Straight Up (Twisted Fox Book 3) Read online

  I display my flirtiest smile, hoping it’s not overkill.

  He returns the smile; it’s friendly, easygoing, nowhere near as desperate as mine.

  Dammit.

  “Hi, I’m Cassidy.” I step in closer. “Your future wife.”

  I was voted Most Outspoken in my senior class.

  Talk to a crowded room? No problem.

  Meet new people? Sign me up.

  My lack of shyness and wit is why my parents said I’d make a great attorney.

  Thanks for ruining that, asshole ex.

  I went from studying the law to breaking it.

  Georgia snorts behind me as I level my attention on Lincoln. He throws his head back and laughs. It’s deep, rumbling, masculine—my new favorite sound.

  “You working here?” He tilts his head forward and smiles. It’s a smile that nearly buckles my knees. “Are you even old enough to legally buy a drink?”

  Hot and a smart-ass.

  One point for Lincoln.

  This will be fun.

  “Obviously,” I fire back. “Or they wouldn’t have hired me.”

  “I stand corrected.” He winks. “I’m the fun bartender.” He jerks his head toward Archer. “He’s not.”

  Archer gives him a warning glare.

  Lincoln shrugs with a smirk.

  I grin harder.

  Archer murders our flirting when he says, “You go train away, baby,” to his girlfriend. He slaps her ass with a towel and kisses her.

  I’d place my hand over my chest and moan aww had he not thrown off my flirting with his brother.

  With a silent groan, I shuffle away from the bar on Georgia’s heels, forcing myself not to check if Lincoln is watching me.

  “So … why aren’t you working at Maliki’s bar?” Georgia asks.

  I expected that question. Maliki owns the Down Home Pub in Blue Beech. It’d make sense if I needed a job, he’d give me one. He offered, but I declined.

  “I got into some trouble.” I mentally curse myself at the admission and backtrack to what I planned to say. “And we decided I needed to get out of town for a while.”

  I decided.

  My mother claimed it was a terrible idea. My father swore I’d fall into more trouble, working at a bar.

  Georgia perks up, fanning strands of thick brown hair out of her eyes. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Just stupid stuff that got me kicked out of college.” I wince, wishing I hadn’t said that either.

  “Oh, I’m going to get that story out of you some time.” She laughs and swats my shoulder.

  I’m grateful she doesn’t push for more.

  Waitressing isn’t as easy as it looks.

  Twisted Fox’s crowd has nearly doubled since the start of my training, and as the night grows later, the customers grow needier.

  More handsy.

  Ruder.

  Drunker.

  After shadowing Georgia for an hour, she gave me two tables of my own to serve. All of them are easy two-tops, but hey, I’ll take it. She instructed me to tell Finn if anyone gave me trouble. As a girl who attended frat parties like they were her second major, my creep meter is legit. I can spot a dude who’s contemplating catching a feel or slipping a roofie in seconds.

  “You bitch!”

  Whipping around at the comment, I spot Georgia across the room with a man standing in front of her.

  He pulls his shirt out, his face wild and inebriation bleeding through him, and inspects a red stain. “You ruined my shirt!”

  “You okay, Georgia?” I yell, a chill snaking up my spine.

  Creep meter is losing its shit over here.

  She nods, giving me a thumbs-up, and talks to the guy. When he grabs her ass, I dash in their direction. Her tray crashes to the floor, and he stumbles when she shoves him.

  “What the fuck?” Archer screams, jumping over the bar like a damn hyena and storming toward them.

  Oh shit.

  My throat turns dry as I witness the fiasco along with everyone else in the bar. Not one TV is getting an ounce of attention at the moment. Not one drink is being sipped. This is now tonight’s show, and it’s better than any Real Housewives reunion.

  “Archer, no!” Georgia yells at her boyfriend.

  “Fuck that shit,” Archer roars. “Move, Georgia.” He levels his gaze on the asshole and tightens his fist.

  The murderous glare on his masculine face has me convinced the drunk dude isn’t leaving in one piece tonight.

  “He’s drunk,” Georgia pleads. “Let Finn kick him out.”

  “Nah,” Archer says, spit flying from his mouth. “I’ll take the trash out myself.”

  I cover my mouth to conceal my chuckle.

  Good comeback there, Archer.

  Lincoln appears at his brother’s side. “I got this.” It’s a failed attempt to ease his brother.

  “Oh, look,” the jerk mocks. “The assholes are coming to her rescue.”

  I throw my arms up.

  Dude deserves at least one punch from Archer.

  “Georgia,” Archer yells, advancing toward the man, “goddamnit, move.”

  My attention flicks to Georgia when she calls out my name and asks me to round up Asshole’s friends.

  I nod and scramble toward their table. “Seriously, grab your friend and get out of here before he gets his ass handed to him.” As much as I’d love to witness Archer teaching him a lesson, it can’t happen here.

  With a string of curses and glares, they down their drinks and stand. I snort when one mutters, “Chad is done being invited to guys’ night. Dude is a fucking hothead.”

  We’re too slow to save the day. Archer circles around Georgia to kick Chad’s ass, and she attempts to block him. It all becomes a blur of movements and shit-talking, and in the end, Georgia falls and smacks her head on the ground.

  Chapter Three

  Lincoln

  It happened faster than when I’d come the night I lost my virginity.

  Two pumps, and I had been apologizing to my unsatisfied date.

  Two seconds, and Archer attempted to kill the guy who had grabbed Georgia’s ass.

  The problem was, he hadn’t planned on her jumping in to stop him.

  I stand out of the way as the ambulance wheels an unconscious Georgia out on the stretcher. With flaring nostrils and not a word to anyone, Cohen rushes out of the bar behind them. Archer sprints out seconds later.

  The instigator and his friends fled the scene at the mention of cops. When the cops and EMTs arrived, everyone turned silent, so there were no distractions as they took care of Georgia. An uncomfortable silence—something I’d never heard in Twisted Fox—hung in the air as people pleaded for Georgia to just open her eyes.

  Terror took residence on my brother’s face, regret flashing alongside it, and I cracked my knuckles. Everything would change after tonight.

  How much? I’m not sure yet.

  “You okay to keep the bar covered?” Silas asks, chewing on a toothpick while eyeing the bar—customers staring at each other in question, unsure if they should return to screaming at ref calls or go home.

  Archer being gone leaves me slinging drinks solo. Not that I mind. Even if he’d tried to stay, I’d have forced him to go be with Georgia. Half the bar cleared out after the cops arrived, so it’s manageable. Even if it wasn’t, I’d lie.

  “I got this,” I answer with a nod.

  “Appreciate it, man.” He slaps me on the back. “Prepare to be there for your brother.”

  That’s the understatement of the motherfucking year.

  Whatever happens tonight, my brother will never be the same.

  I nod again in uncertainty.

  “You know my number if you need anything,” Silas adds. “Finn will wait until close to leave, so someone will still be working the door.”

  I check my watch. “It’s only an hour before close.”

  “You think she’ll be okay?” He jerks his head toward Cassidy, who’s headed in
our direction.

  The new girl was living in my head rent-free all night before the shitshow happened. She sprinkled flirtation with every drink order she called out to me, making it impossible not to laugh. In my short breaks, I eyed the men watching her strut through the bar, sleek and almost catlike. Her wavy blond hair feathered over her shoulders with each step she took, and it never took long for her petite frame to get lost in the sea of crammed tables.

  “You good with working without help?” Silas asks her.

  “Definitely.” She shoots me an amused smile. “If I have any questions, I’ll ask my man here.” Her attention returns to Silas. “You going to the hospital?”

  Silas plays with the toothpick in his mouth. “Yeah.”

  Cassidy snags the pencil behind her ear and shoves it into her apron. “Will you keep us updated on her condition?”

  “I got you.” He salutes us and leaves.

  A flush creeps up Cassidy’s cheeks as she rests her elbows on the bar and smirks. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”

  I offer a polite smile. “Looks like it.”

  “We’ll make a damn great team.” She holds out her hand for a high five.

  I high-five her with as much enthusiasm as a dude who just tested positive for the clap. It’s out of character for me to be uptight, but tonight, concern pours through me. Hell, I’d take a curable STD over what happened to Georgia. Archer doesn’t cope well with loss, people getting hurt, or when he seems responsible for something bad happening. If Georgia’s condition is critical, it’ll gut him. Turning the TVs back on, I hope the rest of the night flies by.

  “Yo! Bartender!” a yellow-polo-sporting frat boy yells a few barstools down from us. “How about a drink on the house for that mood killer?”

  “What an asshole,” Cassidy says, not bothering to lower her voice. “Poison his drink … or at least spit in it.”

  Frat Boy shoots her a glare.

  She smirks in response.

  Even though all I want to do is kick him out, I yank a glass from the stack and pour him a beer on the house.

  The cheapest shit we carry.

  The kind that delivers a hell of a hangover.

  I hate fuckers who take advantage of vulnerable situations.

  Asshole mutters a, “Thank you,” and his friends blurt their free drink requests at me.

  This will be one long hour.

  In what seems like every five minutes, I check my phone for any updates on Georgia, and before I know it, it’s closing time.

  “Last call!” I shout.

  Customers guzzle down their drinks and finish their games of pool. The free-drink-loving frat boys are in the corner, throwing out desperate last shots at convincing a group of women to go to their place for round two. The man in front of me asks me to find his wife’s name in his phone and calls for a ride home.

  A typical closing night at Twisted Fox.

  Different situations but always the same characters.

  Finn waits to leave until the bar clears out, and while he’s walking out the door, Cassidy reminds him to send her updates. I kill the TVs—what I always do first when closing—but the silence is needed more tonight than ever.

  Dirty glasses and beer bottles clank together as Cassidy collects and tosses them into the garbage. Just like with Archer leaving me, Georgia’s rush to the hospital left Cassidy alone for the night.

  “If you want to go, I’ll finish up,” I say, dumping the contents of a red food basket into the trash before stacking it on top of the others.

  She doesn’t need to feel obligated to stay and close shop with a stranger.

  “I’m good.” She strolls to the next table. “It’s my job.”

  My throat tightens.

  Would she be okay if she knew who I was?

  Where I’ve been?

  My past?

  My money is on no.

  There’s an automatic assumption when it comes to people like me.

  An automatic notion that criminals are not to be trusted.

  “Any updates on Georgia?”

  Her question jerks me from my woe is me thoughts, and I cringe, remembering Cohen’s latest text.

  The good news? Georgia is doing well.

  Bad news? Archer left the hospital, hasn’t returned, and isn’t answering his phone.

  I clear my throat. “She’s stable. They think it’s a concussion.” I scrub a hand over my face, adding a deep pressure with the tips of my fingers.

  “Then why do you look so stressed?” She tilts her head to the side. A strand of blond hair tucked behind her ear falls free.

  “Archer is MIA.”

  Whoa.

  I retreat a step.

  I’m a private person, never one to air out my family’s business.

  “What do you mean, MIA?” She stops cleaning and focuses on me. “Why isn’t he there with her?”

  “That’s the question of the century.” Holding in my aggravation over my brother’s dumbass actions is a struggle.

  “No offense, but that’s messed up.”

  It is.

  We’ve only known each other a few hours, but within that time, I’ve learned that Cassidy isn’t a bullshitter. When shit with my brother blows over—which it’d better, or I’ll kick his ass—she’ll be a hoot to work with.

  “He has issues,” I say, snatching the disinfectant from underneath the bar and spraying the top down.

  “They always do.”

  I set the bottle down and stare at her from across the bar. “What’s that mean?”

  “All hot guys have issues.” She levels her deep hazel eyes on me, and I wish the lights were brighter so I had a better view of her. “So, what’s yours, big guy?”

  I quickly glance away in guilt. “Who says I have one?”

  Shit, and who says I only have one?

  I could write an entire damn novel on mine.

  “Like I said, all hot guys have issues.”

  I point at her with the towel. “Don’t let Georgia hear you call Archer hot.”

  She laughs. It’s feminine, indulgent—a sound I wouldn’t mind having as my ringtone. “Considering Archer is MIA, I’m sure she’d rather me call him worse.” She clicks her tongue along the roof of her mouth. “So … your issues?”

  My stomach twists, and I hold up my hands. “No issues here.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She strokes her chin, and her eyes meet mine. “I have an idea. When we’re finished here, we’ll embark on Operation Find Archer and Kick His Ass.”

  Relief settles through me at the subject change. I chuckle. “How about this? You’ll go home, and I’ll go hunt my brother down and kick his ass.”

  It’ll be a hard enough job to get Archer to talk to me. If I have someone with me? No dice.

  She shakes her head. “You’ll need backup—like Batman and Robin.”

  “I show up with you, shit will get worse.”

  She sighs. “Geesh, you and your bro are serious buzzkills.”

  “My brother is.” I shove my thumb into my chest. “Not me. I told you, I’m the fun one.”

  “Does the fun one have a girlfriend?”

  I’m rendered speechless for a moment. I pause to study her, zooming in on the way she waits in anticipation—licking her lips, a smile twitching at them.

  “I don’t,” I croak. Nor do I want or need one.

  I got involved with a woman who fucked my entire world up.

  “Perfect.” The word slowly slips from her bubblegum-pink lips. “What’s your breakfast of choice?”

  I raise a brow.

  “I need to know what to cook the morning after our first sleepover,” she replies like duh.

  I scratch my cheek. “You’re pretty blunt for a girl.”

  “Girls can’t be blunt?” Her eyes, brimming with mischief and challenge, meet mine. “If you don’t like a blunt woman, this is where I retract my breakfast offer.”

  “Nah, I’m good with it.” I share her grin, mine cockie
r. “I actually like it.”

  Resting her pink-manicured hand over her Twisted Fox tee, she pouts. “Are you going to ask if I have a boyfriend?”

  I hesitate, my voice turning strained. “I think me asking that is dangerous.”

  If I don’t know, I can convince myself she’s taken and off-limits. Technically, she is off-limits. There’s a no fraternizing policy here—which no one obviously takes seriously—and Cassidy is my brother’s employee. Not only that, but she’s also younger than my usual taste.

  At least, I think that’s what my problem was. Back then, as hard as I tried, there was no connecting with women my age. Maybe it was the chicks in my circle, in my world, but I never found anything in common with them. Cassidy, on the other hand, is proving every she’s too young for you theory wrong.

  There’s this electricity between us that’s zapping me to life.

  “Why is that dangerous?” She makes a hmm noise in the back of her throat.

  “You’re trouble.” It’s a statement. A fact. A motherfucking warning to myself.

  She rests her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with trouble?”

  I gulp. “Trouble leads to more trouble.”

  I know that from too much experience.

  Chapter Four

  Cassidy

  “Trouble leads to more trouble.”

  If that’s not the understatement of my life.

  Trouble finds me and then becomes a domino effect.

  If I ever became a reality star on The Real Housewives, I’d make that my tagline.

  After Lincoln calls me trouble, he hastily shifts our conversation a different route. While cleaning, we talk about customer reactions to tonight’s disaster. Lincoln muffles out laughter at my jokes here and there, but my commentary isn’t where his head is.

  It’s on his brother.

  There’s nothing sexier than a man who cares about others. That attraction is deeper now that I’ve had my fill of dating one of the most selfish men on earth.

  Good-bye, self-absorbed men.

  Hello, selfless ones.

  Lincoln offers to walk me out when we’re finished cleaning. “From now on, park in the employee lot in the back. You don’t need to be walking through a parking lot where drunk people might linger. We always walk the female employees out after their night shifts.”