FOLLOW THE HONEY (Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance Book 4)

by Cathryn Cade

  “All right, folks,” Pete called. “Sorry for the commotion. We’ll get your drinks and orders out as fast as we can.”

  He walked to Lesa, then grimaced. “Go wash up, get a clean tee. You do smell like puke. Sylvie, go keep an eye on Aysha, make sure she leaves without pulling any shit.” Sylvie nodded and jogged away to the coat-room.

  Lesa winced, because Pete and Sylvie were right, she stank. “I just want to be clear, I didn’t start that.”

  “We know that,” Stick Vanko cut in, standing with his lady. “Saw and heard all of it.” His mouth twitched up in a small smile. “Including the way you rallied the troops in the kitchen there.”

  “Sorry if I spoke out of turn,” she said stiffly.

  Pete raised a brow at her. “Little late with that, tigryonaka?”

  “Oh, quit teasing her, Pete.” Sara moved between the brothers to smile at Lesa. “I’ll come with you, and grab a clean tee for you. Also, I have some scented lotion in my bag.”

  Lesa hesitated, and Pete jerked his head toward the restrooms. “Go on. Sara’s bossy as hell, so you may as well give in now. Then get back out here, ‘cause we got customers to take care of.”

  Yes, they did, and since most of said customers were watching them like the latest reality stars, Lesa hurried to hide from their inquisitive gazes, and to get cleaned up. Luckily the women’s restroom was empty. Lesa pulled off her soiled tank and tee, carefully so as not to get any of the stink in her hair, then used paper towels and liquid hand soap to clean up.

  Sara handed in a clean tee and the promised lotion. “It’s Marc Jacobs’ Daisy,” she said. “Hope you like it—it’ll smell worlds better than puke, right? Here’s a plastic bag for your other tops, too.”

  The lotion smelled expensive and wonderful—and strangely familiar. Lesa used it gratefully, then pulled on the clean tee. Bag tied tightly, she exited the bathroom and handed Sara back the lotion. “Thank you so much.”

  Sara waved off her thanks. “Oh, you’re very welcome. I’d love to have lunch or drinks sometime soon—seems we’re both part of the Flyers’ family now.”

  With a twinkling smile, she moved aside and let Lesa hurry back to work.

  Lesa grabbed a set of menus and water for a new table, but she was confused, to say the least. The Vanko men were scary, bossy, alpha-hole bikers, Stick even more so than Pete. But his Sara, his old lady or whatever her designation in his life, was classy and kind. How did that happen?

  And how was it that she treated Lesa with respect, instead of with distrust and dislike? Had she not heard about Lesa being fired? Or did she know the real story?

  Lesa had been half-afraid the customers would eye her with disdain after her spat with Aysha, but instead she found herself receiving smiles and large tips. When she called a cheery goodbye to the older couple, now leaving, they waved back, and the woman gave her a mischievous thumbs-up that made Lesa laugh—and it felt good.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  February 5th

  The day after the incident with Aysha, Lesa was busy getting ready to open. Pete had informed her that since she was going to be riding in with him, she’d be opening every day. When she asked if it would do her any good to argue, he said no. So she guessed that was that.

  At ten forty-five, Pete and Streak were back in the brewery, filling kegs for the bar. Lesa looked around when heavy footsteps approached the service station, thinking it would be one of them.

  Instead, Stick Vanko strode through the tables toward her. In his heavy leather jacket, black, and a stocking hat, also black, pulled down over his forehead, he looked like the biker he was. Scary and imposing, striding through the pub like it was his. Well, she guessed it was half his, but still, the man had a way of taking up all the air in a room.

  She waited, somehow sure he would stop and speak to her, but not sure why.

  He lifted his chin in greeting, and leaned an arm on the high counter that lipped the service center on three sides.

  “Hi,” she said, continuing to sort the paper menus, dropping the worn and soiled ones in a stack to recycle. “Pete’s in the brewery.”

  “Good. I’m here to see you.”

  What the heck, was she in trouble for something new? Lesa picked up the menus still tidy enough to use, and tapped them on the counter to straighten them. Then she set them down and began to napkin-roll silverware.

  “You did good last night,” Stick Vanko said finally. Although when she looked up in surprise, his face was as genial as a rock outcropping on the prairie.

  “Thanks.” She nodded, and kept working. He didn’t walk away, so she kept talking. “That’s … nice of you to say. And your, um, Sara was really nice too.”

  To her surprise, he smiled, his hard face softening. “My old lady has a big heart. Smart too, which is why I’m here. Not only do I like the way you stepped up, Sara likes you. So I’m here to offer you a deal.”

  Lesa stopped what she was doing, staring at him. “A deal? What kind of a deal?” Hopefully not the kind where he gave her the chance to come and be one of those party girls who hung around the club. “I’m actually good here. I’ll be leaving soon, you know, so I don’t need anything.”

  “That’s my deal,” he said. “You don’t leave town, you stay here. You work here, and keep doing what you’re doing. Be a great waitress and bar maid, and don’t take shit from anyone. Including my little brother.”

  Were his eyes actually twinkling? They so were.

  “Why on earth would you want me to stay here?” She began rolling silverware again, because if she had to just stand here, she’d start twirling her hair or something, and showing every nerve she had. “Aysha may be gone, but the others all think I’m a thief, thanks to your not-so-little brother.” She gave him a baleful look, then remembered to whom she was speaking. “I would think you’d want to get another waitress in here as fast as you can. Someone who’s … better liked.”

  “Ah, but then she’d have less spirit,” he said. “Also, we don’t need any strangers in the middle of our situation. You’re a known quantity, and you’re good at your job. The customers like you. My VP likes you. Screw anyone who doesn’t, da? Either they’ll come around, or they’re not worth worrying about.”

  Sure, easy for him to have that perspective. He didn’t have to work with two cooks and two waitresses who thought he was scum, scooped off the pond by Pete for reasons they didn’t get. She scowled at her task, but said nothing.

  “Stay for a few more weeks,” the club president ordered. “I’ll double what Pete’s paying you.” He chuckled at the shocked look she gave him. “I can afford it, don't worry. Just don’t say anything to Pete, or the deal is off.”

  Great, now he expected her to keep secrets from her boss, who expected her to keep secrets from everyone else? Well, it wasn’t as if she owed Pete any loyalty, beyond doing her best at her work here.

  “Fine,” she said. “I accept your offer. I’d like the money in my bank account by tomorrow, please.” Then she locked her shaking knees and met him stare for stare. On second thought, she squeezed her thighs together too, so she wouldn’t pee her pants under the force of his icy gaze. “You should understand why I’m a little leery of promises from your family,” she pointed out.

  He grunted. “Da. Though you were a man who spoke to me that way, I’d put you on the ground.” He leaned closer. “I give my word, I never break it. Anyone who knows me, or of me, knows this. Now you do too, da?”

  She nodded quickly, squeezing harder.

  “Good, we have a deal.” He straightened, and looked past her, just as footsteps sounded. “Hey, Pete. Want some help with that?”

  “Got it,” Pete called. Lesa turned to watch as he bore a keg into the bar, looking very fine doing so. He’d taken off his long-sleeved shirt, and his gray Hangar tee clung to the long lines of his torso, delineating each muscle as he hefted the keg. His biceps bulged, his forearms knotted as he carefully changed his grip, bringing the keg around bef
ore him.

  Stick Vanko chuckled, a deep rough sound. “Yeah, you’ll stay,” he muttered so only Lesa could hear. He sauntered off to the bar, leaving her with a burning face. He’d totally caught her ogling his brother.

  And she needed to hit the restroom before she peed her pants. She hurried off to do that, and to get away from the suffocating power of the Vanko brothers. Really, they shouldn’t be allowed to be in the same room together.

  Also, Pete had been frowning at her and his brother—or maybe just her, who knew?

  Whatever, she was tired of taking his crap. As soon as Stick Vanko’s money hit her account, she was going to have a thing or two to say to Pete about his bossiness and way of making decisions first and asking later.

  And if he didn’t cooperate … she imagined herself reaching for a big red handle that said ‘Coeur d’Alene’ and pulling it, like the handle on a public fire prevention box. She’d move to Coeur d’Alene and work for Jack Who-ever-he-was. It was nice little town, and pretty in the summer.

  Although probably not far enough from here to keep Pete Vanko off her mind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Hangar was quiet that evening. Streak was off for the night, and Pete had sent Maggie home early. She’d lost no time grabbing her coat and hurrying out to her car. Joe left soon after.

  By midnight, Lesa and Pete were the only ones in the pub. “Where are all our regulars?” Lesa asked.

  Pete continued to count ones at the cash register, then rubber-banded them and tucked them in the deposit bag. “Got a weather alert on my phone. There's a big snow-storm comin’ in. Folks are over at the store, getting groceries in, gassing up their generators if needed. Gettin’ ready to hunker in.”

  Lesa looked out the windows at the parking lot and section of road visible in the street lights. “It’s snowing, but not very hard.”

  “Supposed to really come down,” he said, moving to turn off the outside sign. “May as well lock up.”

  She finished wiping down the tables, and moved back to meet him at the bar as he turned off some of the inside lights as well, leaving them in a warm pool of light. It was strangely intimate, as if the two of them were in a life-size snow globe. Too bad he was the last guy she wanted to be trapped in a snow-globe with … or that she should want to.

  “You want a drink?” he offered, lifting a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar. “Wet Fly, made in Eastern Washington.”

  “Sure.” She’d have a few sips and then bring up her ultimatum. Or maybe more than a few sips.

  “Rocks or neat?

  “Rocks, please.”

  He dumped ice into two beer glasses, then poured a measure of the amber liquor into each, and slid one across the bar to her. Leaning back against the counter behind him, he crossed his ankles and sipped.

  Lesa took a cautious sip. The aroma of whiskey and faint hints of spice, with a hint of burn on her tongue, and warmth down her throat. “That’s good.”

  He chuckled. “You sound surprised. Not a whiskey drinker?”

  “Can’t afford the good stuff, can’t stand the cheap stuff.” She took another drink, reaching up to unfasten her hair from the clip, and let it spill over her shoulders.

  “I get that. That's how I feel about beer—rather drink water than the cheap piss the big breweries bottle up.” He watched, his gaze hooded, as she rubbed her scalp with her fingertips, then tossed her hair back. “Your hair’s pretty. Can’t believe Aysha thought dying her mop would make her look more like you.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  He gave her an odd look. “You didn’t notice the resemblance? Had it up on her head like you do, even wore layered tops and jeans like you. Thought she was you from the back—for half a second, anyway. Then I realized that wasn’t your ass or your hair.”

  “Holy wow,” Lesa mumbled, taking another drink. “She probably just wanted a change.”

  He shook his head at her. “Yeah, to look more like you.”

  Lesa could not think of a single reply to this, so she changed the subject.

  “Why a brewpub?” she asked him. “I mean, I get you like craft beer, but why did you decide to start making it, and why this place?”

  He sipped his whiskey. “Fair question. Some dude from Seattle opened this place in 2010. Set up the brewery, opened the place, was real busy for a while. But then his wife divorced him. She’d been managing it—after she left, the food and the service went to shit. Never knew what you were gonna get when you walked in. That pissed me off, ‘cause I knew what it could be. So, four years ago next month, Stick and I bought him out. I went to Seattle, trained as a brewer. Came back and opened up.”

  “And you’ve made it a success.” She smiled into her glass.

  “Why is that funny?” he asked.

  She took a drink and tipped her glass, swirling the ice and amber whiskey. “Because, you can be such a zhopa, but you’re a good boss, and obviously a good brewer. I guess that means you have some redeeming qualities.”

  “Thanks,” he said dryly, moving to refill her glass. “So, when things smooth out, maybe you should stick around. If you do a good job, I might even hire you to manage the place for me.”

  She took a long drink, shuddered at the burn, and set her glass down. “Nope, not interested.”

  “Why the hell not?” He scowled at her. “You just got done sayin’ I’m good to work for. I’ll clue the others in, let ‘em know it wasn’t you that stole from me. We’ll play it that you were undercover for me, make you look like a fuckin’ heroine.”

  She scowled back at him. “No, Pete.”

  “Why the hell not?” This time he fairly roared the question at her.

  “You wanna know why not? I’ll tell you why not.”

  “Good, ‘cause I’m all ears.”

  Gah, where to even begin. She opened her mouth to tell him it was because she didn’t even trust him, but the words that poured out weren’t what she’d meant to say.

  “You asked me why I don’t want my dad here—why he’s not taking care of his daughters?” she asked, looking him in the eye. “Because he stole from me!”

  He gave her a strange, guarded look, but did not, strangely, look surprised. “So, what’s that have to do with you and me and the Hangar?”

  “It has everything to do with you and me,” she hissed. “And with the Hangar, since you own it, and you pulled me into your—your crap.”

  He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. Then he let it out slowly. “All right. You wanna talk, I’m listening.”

  Lesa took another drink, and let the memories rush back.

  She had always been the kind of kid who was proud of her dad, happy when he showed up at her school for teacher conferences, then later her graduations and smaller school events. And he’d been proud of her in return.

  After her mother died in a collision with a semi on icy roads when Lesa was ten and the twins eight, Phil Boggs had done his best to step up as a single parent, although he had at times barked at the three of them like the career soldier he was, they learned not to take this to heart.

  In fact, while Lesa tried like the eldest child she was, to excel at following his rules as well as everything else, the twins developed the fine art of agreeing docilely and then going off and doing whatever they wanted to.

  Lesa had in the way of children everywhere, simply accepted that her dad lived to be there for her and her sisters. It wasn’t until she was old enough to date herself that she realized that he was not only a widower and a parent, he was a person … a man. And since she was, like every other teenage girl, in love with love, she told him he really should get out and meet a nice woman.

  He had flushed under his weathered tan, cleared his throat and then given her a side hug, and told her to mind her own business, that he’d get around to that when he was ready, that for now he was kinda busy being a dad.

  She’d taken this in the spirit it was intended, and put her mind ba
ck on her own life, oblivious to parental undercurrents.

  The first cracks in her father’s armor had appeared a year ago, when he came home drunk, and driving an old wreck of a car instead of his shiny, late-model Chevy truck. He’d lost a bet, he told her, and slammed his bedroom door behind him, leaving her shocked and frightened.

  A month later their house payment came up overdue. Her father admitted that he’d been up to the casino that weekend, and gambled recklessly. Lesa made the payment, Phil promised never to gamble again. And he didn’t, for nearly a month. But this time, he mortgaged their little house.

  Two months after that, Lesa’s boss at Morey’s called her in to his office, where she found her father waiting for her. Her boss was grim and sad, her father looked ill and shrunken in his chair.

  “What did you do this time?” she asked her father, and then clapped her hand over her mouth, shocked at her own instant suspicion.

  “You want to tell her, or shall I?” Morey asked.

  Phil shook his head and then covered his face with his hands.

  “Dad?” Lesa whispered, an empty pit yawning in her gut. “Oh, no, Dad.”

  “Eight thousand in auto parts,” Morey told her, tapping his knuckles on a printout on his desk. “Gone. Sold on Dave'sList.”

  Lesa could hardly breathe. She swallowed hard as her morning coffee tried its best to surge back up her throat, and pressed her knuckles to her mouth until the wave of sickness subsided.

  “We’ll pay it back,” she told Morey. “Every cent, plus interest. You can garnish both our paychecks.”

  He gave her a look and then shook his head. “Honey, I can’t. Your dad has a big, big problem. A man like him doesn’t steal from his friend unless he’s sick. How’m I supposed to trust that he won’t do it again?”

  She nodded, because what else could she do? She got it, she really did. “Then I’ll pay you back myself.”

  Morey looked away.

  “He wants us both to leave,” her father told her, his voice choked with shame.

  Morey rose, his chair clattering back to hit the wall behind him. “I’m sorry, honey,” he told her. “Listen, I’m giving you severance pay—something to tide you over. Just … don’t let Phil have it.”