” She wrinkled her nose. Okay, that was a white lie. She was surrounded by badass bikers and at least one mean bitch, but nothing her dad could do about that. She’d just keep her head down, do her job and thank God every morning and every night that Pete had not demanded a resume before offering her the new job as bookkeeper.
