Mountain Man

by Jules Barnard

  I gasp right before his fingers slide beneath my short shorts, the material cutting into my thigh. His arm is so tight around my waist I can hardly breathe, and the requisite nylons aren’t a barrier from Drake’s fingers sliding over my rear and around to my crotch. I’m not wearing panties—none of the waitresses do, because they’d show beneath our uniforms, another reason for the mandatory pantyhose.

  I press my tray over the front of my shorts to block Drake’s questing fingers, but the tray is bulky and it doesn’t prevent his hand from moving deeper. He rubs the crease of my leg and brushes over the slit of my body. I bend forward, jerking that part of me out of the way, but he has a lock on my middle and I don’t move far.

  My chest seizes. I clench my thighs together. All the self-doubt from this day, Cali’s justified anger—it crashes into me, weighing me down. Whatever strength I gathered from telling Lewis what I thought this afternoon on the paddleboard vanishes. I clam up, verbally, physically, unable to defend myself.

  Drake fingers me roughly, pressing, poking—trying to enter me.

  A light cry erupts from my throat. I wiggle frantically in a series of spastic tugs and manage to dislodge his hand, but it immediately returns to cup my rear.

  Somewhere in my subconscious, I register the click of the door opening behind me.

  Another man? I’m already outnumbered.

  The men chuckle, the clink of glasses piercing my ears. Chatter about holes-in-one and Drake—a dirty joke about me, I think—are murmured in low, delighted tones.

  Drake’s arm tightens, angling my body for better access. “So pretty and soft, Genevieve.” He reaches around and flattens his palm to my belly, sliding lower.

  My vision blurs… I can’t breathe.

  A throat clears. Masculine, forceful. Not one of the men around the table. The sound came from behind—the person who entered last.

  The murmur of excited voices dims, and heads turn. Drake stills, but the arm bracketing my waist doesn’t budge.

  My arms shake from shock and the fatigue of prying his fingers off me. I angle my neck—the only part of my body I can move—to the person that caught the room’s attention.

  Lewis’s eyes snare mine, flickering to Drake’s arm tight around my waist. A muscle in his jaw flexes and he glares at Drake. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re early,” Drake replies pleasantly, releasing me. A whoosh of air escapes my chest, loosening but not easing the strain that built.

  I jerk to the side and step away.

  “You have the bid?” Drake asks innocently.

  Lewis is gripping his clipboard, staring at me in an intense, worried way. His gaze cuts from me long enough for him to pass Drake a yellow sheet.

  I grab my tray that at some point slipped to the ground and walk to the end of the table. Two men mumble drink orders as I pass and I take them down, my brain on autopilot. I make it out of the suite without remembering how I got there.

  My palms flatten on the wall several feet away, forehead tipping to the surface. I clench my eyes closed. My hands curl into fists and my legs shake as humiliation and anger fill me.

  I punch the wall with the side of my fist, rolling my forehead. Why does this shit happen to me? I hate it, hate it.

  A warm pressure settles on my arm. It’s gentle, but I flinch. At this point, my mother’s touch would startle me.

  I know it’s him before I open my eyes, so I don’t bother. I turn and lean against his chest, covering my face with my hands. Guttural whimpers erupt from my throat, the smooth stroke of his hand on my spine highlighting my body’s shaking.

  “What happened in there, Gen?” His velvety voice lures me from the dark, ashamed place inside my head.

  There’s no way I’m telling him exactly what happened. I don’t want to think about it, let alone relive it. “You saw what happened.”

  He lets out a slow breath as if he’s trying to remain calm. “You have to tell someone.”

  Tell someone? Is he kidding? He knows—knows the gist anyway—and that’s bad enough. Lewis is everywhere, witnessing all my humiliations. I look weak in front of him, never how I want to appear. What Drake did to me, my inability to stop it… Does Lewis think I bring it on myself, the way Cali does?

  “Gen?”

  “No,” I croak.

  His hand spreads on my back. “Then I’ll tell management what I saw. They need to know what happened, or you should quit your job.” His voice is firm.

  “No. Don’t.” I pull away, pressing my fists to my eyes. They come away moist, but no tears fall. I won’t let them. So tired of this shit. Never again.

  I make the mistake of looking up. Lewis’s gaze sucks whatever air I managed to regain. His features—intense, addictive—set off a riot of new emotions. Need, want. But not sexual this time. I want him to hold and comfort me, and that’s even scarier.

  I step away, one foot, then the other.

  “Gen.” Lewis’s voice pleads, his eyes darting to my quivering mouth, the balled fists at my sides. He doesn’t come closer. He holds himself back.

  I don’t blame him. He should stay away.

  I turn and run toward the stairs.

  Chapter Eight

  Lewis doesn’t follow me and I don’t expect him to. Not after what he saw and what he must think of me. I stop in the basement and splash water on my face, waiting for my body to cease shaking. I’ve been touched in ways that made me uncomfortable by my mom’s exes—or whatever you want to call them—and have fought off my share of handsy guys. This was different.

  I want to pretend like it never happened, but a small voice in the back of my mind whispers like I did with Cali’s ex, Eric. And look how great that turned out.

  Despite taking too long to return to my station, I grab my phone from my locker and make a detour on my way to the lounge. Mason is chatting with another bartender at the East Bar, his back turned. “Mason,” I say, my voice sharp. He jerks around. “You have a minute?” The other bartender immediately busies himself at the opposite end of the counter.

  Screw the awkward tension between us. I refuse to take more money from my mother, and if I’m not quitting and running from Drake or any other man who thinks he can touch me without permission, I need to know what I’m up against before I go to management. What happened with Drake can’t happen again. It can’t.

  My chest rises on a calming inhale. “What’s going on with Drake Peterson?”

  Mason’s brows pinch for a moment. I don’t know if it’s my expression or the question that has him confused. He grabs a rag, wiping the counter between us that feels like an ocean. “No idea. Why?”

  “You were glaring at him earlier. What’s up with that?”

  He shrugs noncommittally. “Don’t like the guy.”

  I close my eyes for a second. I’m about to lose my shit. There’s only so much a girl can take in one day, and Mason’s uncooperativeness is about to tip me over the edge. “He was aggressive with me and I want to know if the reason you don’t like him has anything to do with that sort of thing.”

  Mason’s hand stills. “What did he do?” His words come out clipped.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to hear what you know about him.”

  I glance around. Yes, my coworkers act like catty fourteen-year-olds and are greedy as hell, but after Cali got fired, and now this… There’s something going on. Drake’s buddies didn’t flinch at his actions toward me, until he got caught. And the way Mason was looking at Drake earlier—I think Drake’s done this before. And I think Mason knows it.

  Mason loosens his grip on the rag. He lets out a strained breath. “There’s nothing specific. I’ve just seen him flirt with waitresses.”

  I give him a mocking look. Mason is a huge flirt with pretty waitresses and just about any attractive female who passes his bar.

  He rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen him in conversations that looked too intimate. Intense. He seems like you said, aggressive.”

 
I breathe in through my nose, holding back my anger and frustration. “You could have warned me.” My voice cracks and I leave before Mason can respond.

  I’d like to run far and wide, but that’s what I always do. There will always be some asshole who treats women like shit. I’ve run from plenty of them; I can’t run from them all.

  Even if I decided to quit my job, I’ve heard finding casino work mid-season is nearly impossible, and that would put me right back to depending on my mother’s dirty money. Considering what Mason said, I’m not the first person Drake has done this to. If the casino is letting him get away with it, what are the chances they will listen to anything I say? Cali lost her dealer position after much less than claiming sexual harassment from a senior executive.

  Speaking of jobs—the drinks.

  I glance at the time. It’s been too long. Drake and his buddies probably expected their drinks fifteen minutes ago. Why the hell did I take those jerks’ orders?

  There’s a chance Drake won’t complain after the bullshit he pulled, but I’m not willing to take the chance. If I’m not running from my job because of Drake, I won’t lose it over something stupid like failing to perform my duties.

  I must have made Mason feel bad, because he sends Jaeger over to check on me right after I turn in the drink orders.

  “You okay?” Jaeger asks.

  I nod, but I’m not doing a great job of hiding my distress. Jaeger enfolds me in a massive bear hug, tucking my head close. “Just give me the word, Gen, and I’ll beat the crap out of whoever hurt you.”

  Despite my grief, I chuckle. “It’s okay, Jaeger. I’m handling it.”

  Jaeger doesn’t seem completely satisfied with my response, but he nods and returns to Mason’s bar.

  Jaeger’s a good guy, but I don’t want other people fighting my battles. I just need to figure out the right way to handle this.

  “Whatchadoin’?”

  My heart leaps in my throat at Maryanne’s voice, and I spin around. Her eyes slide to my shaking hands. Did she see Jaeger hug me? This woman is like a hound on a scent. I have to say something. “I’m waiting on an order for Drake’s party. They’re in a suite upstairs.”

  “Drake Peterson?” I nod, and her mouth twists, eyes narrowing. “Everything go okay up there?”

  A muscle below my eye flutters like a butterfly’s wing. I casually press my finger to it. “Yep, all good.”

  Her sharp gaze tracks my finger. “Don’t let those bad boys take advantage of you.” She glances at the lounge, fuller than before. “You’re busy in here. I’ll handle Drake’s drinks.”

  My mouth compresses. She’s like a psychic or a mind reader, but I don’t question it.

  The bartender finishes the order and I mumble something unintelligible to Maryanne that I hope resembles a thank-you, and thrust the cocktails onto her tray. I might be brave enough to stay at my job (or stupid, depending on how you look at it), but I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

  As soon as Maryanne leaves with the drinks, though, second thoughts hammer me. Maryanne’s tough, but is she tough enough for Drake and the drunken perverts? What if they do something to her?

  I pace the lounge, wearing a track in the carpet in front of the bar, worried about her. I’ve checked on my customers so often they’re giving me dirty looks, and I’ve sorted condiment picks by color. Nothing reduces the anxiety in my gut.

  I scan the room, searching for Jaeger, a security guard—someone strong enough to help me rescue Maryanne, because I’m convinced something’s happened—when she strolls to the East Bar.

  Before I think better of it and the fact that my anxiety supports her earlier suspicions, I walk over. “Everything go okay?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Your friend Drake Peterson was surprised to see me.”

  My gaze shoots to Mason. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact he’s eavesdropping.

  “Oh—well, thanks. For helping.”

  “No sweat.” She turns and unloads empty glasses from her tray.

  I frown. Maryanne just saved my ass—after Lewis saved it. And before that it was Jaeger with the A-hole, then Cali any number of times. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I fight my own battles?

  Lewis is a large, intimidating male. I see how he’d make Drake think twice, but Maryanne? She’s four inches shorter than me.

  I hate that people like Drake believe I’m weak and take advantage. Why didn’t I poke him in the eye when he shoved his fingers up my crotch?

  Goddamn, that memory.

  I take a steadying breath and swallow the bitter taste in my mouth.

  I’m not defenseless, but I choked. My brain froze and I didn’t react. I’m tall, athletic, and strong for a woman, but mentally I shut down when things get heavy. It served me in the past to keep quiet. I would have been a pariah in junior high and high school if people had known what my mother did to make ends meet. But clamming up isn’t working for me anymore—it makes me vulnerable.

  I pull out my ordering pad and stare at the web address for the Alpine Mudder.

  Nessa was right about stepping out of my self-imposed box. I’m so bottled up I don’t know how to react when I need to. I was put in a bad position upstairs, and sure, I squirmed around a bit, but I should have done more, said more. Anything would have been better than mentally locking up.

  The mudder looks dangerous and filthy, and there will be tons of macho guys participating. My comfort zone will be so far away I won’t be able to see it, but if I don’t learn how to fight, I’ll always be pushed around.

  I unlock the iPhone I grabbed from my locker and punch in the web address, registering for the race.

  Chapter Nine

  A bachelor party hoots in the corner as I enter the sports bar the next night. They’re the only customers in here. Why the casino packs two waitresses in what’s generally a customer dead zone is beyond me, but I’m happy to escape Mont Belle Lounge for one evening.

  Nessa tucks a few bills in her caddy and spots me, a bright smile lighting her face. Several men from the bachelor party ogle her ass as she walks my way.

  She sets her tray on the counter. “Hey. How are you?”

  My first instinct is to panic. She knows. But Nessa can’t know about Drake. First of all, there’s nothing in her tone to indicate that she does. Second, I haven’t told anyone, and for some reason, I trust Lewis won’t either.

  Cali left town before I returned from work last night. She texted that she’d be at her mom’s in Carson City. We didn’t get a chance to talk after our fight—which means I didn’t get a chance to tell her about Drake. Without Cali’s support, I feel doubly vulnerable.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” I tell Nessa, and grab a Styrofoam cup from the bar. I pour coffee, adding a packet of processed hot chocolate. We get creative when business slows, and making use of the various bar supplies seems a good utilization of time. “You know, about stepping out of my comfort zone?” Nessa glances up with interest. She follows my lead and pours her own bastardized mocha. “Have you heard of the Alpine Mudder?”

  After registering for the race, I researched it. I’ll need to train if I’m to have any hope of surviving. Normally, the mudder isn’t a race, but a physical challenge for those wishing to torture—I mean, test—their mental and physical endurance. This year’s Alpine Mudder costs more to enter and provides cash prizes to top finishers. The leftover proceeds go to a national charity.

  Typically, people participate in the mudder to have fun, but with cash prizes within grasp, pro triathletes have entered and the number of participants has doubled. The shift from challenge to competition has blogs blowing up, and there’s talk of increased security to keep participants safe from overzealous competitors. I’m trying to not think of all that. I want to do something that will make me stronger, more capable, and the mudder seems a good fit.

  Nessa’s face lights up. “Yeah! Are you thinking about doing it? That would be perfect. The guys did it last ye
ar. It’s pretty hard-core though. They came back looking like hell, except for Lewis. The mud somehow added to his hotness. He looked all rugged and shit.”

  My throat constricts and I blink off a wave of emotion. Lewis can’t be in the race this year. I need the Alpine Mudder to toughen me up. I can’t do that if I’m stumbling around, my concentration impaired. Putting aside the fact that his presence zaps my coordination, Lewis has seen some of my weakest moments, and that makes me emotionally raw.

  But I can’t explain any of this to Nessa without outing my feelings for Lewis. “Cool, yeah, so I’m doing it, but I’m looking into how to train.”

  “You should talk to Zach. He and Lewis trained together last year. Lewis ended up doing really well.” Her face scrunches. “He finaled, or won—something like that. Anyway”—she grabs the cup from my hand and sets it on the counter, gently pushing me toward the casino floor—“go see Zach while it’s slow. I’ll cover for you.”

  She rests her elbow on the edge of the bar, waiting patiently for me to leave, as if there’s no doubt I’ll ditch my station to seek advice about a rogue triathlon.

  So of course I go.

  I glance back nervously as I exit the sports bar. Nessa flitters her fingers above her head and saunters toward the bachelor party. “Say hello to Zach for me.”

  I speed-walk across the casino, determined to make this quick.

  Zach looks up as I near his blackjack pit. “It’s the hot dog girl!”

  So not how I want to be remembered.

  The customer in front of him turns and does a full body scope. Excellent. Really don’t want to know what that guy is thinking.

  “Hey,” I say quietly, attempting to dampen the attention. “Nessa says hello.”

  A wide smile spreads across Zach’s face as he clears cards. Why don’t these two just date? Zach obviously has a thing for her, though I’m not sure about Nessa… Shit, who am I to judge? I have a bad history when it comes to men and relationships.