by Cathryn Cade
Then he retrieved his and Lesa’s phones, and his keys, stuck his knife in his pocket, and his baby Ruger in the back of his belt under his shirt, and went down, bracing himself to tell her what he’d decided, and why
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
To say his captive was not happy with his decision was the understatement of this new year.
Still, Pete winced at the shriek Lesa let out when he gave her his news.
“You want me to do what?” she demanded at the top of her lungs, staring at him as if he’d suddenly popped out another head. “No! I’m not going back there and work, with everyone still thinking I’m a thief! And you can’t make me.”
He leaned toward her, instantly rising to her challenge. “Wanna bet?”
She let out another shriek, and stomped her foot, rattling the coffee maker on the counter. “No! You just try making me keep my mouth shut, mister. I’ll tell all of them what you’ve done—lying about me, keeping me prisoner out here, stealing my phone and my car—”
“Yeah?” he demanded. “How about me making you come with my hand on your tit and in your pussy? Want me to tell ‘em about that?”
When she flinched, he leaned in closer, reaching up to grab one of her silky curls and run it through his fingers. “Yeah, I’ll tell ‘em about the sounds you make when you come, high and sweet, and how your tight little pussy grabbed my fingers like a wet little vise, milking all the pleasure you could get out of ‘em. Hey, maybe I’ll share that with your daddy, too, hmm? Think he’ll wanna hear all about it?”
Her face scarlet, mouth trembling, she recoiled. For half a second, Pete’s gut knotted at the look of betrayal in her big, brown eyes. Then she kicked him hard on the shin. He recoiled, the shooting pain abating his shame in a heartbeat.
“Ow, goddamnit. You wanna ride to town with a sore ass? ‘Cause I’ll be happy to make that happen, you don’t cut your shit out, and do what I say.”
She crossed her arms and glared up at him. “Oh, that’s right, big biker man. Threaten me physically. Well, how about if I tell everyone that you manhandled me and locked me up out here, scared me half to death, threatening me with your scary biker brethren?”
He regarded her with narrowed eyes. Jesus, she would try the patience of a certified saint, which he was not. His hands flexed with the need to grab her and shake some sense into her feminine brain.
“I did not threaten you with the Flyers. What kinda club you think we have? We’re not one-percenters, treating women and hangers-on like trash.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why do you have my car keys and my phone, and why did you lock me in last night like a prisoner?”
“To protect you,” he snarled. “Right now, the Flyers are not your problem, woman.”
“Glad to hear it.” She held out her hand, palm up. “Prove it. Give me back my keys and phone.”
“Jesus. Maybe I should just drive you into town and deliver you to the cop shop. Let them keep you safe.”
“What?” she asked, wary now—as she should be. “The police? You’d let me talk to them?”
He gave her a look of pure disgust. “You really do think I’m low. Jesus fuck, woman, if I was the kinda low-life you think I am, I’d talk to ‘em myself. Yeah, I’d show ‘em the doctored books, and explain how I caught you red-handed. My new bookkeeper, trying to cheat me out of a cool five thousand dollars.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she stepped back, coming up against his kitchen counter. Her hands came up her middle. “You wouldn’t,” she breathed, her eyes searching his.
“You don’t think so? Thought you just accused me of worse.”
Her soft mouth trembled, and her eyes were shadowed … like a spark had faded. One he suddenly wanted badly to light again. He shifted, agitation prickling under his skin.
“Would you stop lookin’ at me like that?” he demanded. “That shit’s not even real. Tryin’ to point out me and my brothers do not roll that way.”
She threw her hands up. “Then how do you roll? And what is this danger you keep talking about?”
Pete shook his head, suddenly in dire need of caffeine, or something stronger. “You wanna move, milaya, so I can get a coffee mug?”
With a huff of disgust, she side-stepped out of his way. He felt a little better as he pulled down a mug and filled it from the coffee pot. He’d rather have her hissing at him than giving him that wounded look.
Pouting and fake tears like Marta had tried, that kind of shit he could shrug off without a qualm.
But Lesa Boggs, he was coming to realize, was as genuine as the weather. When she was happy or hurt, angry or amused, she let it show. Oh, she could don her professional hostess manner in an instant, but even that was real. Watching her work the tables at The Hangar, any fool could see she genuinely liked people, and she thrived on making them happy and comfortable, seeing to their needs and wants.
It was all good. When he let her go, she’d find another good job, and charm the people there. Wrap the cooks and bartenders around her little finger, along with the customers, and probably whoever owned the place. Probably wind up married to some lucky bar or restaurant owner, and manage him along with his place.
Strangely, the idea of her in some other man’s bed, seeing to his wants and needs with that rockin’ body of hers … that became less amusing the more he pictured it. He took a big mouthful of hot coffee, then cursed as he scalded his tongue in the process.
“I’m waiting,” she said.
He gave her a look over his mug. “So you know Marta’s pissed at me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I kind of got that from the way she screamed at you, and then slammed out of the pub.”
Pete winced. “Yeah. So, turns out she’s not quite as sweet as she always behaved. Got some crazy under there.”
“Must’ve been the heart-break of losing you,” Lesa muttered into her coffee.
Pete smirked. “Yeah, I guess. But here’s the bad part. She’s got the idea in her head that I’m done with her because of you.”
She looked up at him, then away, her face flushing a delicious shade of pink, and took a drink of her coffee.
Pete rubbed his hand over his beard, staring at the floor as well. Huh, may’ve had a kernel of truth in the crazy shit Marta had screamed at him. All it had taken was one night in his king size for him to wind up groping Lesa like a horny teen.
“Anyway,” he went on. “You met her brothers. The Flyers may be a little raw, but those little mudaks are slime. They convinced Marta to take the fall for them for theft when she was seventeen, and she did time in juvie. When she came out her prospects were shit, so Stick gave her work, housekeeping, eventually watching his boys. She took some classes, came to work for me at the Hangar.”
“And then she stole from you?” Lesa shook her head. “No gratitude, hmm?”
“Right? Pretty sure her brothers strong-armed her into that. Because apparently she thought we were gonna be, uh, a couple, so she had no reason to steal when I was spending money on her.”
He still wasn’t sure if the theft was because she’d felt him pulling back, trying to create some distance between them while she tried to hang on.
He looked to Lesa. “The point is, when she went off on me in my office, a big piece of it was a tirade about how I wasn’t gonna find you so attractive after she got through scratching your face up—that kind of shit.”
Lesa’s eyes widened, but then she shrugged. “That’s bitchy, but women say stuff like that. It doesn’t mean she’d actually do it.”
Pete chuckled. “You obviously haven’t spent any time around biker clubhouses. I’ve seen bitches take each other down, pullin’ out hanks of hair, scratch each other up bad.”
“You obviously need to hang out with a higher class of women.”
He ignored this, as she hadn’t met Sara, or her friends. Far as he was concerned, they’d classed up the Flyers’ clubhouse a whole lot. “Back to Marta. You weren’t there, you didn’t see the look in
her eyes. I did, and what I saw I didn’t like. So for now, you’re either with me, or one of the brothers is keepin’ eyes on you.”
And he was done talking about it.
Which meant she, of course, was not. “That doesn’t explain why I’m supposed to let everyone think I’m the thief! So you can just forget that part.”
“Woman, do you not listen? I don’t want Marta or her brothers to know we’re on to ‘em. I want them thinking they’re in the clear. That means we don’t tell anyone, not Sylvie, not Pico or Joe—nobody.”
She was shaking her head before he finished talking. “No. No, I can’t go in there with them all thinking I’m a thief. I can’t.”
He sighed. “All right, I’ll pay you extra. Time and a half.”
She shook her head again.
“Fine, fuck it. Double time. You can do that for a few days, can’t you?”
He watched her struggle with this, and finally heave a huge sigh, and then nod, although she glowered at him as she did so. “Fine. Double wages, and if you screw me over, I’ll—I’ll find some way to make you sorry.”
She already was, but he had no intention of admitting that.
* * *
To say Lesa’s first day back as waitress was not pleasant was an understatement.
When she followed Pete in the front doors, Sylvie was already there, setting up the service station. She took one look at Lesa and her brows shot together in a frown of disbelief. “What’s she doing here?” she asked Pete, her gaze on the silverware she was rolling in napkins and banding with paper.
“She’s back out here on the floor,” he told the other woman. “Need you to work with her, Sylvie.”
“What about Maggie? You just hired her.”
“Maggie’s staying. I’ll give her some of Aysha’s hours, since she can’t get her ass to work on time the shifts she does have.”
The other woman shook her head but then shrugged. “Whatever. Just keep this one outta my way.”
Pete patted her on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
He looked to Lesa, who stood by, miserable and seething. She returned his warning look with a glare that, if there were any justice, should have singed the beard right off his face. Unperturbed, he sauntered away.
Lesa glared after him, wishing she could run after him and kick him right in his tight ass, hard. But instead, she put away her coat and purse, and returned to the service station, stepping up to roll silverware with Sylvie.
“Which section do you want?” she asked quietly.
Sylvie didn’t look at her. “Bar side, of course. Don’t know why you’re back here, but you watch yourself. I see you near my tips, we’re gonna have words.”
Lesa flinched, and gave the other waitress a horrified look. She shook her head, her mouth opening. Then, over Sylvie’s shoulder she saw Pete, standing behind the bar, hard gaze on her. She closed her mouth, grabbing another set of utensils with jerky movements. “Fine. I’ll take the door side.”
Sylvie tsked under her breath. “You know, I do not get you. You’re a good waitress, made good tips, everyone here treated you nice. Thought you liked us all right. But then you had to go and do that—steal from Pete? That’s low, real low.”
She shook her head, her mouth twisted with disgust.
“I get it,” Lesa choked. “I’ll stay out of your way.”
She blinked hard, but the items in her hands blurred anyway. She turned away, swiping her fingers under her eyes.
She shot a vengeful glare across the pub at Pete. He might not know it, but this was just another shovel-ful of dirt on his grave—metaphorically speaking of course. She wouldn’t actually kill him, but she’d find some way to make him pay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
As the Hangar's doors swung open, and their first customers of the day walked in, Lesa pasted a smile on her face and got busy, doing her best to ignore the ache in her chest.
Pico and Joe’s reaction to her presence was as bad as Sylvie’s.
Head full of a large order for specialty burgers and sides, Lesa hurried to the order counter, a smile ready on her lips. “Hey, guys, got a big order here,” she called. “This one with extra bacon, and this one double up on the jalapenos, okay?”
Joe gave her an unsmiling look without replying, and Pico continued to scrape the grill, his back to her, shoulders stiff.
That hot ache rolled up the back of Lesa’s throat, and she pressed her lips together. Then she turned away, only to run into a hard chest. Pete grabbed her arms to steady her, speaking over her head.
“We got a problem?” he asked.
“Nope,” Joe said. Pico shook his head sullenly.
“Good,” Pete returned. “Remember the customers come first, and we’ll all be fine.”
He gave Lesa’s upper arms a warning squeeze and let her go, returning to the bar. Lesa hurried back to work, imagining all the things she’d like to do to him right now—pull on a pair of stiletto boots like Marta wore, and stomp on the top of his foot. Slap his smug, handsome face so hard his head rocked. Take one of Pico’s sharp kitchen knives and slash his fitted western shirt to bits while he watched … the list went on.
With her following orders, she delivered them, recited their contents without looking at either of the cooks, and got back to work.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, and Aysha walked in the front doors, Lesa was exhausted, her feet hurt, and her head was pounding with a stress headache. She hadn’t been able to eat more than a few bites of the half-burnt pizza Joe had slapped on the service counter for her break meal, and the Coke she drank rolled in her tummy in protest.
Aysha walked up to the service center just as Lesa grabbed a handful of silverware and a pitcher of ice water for a new table. The busty blonde sneered at Lesa and spoke to Sylvie, who had her hands full of ketchup bottles. “What the hell is this cunt doing back here? Didn’t get enough in her first haul?”
Sylvie frowned, shooting a look at the nearest table, at which three attractive women had just seated themselves. “Watch your mouth in front of the customers, Aysha.”
Aysha tossed her hair, hands on her hips, and smirked at Lesa. “Call a spade a spade, and a thieving cunt a thieving cunt, I say.”
“Hey!” One of the women, a tall blond, snapping her fingers and scowling at Aysha. “How about you do as Sylvie says, and watch your mouth in here. And could we get some service, please?”
Aysha’s expression would have been comical, had Lesa not been so distressed. Behind her heavy makeup, Aysha blanched, her sneer disappearing. “Sure. I’ll be right with you.”
“Not you,” the blond said, distaste clear as she lifted one brow. Her companions, a gorgeous redhead and another pretty blond, both gave Aysha the same frown.
Sylvie hurried to wait on them. Aysha’s face tightened, and she tossed her head again, before flouncing away.
Lesa watched the byplay in surprise, then walked away to take care of her own table, an older couple. But as soon as she focused on the couple, she forgot her own troubles.
The man was lean and weathered, dressed in western wear. He had eyes only for the woman seated across from him. Slim and pale, she leaned back in the booth as if she barely had the energy to sit upright. She wore a soft, knitted hat pulled down over her head, and a matching scarf around her throat despite the warmth of the pub.
“Hi,” Lesa said with a warm smile for both of them. “Welcome to The Hangar. I’m Lesa. Can I get you folks a drink to start off with?”
The man leaned forward, elbows on the table, his gaze on the woman. “Just a beer for me. May, you want one of them girly drinks?”
The woman gave him a look, and smiled with a clear effort. “Sam, you know I can’t drink right now. Just water for me.”
“I can do a nice hot drink for you,” Lesa coaxed. “Some tea with honey.”
The woman started to shake her head, but the man tapped his hand on the table. “She’ll have that. You like tea, it’ll warm you
up.”
Lesa hurried away to get their order. As she passed the table with the three women, they were all watching her. She looked away, uncomfortable being the center of anyone’s attention now.
When she came back with the hot tea and beer for her newest customers, Pete stood chatting with the three women. They were all smiling up at him. Great, Lesa thought dully. Probably choosing his next conquest.
She delivered the drinks, and managed to coax the woman to order a bowl of Pico’s beef soup along with her husband’s burger and fries. At the kitchen, she gave their order, and lingered. “I need the soup thinned a little with hot water.”
Pico gave her a sullen look. “I’m not messin’ with my soup for you. Customers can eat it the way I make it.”
Lesa leaned toward him, narrowing her eyes. “You will this time. She’s a cancer patient. That means she has no appetite, and it’s probably hard for her to digest solid food. She needs special care, and we’re gonna give it to her!”
Both men stopped what they were doing to stare at her. Pico nodded, his gaze dropping. “Right. I can do that.”
“Thank you.” She turned on her heel, and walked out, passing Pete, who stood nearby, a half-smile on his face. She ignored him, until he stepped into her path, tipping his head to peer into her face.
“What’s wrong with you? Look like hell.”
“Oh, aren’t you sweet?” she muttered, fingers to her temples. “Your sweet talk is just the icing on the crap cake of my day, boss.”
“Yeah, that’s me. What’s wrong?”
“Oh, you mean other than my former friendly fellow employees treating me like a criminal?” she answered, her voice trembling. “And your harem staring at me like a reality TV villainess? I have a headache, that’s all.”
“My harem?” he repeated. “Wasn’t aware I had one of those.”
She flapped a hand toward the busy tables. “I mean those women you were chatting up.”
“Oh, that harem,” he drawled. “You watchin’ me, milaya? Which one you think I should pick for tonight? I can’t decide if I have a taste for pale blonde, dark blonde or redhead.”
