by Jax Hart
My hands grip the edge of my desk. Christ, she’s hot as fuck, and I’m a sick pervert for noticing how tight her ass was when she walked in.
Hell, the way she moaned when tasting my sauce made me wonder if that’s how she moans when her man’s making her come. I had to turn away and pretend to stir the pot until my hard-on calmed down. I’ve got no business checking her out. She’s my employee, and although I’ve fucked a patron or two, never someone whose paycheck has my signature on it.
I almost fell over when she called askin’ for work. I’d hire her sweet butt just to keep an eye on it. I knew within an hour of her moving to town that Devon was gonna be trouble. Good lookin’ women always are. I need to keep myself in check. Hell, I’ve had plenty of top-shelf women back in my prime. Some might say—I could bag even more now. But ever since I’ve opened Sassy’s, I’ve calmed down my ways. When this used to be Stan’s Place, I came in about every night. I’d grab a meal and stay until closing. And if I got shit-faced enough on a night when the band brought in the crowds—I often found myself in a dark corner with my hand up a skirt or in the back lot with my zipper down. Shit, they always came to me. I don’t remember the last time I pursued a hook-up.
I pinch the bridge of my nose feeling a headache coming on. There’s something damn familiar about that girl. It’s in my head somewhere—I just can’t find the missing puzzle piece of where she fits.
“I’m so fucked, Lucy,” I grab a bottle of cold water and slam the fridge door.
“I told you it was a bad idea to go live there. I can’t believe you left when I have a summer share at the lake. Although most of the guys are engaged or married.”
“Yeah, I do miss Chicago in August… but you don’t understand,” I reply flopping down on the lumpy bed.
“What happened?”
“I took a waitressing job.”
“What? Why? Doesn’t your job at the school start in less than a month?”
“Yeah, it does. But there’s this guy, Roger. He definitely knows who my mother was.”
“Good. Just ask him straight out. Get your answers and get your ass back home. I miss you Dev.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Of course it is.”
“It’s not, I think he might hate her. And it’s more… god, I can’t explain it. This town—it’s wild. The trees are so tall it’s like they block out the sun leaving everything underneath covered in streaks of sunlight. The air smells like cars were never invented and the men—they are huge! Picture this: hot as hell lumberjacks meet the Sons of Anarchy.”
“Holy shit. You found heaven girl, and I’m booking my ticket.”
“Seriously? You’ll come for a visit?”
“Hells yeah. You better not be lying about the men. I need to see this for myself.”
“I’m not,” I laugh feeling so much better about everything. “But Lucy, the guy I was telling you about, Roger… he’s like in his fifties or something.”
“Get out.”
“I know. Is it weird that I’m so attracted to him?”
“No. Not if he’s as hot as you say he is.”
“He looks like Charlie Hunnam, that guy who played Jax in Sons…. if you added ten years—okay, maybe fifteen, tops.”
“Damn. I’m definitely coming now.”
“Heck, the principal just called me, the music teacher met some guy in Cabo on her summer break, and she’s not coming back. If you like Springdale, maybe you could stay?”
“Um, one thing at a time Dev,” she laughs hanging up.
Feeling much better, I spring up from my bed and open my closet. My hands slide each hanger until I find what I’m looking for—my hot pink tube top that I bought for my vacation with Luce a few years back. With a good push-up bra underneath, it raises my cleavage a good three inches. Shuffling over to my dresser, my hands search through each drawer until I find my denim cut-offs. I’m going to look damn hot tonight. Putting the clothes on my bed, I enter the bathroom and get to work. Turning the shower on, I get in thinking about how I can’t wait to see the look on Roger’s face. I wonder if he’ll play it cool pretending not to notice me, or if his ice-blue eyes will burn with heat.
But most of all I wonder: Why do I even care?
“What are you staring at, girl?”
“You old man. You’re hot as fuck.”
“Get back to work.”
“Gladly,” I smirk, bending down to pick up a napkin that had fallen on the floor.
“Jesus H Christ,” he mutters under his breath.
I grin, feeling his hot eyes on my body. There’s no dress code at the Sassy Wench, and every day I come to work wearing just a little less. My friends back home think I’m whack lusting after some man twenty years my senior, but damn the man is fine. He has more muscles than a street fighter and when he puts on his glasses to do paperwork; I instantly get wet.
He must have a story. And I’m going to find out what it is. But there’s no way in hell—he’s going to find out mine.
It’s my third day working here, but it already feels as if I’ve worked here forever. Not because the job is hard but because it seems so familiar. With a grin, I finish setting the tables and pretend to ignore him seated at the bar reading a stack of invoices with those sexy rims on. My thighs tingle. He’s so fuckin’ hot, such a jerk only speaking in grunts, but damn his huge body covered in ink makes me want to trace each line with my tongue and make him go insane for me. Then when he’s at my mercy—begging me to put him out of his misery and sink down on him, riding us both to esctasy—I’d stop. I’d make him beg for me and not let him come until he apologizes and tells me everything he knows.
“I’ll have the Wellington salad with the chicken on the side…,” the cool tip of the metal pen slides between my lips. I work it in and out between my plump limps staring at Rog over the head of the businesswoman ordering lunch, before taking it out and jotting down their order.
His hands move down under the bar as if he’s adjusting his pants. I can’t make out what he’s muttering, and I smirk raising my eyebrows at him.
“… and I’ll have the Cobb salad and a glass of iced-tea,” the other customer tells me.
“Sure. I’ll grab your drinks and be right back.”
My eyes meet Roger’s, and everything they ordered goes right out my head. I look down at the pad I was writing their order on, stunned at what’s there.
I didn’t write down a damn thing.
It’s just a bunch of quick scribbles and doodles with a few words written in nonsensical script.
With a red face and a rapidly beating heart, I slip the pad into the back pocket of my snug shorts and walk to the bar ordering two iced-teas trying to ignore the delicious smell and body heat radiating from Rog sittin’ there.
I’m not even looking at him, my teeth sink into my lip, and I stifle a moan feeling my nipples tighten under his watchful gaze. I feel his eyes on me. I feel him looking at me all the time, but whenever I look back, he looks away.
I can’t tell if he’s watchin’ me because I’m new and he wants to make sure I’m not screwing up or if it’s something more.
Damn, I hope it’s something more.
THURSDAY NIGHTS CAN GO either way. Some are slow and others fast. I should’ve known there was gonna be trouble tonight the second she walked in as if she owned the goddamn place instead of me. She’s only been here a few days, but she already fits like she’s worked here ages. Not that I’ll ever tell her that.
Her hips swung from side to side; her smooth, tan skin glowed under the light. She wore the apron like a dress; it ended at the top of her toned thighs. Her hair swung around her like a cloud. She curled it, and the silky strands hung almost down to that itty-bitty waist. The bubble-gum pink lipstick she wore hit me like a punch to the gut.
She walked straight towards me. She was an arrow, and I was her target.
But she is far from the first to try to play this game with me. Breaking eye contact,
I turned back to the cash register with a twenty in my hand, fingers jabbing the keys until the cash drawer spit open. I handed Big Jim his change. But he didn’t even notice as I placed the money in front of his drink. He was turned in his seat with his mouth hanging open staring at my new waitress like she was a piece of candy.
“Who is that?” He whistled through his teeth.
“Dev. Come here sugar and meet Big Jim,” I gesture like I don’t give a shit, but the tick I feel pulsing in my cheek betrays me as he leers at the rounded curves of her cleavage poppin’ out of a turquoise top.
She winks at him, holds out her hand but he picks her up in a bear hug instead, welcoming her to “the family.”
“Not yet. She needs to prove herself. It’s only her first week,” I tell Jim.
“Oh, I’ll prove myself all right,” she answers leaning an elbow on the bar, expecting my eyes to dip to her chest.
I don’t.
Her eyebrows raise slightly in surprise that I didn’t even take a peek at her ripe breasts spilling from her top.
“Tina will be in soon. She’ll show ya’ the supply closet in case we get slammed and run out of stock up front. The band is playing tonight, and we’re gonna get busy. Can you handle taking tables one through twelve and serving the bar orders from the kitchen?”
“Of course. If you even bothered to interview me, you’d know I waited at Hooters in downtown Chicago for four years.”
“Be careful sugar. The men in these parts won’t hesitate to take what you put in front of them. They’re as wild as the woods and just as rough; not city-slicking suits with manicured hands. You're sending out signals, girl. You better make damn sure ya’ know what you're about,” I finish slappin’ my hands down on the bar in front of her hoping to scare her good. I’m not worried about people getting fresh with her. I’m concerned about my own damn hands itching to feel her soft skin and my thumb dying to run across her lower lip. Shaking my head, I turn away and do something I haven’t done in months—drink on the job. My hands reach for the glass automatically, pouring a shot of Jack Daniels.
She grins, turning around to take a drink order. My hand grips the bar hard. Her jean shorts barely cover her butt, ending where her glutes and hamstrings meet leaving her long legs on display for everyone to see. Her calves are muscular and tight, the line from her quads visible from the side. Damn, she must lift weights too.
I raise the glass to my lips, swallowing hard. It goes down like fire in the back of my throat.
Hiring her was stupid. It was impulsive, and now I’m gonna pay the price thinkin’ about her in ways I shouldn’t. Shit, I was burning through women, riding like a demon in the dark, getting rich and high when she was still a speck in the stars. But now she’s standing right in front of me with eyes sayin’ things she can’t possibly mean. And if she does—I’m already lost and half-way to hell for thinkin’ about all the ways I could take her with me.
His eyes have me hypnotized as he warns me about the big, bad, dangerous men I’ve seen around town. “I can handle myself,” I answer with a shiver. But it’s not one of fear; it’s all anticipation. My last boyfriend, Jeff, was the gym teacher at the high school in Naperville where I worked.
After weeks of flirting in the hallways and hot looks across the teacher’s lounge lunch table, we hooked up, both being drunk at happy hour. Our first sloppy kiss turned into actual dates. Each was hotter than the next. My mouth watered the first time he peeled his shirt over his head, and my hand traced down his chiseled chest, his cut abs and inside his boxers. Jeff had it all—charm, golden looks and a body ripped like a cage fighter and between his legs he was well-endowed. I thought I had won the boyfriend lottery.
Jeff was sweet and treated me good.
Until he didn’t.
So, that leaves me at three. I’ve only had sex with three men; none of which were the strong woodsy type who took what they wanted.
I raise the pen to my lips, staring off in space as I wait for him to place the beers on my tray. The last time I was with Jeff was on our disastrous date on Valentine’s Day, when he asked me to move out.
I thought he might propose since we’d been together for years. But instead of getting engaged—I got dumped.
I’m too young to give up on the hope for finding the catch of a lifetime. I have a fleeting thought that I’m standing in front of one, but I have a feeling more than one woman tried to catch this shark. Sharks are dangerous, silently circling until they come up out of nowhere to rip you apart. There’s no wedding band on his finger, in fact, there’s no pale skin telling a story he ever wore one.
“Hello? Doll? You still with us?” Roger asks tapping me gently on the head.
“Yep. I was just replaying all my super ninja moves. Like I was saying, I can handle anyone who gets fresh with me.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunts. “If anyone gives you trouble, you come to Federico or me. He’s the big guy at the door. You haven’t met him yet since the weekdays have been slow. If anyone gets drunk and handsy with you, let him know.
“Roger, that.”
He grunts and nods over to the window outside the kitchen, “Food’s up. Get to work, doll.”
And I do. The regulars greet me like a long-lost friend. Tina the other waitress is nice, and before I know it, half my shift is gone. I work fast clearing tables and wiping them clean with a wet rag.
“What brings ya’ here darlin’?”
I spin around, heart pounding and my head tips back meeting the stranger’s intense gaze.
“I’m sorry. You startled me.”
“Didn’t mean to do that.”
“Smith? What in the hell are you doin’ here brotha?” Meat calls out.
I can’t hear his reply over the motorcade of bikes tearing into the lot. The engines roar to a stop and my mouth hangs open as twenty men enter the bar each hotter and more bad ass than the next.
“Hot damn. Get your ass in gear girl, because we just might make a month’s worth of tips tonight,” Tina informs me tugging down her top and applying a fresh coat of lip gloss.
“Who’s this?”
I try to act cool but damn these men are terrifying. Hot, but terrifying.
“Oh, that’s Devon. She’s the new girl. Whatcha drinkin’?” Tina asks flirting with them.
“Let’s break her in then. Get on the bar and lay flat.”
I look back and forth between the two unsmiling giants that pushed the glasses aside, expecting me to obey their command.
“Uh, I-uh…,” I stammer feeling unsure of myself for the first time in years.
“We’re just fuckin’ with you sugar,” the two men laugh.
“Oh yeah?” I answer hopping up and planting my butt down on the bar. Raising an eyebrow, my hand snakes behind me and grabs a bottle of Tequila. I place it next to me and grab the salt and lime, lift my shirt to prep for body shots. Just as I’m about to tip the bottle and pour, it’s yanked from my grasp.
“Get up,” Roger growls, yanking down my shirt. I try to sit up, feeling my cheeks burn. He pulls me off the bar. Toe-to-toe he leans down, the irises of his blue eyes burn like a spark of a flame before the fire ignites. “My office. NOW.”
I gulp, feeling like he’s swallowed me.
With a hanging head, I follow him as he raises the swing counter of the bar and walks out holding it up. I duck under his arm catching a whiff of laundry detergent and cigar smoke. It’s a weird combination but damn if it doesn’t affect me. I’ve dated too many men wearing suits and designer cologne, each more groomed and metro-sexual than the next. But Roger, he’s all man, with muscles and hands made strong by labor, not personal trainers. I felt the calluses covering his palms when he firmly grasped my arm.
His hand jerks the knob of his door, the tip of his boot kicks it open, and I feel like a kid entering the principal’s office.
He’s wound tight, refusing to look at me as he walks over to a wet bar and pours himself a drink. He raises it to his lips and pa
uses as if he just realized he’s holding a drink in his hands.
“Fuckin’ hell.” He slams the drink down uncaring that it spills over the rim onto the floor.
Unsure of what to do or say, I move over to a wall where a row of pictures hang. One, in particular, catches my eye; it’s of him, an older man with a breathing tube running through his nose and the same woman and man I saw in a pic out front. I snort, reading the banner hanging above their heads, “Happy 60th Birthday Meat.”
A waft of cigar smoke reaches me, and I turn finding him seated behind his desk, with snakeskin boots crossed at the ankles on top of a pile of papers. The cigar rests between two fingers as he puffs out the smoke in rings.
“I’ll pierce my left tit if you’re a day over fifty.”
His eyes drop to my breasts, and he smirks, “Don’t make that bet darlin’.”
“No way. I don’t believe it.”
“I’m not sixty,” he shrugs. “They wouldn’t let me pledge to Creed unless I was twenty-one.”
“So, you lied?”
“Yep.”
“How old were you?”
His chair creaks as he shifts his weight, placing his feet back on the floor. “Doesn’t matter.”
It does to me.
“Are you firing me?”
He assesses me, flicking the ash from his cigar in a tray. “Nope. But if you pull a stunt like that, I’ll make you wash dishes for a week.”
My shoulders straighten. “I’d quit first.”
He ignores my statement. “All kinds of shit used to go down on this premises. I won’t lie, even I did some stupid shit. But times are changing. Families come in here on occasion, in case you haven’t noticed—my cooking is damn good. If you want to flirt, make extra tips—fine but don’t pull shit like that again unless it's after midnight on a weekend. Ya’ hear me?”
