Power Play

by Landish, Lauren

  Of course he’d want to see me while I have a raging hard-on and a distracted mind. But I know this won’t wait. I need to see what his thoughts are about the Lightspeed development, maybe even pump him for info about what Chase has up his sleeve.

  Gulping my tea down like it’s a shot, I wipe my lips on the napkin Delores included on the saucer. I grab my suit coat from the hook and slip it on. Buttoning it, I wait until my blood stops pounding.

  This can’t go on. I need to focus on work, but to do that, I need to deal with this fantasy I’ve built up about Madison. One way or another.

  Fuck pride. I’m going back to that damn bar.

  Chapter 8

  Madison

  Daily Horoscope, September 25th

  Libra

  Be bold and brave. Confront your fears and reap the rewards.

  “So, how were the puppies?” Tiff asks as I come in the door, tired but happy. She looks like she’s had an easy day, stretched out on the couch in a pair of cotton short shorts and a tank top that would get her arrested if she left the house, considering the boobage she’s flashing. “And May?”

  “It was awesome! You missed out on a great day. The news was there to interview May,” I say smugly, knowing Tiffany would love to have a quick fifteen minutes of fame on the nightly news. I nudge her feet out of the way and flop down on the other end of the couch.

  Tiffany squeals. “What? The news? Why were they there?” And before I can answer, she kicks my thigh with her foot. “And why didn’t you call me? I would’ve medicated to handle being around the cats if it meant being on TV.”

  I laugh because she’s not kidding. She would’ve popped an allergy pill and held those snuggly kittens up to her face for kisses if they were filming it for the news. “Wasn’t about the volunteers. It was about May. She got the Sunshine Story of the Week for running the rescue. Although me and a few of the folks who were there are probably in the background as they interviewed May.”

  I say the last part as a dig, teasing Tiffany, and she huffs. “Ugh. Can’t believe I missed that. But this is cause for celebration for May and comforting for me. Sounds like it’s chocolate root beer float time. One scoop or two?” she says, swinging her legs off the couch and heading into the kitchen.

  Root beer floats. Tiff’s answer to everything that happens. Good news, you need a float. Bad news, you guessed it. Happy, sad, stressed . . . you get a float, and you get a float. She’s like Oprah handing out her favorite things, if all her favorite things were creamy, bubbly goodness. “Two,” I answer, knowing if I say one, she’ll likely give me three. “And you’ll never guess what May said.”

  “What?” Tiff asks. “That I never have to be ‘volun-told’ again? Oh, I mean ‘volunteer’, of course,” she says, sarcasm dripping from every word. But she doesn’t mean it. She really is happy to help when we need her, but it’s not her pet cause like it is mine and May’s.

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Nope, actually, on that front, she said she’ll see you next weekend. For some indoor work with the books . . . no kittens.” Tiffany gives me two thumbs up then licks a running drip from her hand. “I told her about Scott and the whole prediction thing. She was kinda all over the place, telling me the voodoo lady was full of shit but then saying maybe she had a point and we’d just interpreted it wrong. But either way, she thinks I should give Scott a call. I was like, no fucking way! I mean, I didn’t go into all the details,” I say, lifting my eyebrows pointedly.

  “You haven’t with me either, you greedy bitch,” Tiff mutters in amusement.

  “But still . . . go out with a guy like Scott Danger? Besides the fact that we live in completely different worlds and this isn’t some made-for-TV movie where the rich executive rescues the down-on-her-luck street urchin, there’s the fact that he has a temper. He went all Hulk-smash alpha-male on that drunk guy. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be getting away from? I should just find a nice, sweet, sweater-vest type and fall in love with him.” I sigh, not happy with that scenario either.

  Tiff walks out of the kitchen with two big plastic cups filled to the brim with foamed up root beer and offers me one. “Maddie, you’d be bored to tears with Mister Rogers. That’s not you, not your type, and that’s okay, girl. You like powerful guys, and as long as Scott’s using all that testosterone in your defense or to fuck you good and hard, it’s fine.” She takes a big breath, and I’m honestly scared about what she’s about to say if she’s prepping herself to say it.

  She continues. “The lesson from your experience with Rich isn’t to play it so safe that you’re bored. The lesson is to choose your alpha guy more carefully. Granted, you just met Scott, but so far, so good. I’m with May on this one. Call him.”

  Shit. When both Tiff and May agree, they might be on to something. I’d hoped at least one of them would be on my side and agree that hiding like a scared little turtle, safe from danger and from Danger, was a good idea.

  I sigh, taking a big suck of root beer float. Man, that's good. And just what I needed to fortify myself for another shift at the bar.

  * * *

  Thankfully, Tiffany drives tonight, and I catch a snooze in the passenger seat. I know that running with just a few hours of rest is a stupid idea, but rest is a luxury I can’t afford. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to do the things I want to do, like work with the animals at May’s, along with the things I need to do, like work the bar and get some money for rent. Tiffany jostles me awake as she puts the car in park, and we head inside to do our last-minute freshening up. It’s a tradition for us, two minutes to look our best before facing the crowds.

  “Hey, girls, what’s shaking?” Stella asks when she sticks her head in the break room. Before we can answer, she continues, “Saw you on TV, Maddie. You looked good, and May did a great job talking up the shelter.”

  “Thanks! Hopefully, it’ll get her some more donations,” I reply, adjusting my lipstick. I look at Stella in the mirror, realizing her cheeks are a soft tawny color, not her usual pink flush. “Stella, you look better today. What’s up with you?”

  “Oh, I went to the doctor,” Stella admits. “Got me on something to help with these damn sweats. Not too bad, just a single pill a day, and my doctor says that I’ll be able to stop them in a little while, so I’m not on my first OPP.”

  “OPP?” Tiff asks, fluffing her hair. “You’re down with OPP? There’s a song about that,” she says, laughing.

  “Very funny. Not like that, you dirty girl. It means old people pills,” Stella grumbles. “You know, the type that once you go on, you don’t come off ‘till you die? Old age doesn’t start until you need a daily dose of something just to haul your ass outta bed in the morning, and I’m fighting with all I got to stay young.” Stella preens a bit, running her hands over her ample curves, which are encased in a modestly slim dress that flounces down around her calves.

  Stella leaves, and two minutes later, Tiff and I are behind her, stopping in the kitchen where Devin’s already slinging some hashbrowns and what looks like one of his creations, ‘pork chop fries.’

  “See you’re serving up heart attacks already.”

  Devin laughs, pulling the basket of thinly cut pork out of the fryer to drain. “Honey, you know I serve up heart attacks every time I walk down the street. I got better buns than Cinnabon.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d better cook better buns than them too,” a large, countrified voice says from the screen door to the alley out back. The door opens, and Daryl, Stella’s older son, comes in with a loading dolly stacked high with boxes of food. “So, where do you want them? Let me guess—in the back?”

  That’s Daryl, always making cracks and jokes. If it were with anyone else, they’d probably think it’s in bad taste, but he and Devin just have this kind of jokester relationship. They both take it in stride.

  “Same place as always. And be careful when you put the dry goods in the pantry. You wouldn’t want the door to close on you.”

 
“Why’s that?” Daryl asks, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion. “It’s not like it’s the freezer.”

  “Nope . . . but you’d die before coming out of the closet,” Devin cracks, making Tiff and me laugh. Daryl grumbles something under his breath and starts pushing the food toward the back.

  “That was a good one. He didn’t even see it coming!” I remark, and Devin shrugs.

  “Probably a little distracted. When he was unloading the beer earlier, I heard him tying into Carl’s ass real good about manning the fuck up,” Devin confides. “So far tonight, Carl’s been acting like he knows he’s in the shit. Dunno how long it’ll last, but I’ll take what I can get, especially since Daryl can get onto Carl in a way none of us can.”

  Tiff and I head out to the front of the house, and I can see that Devin’s right. Carl looks like he’s actually working, and when I clock in, he doesn’t have a single bitch or gripe as we swap out. The bar’s even in decent shape. I’m checking the bottles when a familiar, sexy-as-sin voice pierces my concentration.

  “A dry Snow Queen martini, dirty with two olives, please.”

  I turn around and it’s him. He looks just as handsome as before, although he’s dressed more casually this time. Instead of a ‘straight from work’ business look, he’s wearing a short-sleeved button up. It probably still cost more than my last paycheck, but the checkered pattern feels less stuffy and formal. Even better, the short sleeves let me see his arms. God, those corded forearms. He must see me staring because I realize he’s clenching his fists. Is he flexing for me or trying not to reach out and touch me? I find either idea enticing.

  My mind flashes back as heat fills my stomach, remembering what it felt like as he held me close, the way his muscles felt under my fingers as I came, and the size of the bulge I felt pressed against my belly. I turned that down, for no better reason than some psychic bullshit and my own fears.

  Well, fuck that.

  Even though I’ve already decided where I’d like this evening to go, my first instinct is to run. Maybe see if he’d chase me. Instead, I hold steady, mixing his drink without a word and setting it on the table in front of him.

  “It’s on me this time. Seems I owe you an apology of sorts.” He dips his head and takes a small sip of the drink, licking his lips. My eyes zero in on the movement, and I want to jump across the bar, kiss him, and taste the martini from his lips. “What are you doing here?”

  “Figured it was time for us to see each other again . . . since you seem to have lost my card,” Scott says with a little smirk. “Thought I’d offer a challenge.”

  “A challenge?” I ask, smirking at his cockiness. “You come into my bar, after what . . . after what happened last time, and you want to throw down a challenge?”

  “Yep,” Scott says, reaching into his pocket and peeling off two hundred-dollar bills. He lays them down side by side on the bar. “Drink for drink, your choice of liquor, although I’m partial to Cuervo Especial.” He gestures to my left.

  I glance over to Stella, who’s sitting at the far end of the bar. She shrugs and gives me a grin. “Win or lose, I’m keeping the two hundred. Your call, honey.”

  He’s bold, I’ll give him that for damn sure. “All right, you’re on. Let me set us up.” I grab a bowlful of limes, his preferred Cuervo Especial, and a stack of shot glasses before walking around the bar to a table. I line the glasses up, pouring the first shot as I sit down across from Scott.

  It’s a slow night, but the prospect of a drinking challenge, especially one with me, sends a buzz through the group and they crowd around the table. I can hear murmurs of people making bets, some on me and some on Scott. I know who the smart bet is. Me.

  Scott smirks, listening to the mouthy crowd. “I have to ask—do you accept drinking challenges regularly? Some of them seem to be under the misguided notion that you’re going to win.”

  “You might be twice my size . . . or more, but I work in a bar. I can hold my liquor better than you’d think,” I brag. “You’re going down.”

  Scott lifts one eyebrow, and I realize what I said a moment too late. “Perhaps those are the stakes? Considering you accepted without knowing what’s at risk here?”

  I give him a hard look. “I’m gonna throw you a bone, Danger. I win, favor of my choice. You win, favor of yours. Deal?”

  He smiles widely, saying nothing as Tiffany blows on a silver whistle, quieting the crowd. “Okay, folks, same rules as usual. Every minute on the minute, you take a shot. You have one minute to drain the glass completely. Miss one, you lose. Ready?”

  I lick the back of my hand, sprinkling a little salt on my skin. With a smirk, I tell Scott, “May the best woman win.”

  Tiffany blows the whistle again. “GO!”

  I lick the salt, slam the shot, and bite into a lime. I hold the lime in my teeth, giving Scott a green smile before setting the sucked fruit on the table.

  The crowd is watchful for a couple of rounds, no one expecting a drinking contest to end that quickly. As we match drink for drink, though, there’s a buzz building in the assembled group.

  “Goddamn, I hope someone called a taxi for these two,” someone says, causing a few laughs.

  “Yeah, right. Call an ambulance instead. Unless those torpedo tits are hollow, she’s going to need her stomach pumped.” There’s another round of laughter at that.

  Scott growls, turning around in his chair to stare a hole through the guy. “Shut your fucking mouth. Don’t talk about her tits. Don’t even look at her tits. Or I’ll put you in the ground,” he slurs.

  I’m vaguely aware that now everyone is looking at my tits, and I sit up extra tall, pressing them out to look their best. Hah. Take that, bossy growly man. I look at Scott, in my drunken stupor wanting him to see my perky assets, but his attention is still on the jerk in the audience.

  “Yeah, right. You couldn’t even stand up on your own right now. You’d be the one in the ground,” the douchebag replies.

  “Forty-five seconds,” Tiffany says, and Scott blinks slowly, realizing he’s got a shot in front of him.

  “But—” he gestures wildly at the mouthy guy.

  “Forty seconds.”

  Growling, Scott tosses the shot back too fast, sputtering a little as it burns its way down. His eyes start watering, and his face turns pink as he tries to catch his breath. “Fuck . . . you put chili pepper in that fucking thing?”

  “Nope, same bottle as before,” Tiffany replies, refilling his glass. “Twenty seconds.”

  Scott swallows roughly. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  At the minute call, Scott picks up his drink, but at the first sip, he starts coughing, his shot glass falling to the table to spill all over the surface. I drink my glass and slam it down on the table in victory.

  There’s a whoop of cheers, along with some grumbles as folks start to settle up their bets. The room is a bit spinny and that last shot is still hitting me, so I don’t say anything as Stella brings us both a glass of ice water.

  “Here, sip it slow,” she says. She has to help Scott because he can’t even hold the glass steady. “Good try, boy. But ain’t nobody ever beat Maddie.”

  He squints at Stella. “Might’ve been nice to know that before we started.”

  She laughs. “Well, boy, you’re the one who challenged her. I reckon it was your job to know what you were getting yourself into. Don’t write checks your body ain’t prepared to cash.” Scott nods, and Stella must feel he’s been suitably chastised because she continues. “I got two double-bacon fries coming for each of you, on the house. And a free lie-down in the back until you can hold vertical on your own.”

  Tiff helps me up, the cumulative effect of the multiple shots hitting me as I try to move. “Wait,” I mutter, looking back at Scott, who’s trying to stand on his own. “Didn’t learn your lesson the first time, did you?”

  “What?” he asks, staring at the table and digging his fingernails into the wooden surface for leverage to stand. He slo
wly makes his way to his feet, although if it’s by sobriety or pure force of will, I can’t honestly tell.

  “Threatening the douchebag. I told you I can take care of myself.” And with that, I blink my eyes over to the jerk who’d been this close to getting punched tonight. “You. Don’t look at my tits, don’t talk about my tits, don’t even think about my tits. These tits are not for you.” My declaration is met with good-natured laughter, probably because I just said tits like four times, and I’ve got said tits grabbed in my hands to reiterate my point. The jerk nods a sort of apology and moves back toward his seat.

  I turn to Scott. “See? I got this.”

  Scott nods, then chuckles. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m not a total asshole? I meant it to be gentlemanly.” ‘Gentlemanly’ takes him three tries to say, but the gesture is appreciated either way.

  I laugh softly, the world swimming before me. Where are those fries? They sound like heaven right now. “Well then, I know my prize. You’re taking me on a date, Gentleman Danger. Hey . . . I think that’s a paradox.”

  Tiffany laughs, still helping me shuffle walk toward the back.

  Scott trails behind, laughing. “Well, fuck. If I’d known that was your prize, I would’ve let you win a few shots ago and saved us the trouble and the hangover. All I wanted was to take you to dinner.”

  “Well, clear your schedule then. Because it’s a date,” I say loudly. My stomach lurches, and I look at Tiffany. “Hey, we need to hit the bathroom before I lie down. Tequila must go down, but tequila is coming back up.”

  She turns the other way, directing me to the bathroom. Vaguely, I hear Stella yell out behind me. “Carl, looks like you’re working a double.”

  I giggle a bit. Serves him right. I’m always covering for him, so tonight, he can cover for me. Because I just won myself a date . . . with Danger.