by Cathryn Cade
Pete moved around the kitchen, but she kept her gaze on her phone, not watching his ass or the long, brawny muscles in his legs or the bunch of his biceps when he—right. She was totally watching him. She turned the stool so her back was to the island and him, crossed her legs and tossed her hair over one shoulder out of her way as she bent her head to her phone.
Her friend Rosa had been shopping at an outlet mall near Seattle, and wanted opinions on the black purse or the shiny red one.
‘Get them both,’ Lesa advised. ‘U know U want to.’
Rosa sent back a horrified emo face. ‘UR not helping!!’
Lesa laughed softly. ‘I know!’ and sent an evil face back.
Billie had passed her final exam in a coding class, so Lesa sent her a bunch of floaty hearts. ‘So proud of you, Wild Bill!’ A family joke because Billie was the opposite of wild.
Traci was unavailable, no surprise.
And she had a missed call from her dad, of an hour ago, but no message. That was good, maybe he wasn’t coming over after all. Just in case, she texted him again.
'Dad, hi. Things r great here. Hope u changed ur mind about driving clear up here. Love u.'
She also had a new voice mail, from someone named Jack. “Hey, Lesa,” he said, in a gravelly but relaxed voice. “I hear you may be lookin’ for a waitress job come spring. If you’re interested in moving over to Coeur d’Alene, call me back, we’ll talk. And tell Brews I said hey.”
Huh, that was weird. Jack … why was that name familiar? And his voice, too.
Lesa turned on her stool, and found Pete standing on the other side of the island, two steaming plates of eggs, bacon and toast in his hands. “Wanna eat in here or at the table?” he asked, a strange look on his face. His jaw was tight, and he looked pissed, although for once, not at her.
“In here is fine.”
He handed her a plate, thunked his down beside hers, yanked open a drawer at his hip and pulled out forks and knives.
She grabbed a piece of crisp, warm bacon and bit in. “Mm-mm,” she said, chewing happily. “So good. Thank you.”
He grunted, which she took optimistically to mean ‘you’re welcome’, and sat beside her, straddling his stool and grabbing his piece of toast to stab it with a knife loaded with butter.
She chewed a mouthful of eggs slowly. They were delicious, cheesy and fluffy. Pete folded his toast in half and took a huge bite, his cheek clenching as he chewed. He was still scowling.
“Does cooking make you angry?” she asked, and chewed another bite of eggs to hide her urge to giggle. “Or is this just more of your sunny-side-up personality?”
“No,” he said, forking up a huge bite of egg. “Havin’ one of my club brothers trying to steal my staff behind my back—that does piss me off.”
She stopped buttering her toast and stared at him. “You heard that, huh? So wait, Jack. Is he a Flyer?”
“Yeah, he’s nomad. Lives over in Coeur d’Alene, and he’s gonna open a barbecue joint over there by the lake. But he can find his own damn waitresses, ‘cause you’re not leaving.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Lesa took a bite of warm, crunchy toast and chewed, pointing the rest of the slice at him. “I can leave if I want to, Pete Vanko. As soon as your crazy … scheme or whatever is finished, I am hitting the road with my bonus pay. And I hear Coeur d’Alene is real pretty in the summer—so I may just decide to move over there. I remember Jack now. He came in with Rocker and the guys. And he was very nice and polite. I think I’d like working for him.”
Pete snorted. “Yeah, well he’s already got an old lady he’s crazy about, so you can forget whatever you’re smiling about.”
She had had it with people warning her off, like she was going to grab the first one of the Flyers she could and hang on.
She smacked his arm. “I’m smiling because he’s a gentleman, you jerk. I can like a guy without wanting to hook up with him. I like Streak, and I don’t wanna jump him. And I like T-Bear, except I’d never wanna kiss a guy with that much beard. And I like Rocker, although he’s a little intense and scary at times. And I like Pico, and Joe, although neither are my type. And—”
He picked up her toast and shoved it into her open mouth, gently but effectively cutting off her words. She blinked at him in shock, and then took a bite, setting the remainder on her plate. Wow, so rude.
“Spare me your evaluations of every other guy you’ve met since you been here, da?”
She chewed her toast and swallowed, then picked up her fork. “Well, I don’t like you, so you’re not on my list. Although you’re a good cook. These eggs are yummy.”
He turned his head and watched her chew. “Just wondering, you gonna say I’m yummy when I finally get that mouth on my—”
This time she stuffed toast in his mouth. Advantage, it cut off whatever dirty thing he’d been about to say. Disadvantage, it was the last of her toast, and he’d already finished his. He chewed, his blue eyes glinting with deviltry.
“Not happening, remember?” She finished her eggs, and her last piece of bacon, and licked her fingers. “You cooked, I’ll clean up.”
“That works. Also, you're in the mood to use that tongue, I got fingers and other things you can lick.”
She rose, wrinkling her nose at him. “Stunning offer, but no. Wait, how do you say thank you in Russian?”
“Spasibo.” When she mouthed the word, he said it again, slowly. “Spah-see-boh.”
“Spah-see-boh,” she repeated. “Spasibo, zhopa.” She laughed at the look he gave her, and carried their dishes to the sink to rinse them. Hah! She’d looked that word up on her phone. It meant dumbass, or so the interpretive site claimed.
“You are a pain in my ass,” he muttered. “Ya hochy viebe menye.”
“I don’t even want to know what that means, do I?”
This time he laughed. “Nyet, probably not.”
But the way he said it was easy, not snide, so Lesa scowled into the open dishwasher, but she had to fight a grin at the same time.
It was just sad that squabbling with his jerky self was more exhilarating than doing better things with other guys she’d dated. Not that she and Pete Vanko were dating, or ever would be.
Aaannnd … time to think about other things, before she got even more confused.
“What time are we leaving?” she asked, not looking at him. “I need to go for a walk.” She’d hardly been outside at all lately, and even if it was dead of winter in the Inland Northwest, she needed to get out into the fresh air, away from Pete Vanko.
“You’re going for a walk,” he repeated, as if sure he’d heard her wrong.
She turned, tossing her hair back. “Good job, you heard me. What time are we leaving?”
Those ice-blue eyes examined her for a long moment, during which Lesa felt her blood pressure rising, and her fists clenching. She wanted to smack him, she wanted to knock him down and climb on and ride him.
Whoa, down girl. Do not think about riding the infuriating biker.
“Ten thirty,” he told her. “Stay on my road for your walk. ‘Cause the snow drifts in and covers up dips in the ground out there. You step in one, you can fall and hurt yourself.”
“Wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?” she said. “You might have to find another stooge.”
“Ah, there’s the bitch again,” he muttered as she passed.
She rolled her eyes, but kept her mouth shut, hurrying upstairs to get ready.
Dima was waiting at the back door for her, wagging her plumy white tail.
“Hey, you’re ready to go out too, aren’t you girl?” Lesa asked. “Do you have a leash?”
“She doesn’t need one out here,” Pete called from another room. “She’ll run, but she’ll come back.”
“Okay. Come on, girl.”
Outside, it was cold and cloudy, the air thin and dry. Lesa zipped up the down jacket, and she wore her warmest knit cap and scarf, turquoise marled yarn, and her black mit
tens. The packed snow crunched under her boots as she walked across the farm yard. The icy breeze made her cheeks sting and her eyes tear up, but it smelled fresh and clean, and it was so quiet out here.
Dima raced off, nose to the ground, then paused to sniff at a leafless shrub sticking out of the snow. On the trail of a mouse, or a rabbit that had ventured out. Hopefully the big dog would not catch it.
Lesa walked across the graveled sweep, and past the barn and outbuildings. As she walked along the road, Dima joined her, panting happily, then raced off again. It was pretty out here, with the low, rolling hills, patches of evergreens and leafless aspens. Lesa especially liked the huge rocks that dotted the landscape, some bigger than a house, rising in outcroppings like stone castles. Most were much smaller, like those scattered around Pete’s farmhouse.
On her way back, she admired the house, rising sturdily from the snow and dried grass of the lawns. If it was her place, she’d have the porches enlarged so they wrapped around the house, and spread out into a deck on this north side. There'd be room for a big gas grill, a smoker, and groupings of chairs and a couple of tables. They'd cook out in nice weather, and relax and entertain. Also, she’d plant more trees and shrubs, make the yard pretty and add shade. Then a nice fence around it to keep the deer out.
And she’d definitely do something with the bathrooms. The kitchen had been modernized, in a nice country way, but the bathrooms were from the nineteen-sixties, or earlier.
She shook off her wistful mood. This would never be her house. And Pete Vanko might redo the bathrooms, but his idea of outdoor refurbishment would probably be paving the yard, with a rail by the steps that read ‘Biker Parking Only’, to match the one at the Hangar.
And he was welcome to it, because she would not be here to care, would she? Instead, there would be a succession of pretty but somewhat trashy biker babes in and out of the place.
* * *
When Lesa stowed her things in her locker at the Hangar that day, and walked back out into the pub, a surprise awaited her. At first, Lesa thought a stranger stood by the bar, flirting with Pete. Then the brunette laughed, a familiar raucous sound, and Lesa blinked. It was Aysha, with her hair dyed nearly as dark as Lesa’s, and styled in loose curls.
Pete was looking down at Aysha with a bemused frown, as if he didn’t know what to make of her. Then he saw Lesa trying not to snicker at him, and shook his head.
Aysha strutted toward Lesa, looking smug as cat in cream. Lesa refrained with great effort from rolling her eyes. “Great look, Aysha. You want bar side?”
“Yeah, bitch, ‘cause it’s my turn,” was the reply.
This time Lesa did roll her eyes.
Around six o’clock, Stick Vanko and his classy blond partner walked in. They took a table in Lesa’s section. Lesa served them ice water and menus, and took their drink orders, a white wine for Sara and a tall amber for him. When she served the drinks, Stick Vanko was disappearing into the pub office.
His woman smiled at Lesa and thanked her. “I’m Sara, and you’re Lesa, right?”
She leaned forward as if to say more, but just then a piercing shriek cut through the music and loud conversation.
Aysha’s latest customers, in the middle of the pub, were a group with small children, one of whom was a young boy who had been grousing over everything said to him, knocked over his drink and now proceeded to vomit all over himself and his place setting—thus revealing the real reason for his discontent.
Aysha, her face twisted in disgust, recoiled from the mess, and Lesa hurried to hand her a wet bar towel, and give one to the little boy’s mother, who was scarlet-faced and apologizing.
“It will be fine,” Lesa assured her, trying to hold her own breath. “They don’t give you much warning, do they? Why don’t you take him to the restroom, and we’ll get this cleaned up?”
The mother bore the little boy away, and the older children watched, holding their noses as Lesa wiped up what she could and headed for the service sink. Aysha recoiled, and Lesa frowned as she tossed her a clean bar towel. “It’s your table, Aysha. How about some help here?”
Aysha hissed her displeasure, but then stalked over to the table and dabbed gingerly at what was left of the mess, keeping an arm’s length.
Lesa shook her head, and went back to the table with a basin of soapy water. “Here, I’ll do it.”
“My goodness,” said an older woman at the next table, whose silver hair was stylishly cut, with a startling lilac streak. “Thank you, hon. Glad someone’s going to take care of that smell.” She shook her head at Aysha.
“Mind your own business,” Aysha hissed at the woman.
Lesa looked up in dismay, but the woman’s husband was already speaking.
“Hey, you don’t talk to my wife that way,” he growled at Aysha. “Where’s your boss? I want a word.”
“How about if we comp you folks your dinner, to apologize?” Lesa offered.
“You apologize,” Aysha snapped. “And go ahead and clean up too. Here, you can use this.”
So saying, she tossed the soiled rag at Lesa. It landed square on her chest, wet splattering on her throat and arms. A stray chunk of something hit Lesa’s cheek and then dripped off.
Lesa stood, frozen in her tracks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The surrounding customers gasped as one, and the kids at the table froze.
“Oh, no, you did not just do that!” Stick Vanko’s blond was on her feet, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face that boded trouble for Aysha.
Aysha shoved Lesa aside to escape, her face scarlet under her makeup. “Move, cunt.”
“What did you just call her?” grated a deep, icy voice. Stick Vanko had returned, and stood by his woman, glaring down at Aysha, with a look that, if she had not been so furious, would have made Lesa shake in her shoes. “You don’t talk like that around these people, or my old lady.”
Aysha shot a look around the place, as if looking for supporters, and her face quivered, her lower lip thrusting out. “I—I … you didn’t hear what that bitch Lesa said to me. She was ordering me around and—and everyone knows she’s just a--.”
“All right,” Lesa said. “That is enough.” She took the clean, damp towel from Sara, grasped Aysha by her arm and before the other woman had time to protest, she towed her through the tables of avid customers, and into the kitchen.
Sylvie was just coming out of the coat room, cheeks red from the cold. She stopped in her tracks, her gaze darting from Lesa to Aysha and back.
Lesa shut the kitchen door, and faced the other four, swiping off her face and throat with the towel. All of them were staring at her as if she’d grown another head, Aysha with a look that said it was a disgusting one.
“What the hell—" Aysha started, hands on her hips.
Lesa held up her hand, palm out. “Shut it!”
She gave all four of them a look, her chin up. “Look, I know you have issues with me. But that’s between you and me, not anyone else. When your dislike starts affecting the way we serve our customers, it’s time to make a change. And I’ll be here for a while—another few weeks anyway.’
‘While I’m here, we need to get along and do our best, the way we were before—well, before. If you have a problem with that, talk to Pete. But right now, we have customers waiting. So who’s ready to do your best for Pete and for The Hangar?”
“Ooh, rah, rah, now she’s a freakin’ cheerleader,” Aysha mimicked. “Listen, cunt, nobody died and put your thieving ass in charge, so you’re the one who should get out—before we make you.”
“Whoa, don’t be counting me in on any of that shit.” Sylvie took a step back, and so did Pico. Joe opened his mouth and shut it, then shook his head, looking uncertain.
“No one is going to make me leave,” Lesa told Aysha. “Least of all you. Now are you going to get out there and finish your shift like an adult, or are you going to continue to throw childish tantrums—which by the way, all of the custome
rs are as disgusted with as I am!”
Aysha let out a huff of outrage. “Yeah, we’ll just see who leaves, bitch.” She yanked open the kitchen door and rushed out.
Lesa and Sylvie followed. Aysha nearly ran right into Pete, who was heading their way from the bar, his face like thunder.
“Uh-oh,” Sylvie muttered at Lesa’s elbow. “Geez, I turn my back and miss all the excitement. And, Jesus, why do you smell like puke?”
“Sh-hhh,” Joe hissed behind them. “I wanna get this.”
Sylvie shushed, and Lesa listened with her heart in her throat. Would Pete allow Aysha to stay, despite her behavior? Or would he decide both she and Lesa were not worth the trouble, and tell them both to walk? She wanted to leave, but not this way. She wanted Pete, at least in this, to stand up for her.
“—and she was so rude and mean to me,” Aysha was whining to Pete, as customers listened in, not even bothering to disguise their interest.
“Yeah, I heard it all,” he replied. “I was in the brewery, not on the moon, Aysha. You’re the one who’s done. Go get your shit, and get out of here. You come in tomorrow and pick up your check. After that, I don’t wanna see your face in here again.”
“Or at the club house,” Sara added, walking to Pete’s side with a baleful look for Aysha. “You can party elsewhere from now on.”
Aysha let out a loud, theatrical sob. “What? You’re all against me. This is all her fault!” She aimed a wet, hateful glare at Lesa.
“Oh, put a sock in it,” the woman with silver-and-lilac hair called. “Shoo.”
Her husband nodded, still scowling. “Make it snappy.”
“Don’t think she has any speed but slow,” called a man from near the front doors. “And by the way, who’s gonna get me another beer?”
“Get it yourself, asshole!” Aysha turned, flipped him off with both hands, and then turned and stomped through the tables and out of sight to the back.
A wave of smothered laughter followed her.
