Straight Up (Twisted Fox Book 3) Read online

  Rolling down the window, I stick my head out for a better view.

  No fucking way.

  It’s her.

  I’d know that body and hair anywhere.

  It belongs to the woman I can’t stop thinking about.

  I cup my hand over my mouth and yell, “Yo! Did you get a new job?”

  Cassidy veers to face me, stunned, and mutters, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Not that I hear her. I’m just decent at reading lips.

  She shuffles toward me as if I were a dreaded stepparent she had to spend the weekend with, wearing plastic gloves and carrying a trash bag along with a picker.

  When she reaches me, she stabs at loose strands of hair falling from her hair tie.

  I lean farther out the window, sticking my head out like a turtle from his shell. “If you need more hours at the bar, I can ask Archer.” There’s no stopping my lips from twitching into a smirk.

  “Shove it,” she grumbles, chewing on her plump lower lip. “This is my community service.”

  “Community service?” I shift my car into park. “What do you have community service for?”

  This woman grows more interesting by the hour.

  Her gaze drops to the ground, and she kicks at the tiny rocks in the gravel. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I do.” I want to know every damn detail.

  She moves from one foot to the other. “Too bad it isn’t happening.”

  I frown. “How many hours did you get?”

  “I have one more day. Saturday morning. Then, thank the Lord, I’m finished.”

  “Hey! Excuse me!”

  At the gravelly, smoke-cured voice, our attention swings to the middle-aged woman stomping in our direction. A neon-orange vest is draped across her shoulders, and a clipboard is gripped in her hands.

  “No talking to men in cars like some hooker!” she yells, snapping her fingers. “Get over here before I report you for breaking guidelines!” She releases a final huff while glaring at Cassidy.

  “Ugh,” Cassidy groans, rolling her eyes before shooting me an apologetic smile. “Thanks for stopping and talking shit. It’s always a pleasure.”

  “Anytime, Cass.” I wink.

  “Looks like I’m not the only stalker in this relationship of ours.” She winks back more dramatically, holds up her trash picker, and walks away.

  “Taco Tuesday, baby!” Silas calls out, slamming his palm on the bar and pointing at Cassidy. “You coming?”

  “Sounds tempting,” Cassidy replies, biting into her lower lip before locking eyes with me. “Lincoln, are you attending Taco Tuesday?”

  “Of course he is,” Georgia answers for me. “No one misses Taco Tuesday. It’s one of the rare nights the entire crew has off.”

  Cassidy takes a sip of her vodka cranberry. She sometimes has a drink before going home after an early shift. “I’ll be there.”

  “Awesome!” Silas whistles. “See you there. Bring your appetite for some guac.”

  “You mean, for queso,” Georgia corrects.

  “Jesus. I need to talk to Cohen about how he raised you,” Silas disputes. “Guac is where it’s at.”

  The two then start arguing about which is better, their passion as strong as those who argue over politics.

  “It’s guac,” I state to Cassidy, out of their conversation. “Definitely guac, but it has to be good guac.”

  “Nope.” Cassidy shakes her head while scrunching up her nose. “Queso is delish. Smooth white cheese you dip a tortilla chip in. Mmm. Queso has never let me down. Guac, on the other hand? I’ve had people completely destroy guac.”

  “You taste my guac, and I guarantee, you’ll never think about queso again.”

  A woman I dated pushed me to take a cooking class with her in Spain, where I learned all the inside tips on making the perfect guacamole.

  She raises a brow. “Does that mean you’re making guac tonight?”

  “Considering we’re going to a restaurant, it might be rude to crack mine out at the table.”

  “Hmm …” She taps her chin. “Looks like you’ll need to make me dinner one night, so I can taste your guac.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Eh, I’ll let you think you’ll think about it, but you’re doing it. Until then, don’t you dare bail on me tonight, or I’m kicking your ass.”

  “Hmm …” I tap my chin the same way she did. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Like with the guac, there’s no thinking about it. We’re the newbies of the group, so we must stick together.” She pouts. “I like having you around so I don’t feel left out.”

  The feeling is mutual.

  The group—Archer, Cohen, Finn, Silas, Georgia, Grace, and Lola—has been tight for years. It’s not that they exclude new people; it’s just hard not to feel like the odd one out. You don’t have the history, know the inside jokes or shit that happened years ago, like they do.

  “I’ll be there,” I reply.

  She claps her hands and squeals. “It’s a date.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not a date.”

  “Oh, it’s a date, babe.”

  Taco Tuesday is being held at La Mesa.

  It’s the only taco joint in Anchor Ridge. From a guy who’s wined and dined all over the world, I have to say, La Mesa has some damn good tacos.

  Are they the best I’ve tasted? Nah.

  Are they better than tacos I’ve paid double for? Hell yeah.

  Our table is nearly full when Archer, Georgia, and I arrive. I sweep my gaze over the faces, in search of the one I’ve been looking forward to seeing.

  The one with cute freckles that dust over her nose and cheekbones when she doesn’t wear makeup.

  The one whose smile can light up a damn bar.

  The one who’s given me a reason to smile nearly every damn day—something that was once forced.

  That face isn’t present.

  Georgia and Archer take their seats while I nudge myself into a chair near the end of the table. The only one with an empty seat next to it. An empty seat that had better be occupied with Cassidy’s ass soon, or she’ll be hearing from me in the form of endless texts. She can’t break our newbie pact.

  Just as I’m easing my phone from my pocket to text her, I hear Lola say, “Damn, Cassidy! You look hot.”

  My gaze shoots to Cassidy as she struts toward us.

  Lola isn’t lying.

  Cassidy is breathtaking.

  A black sweater revealing a hint of cleavage and tight black jeans.

  Tousled blond curls.

  Ruby-red lips.

  There’s something about red lipstick.

  Something about a girl you know who’s trouble, rocking red lipstick.

  I’m so fucked.

  She greets everyone, a slight shyness in her tone, and doesn’t hesitate to plop down next to me.

  As soon as her ass hits the seat, I lean into her, inhaling her sweet floral perfume. “Nice of you to finally show … late.”

  She swats at my shoulder. “Oh, shush, Callahan. No one has ordered, and I couldn’t get my mother off the phone. She thinks I’m going to some huge party even though I insisted countless times that it was just dinner.”

  I cock my head to the side. “Why’s she so worried?”

  “She doesn’t want me hanging around the wrong crowd.”

  “Did you used to hang out with the wrong crowd?” The community service and sudden move are enough that I shouldn’t need to ask that question.

  “A little, yes.”

  “Good thing you found me because I’m the best crowd.” I theatrically push my chest out.

  She laughs, rolling her eyes. “So damn cocky.”

  We’re interrupted when the server stops to take our order. Everyone makes small talk as we wait for our food, and my stomach grumbles at the mouthwatering smell of fresh tortillas. My mouth waters each time a waiter passes us with a sizzling plate of fajitas, going straight to
another table.

  Everyone is here, including Cohen’s very pregnant girlfriend Jamie, and his son, Noah. Jamie, a doctor, isn’t around as much as the other girls, but I have great respect for her. She’s stepped up as a mother figure for Noah—even in the tough situation of Cohen being her sister’s ex.

  “How’s it at the love-rekindled shack?” Cassidy asks when our food arrives, and we dig in.

  Archer crashes with Georgia most nights, but they make appearances at our penthouse. It’s funny at times—my brooding brother dating the spunkiest, loudest, and most outgoing person I’ve met in my life.

  “As much as I’m glad they’re back together and that my brother is happy, love can be gross.” I bite into my carnitas and groan at how much more delicious it gets with each chomp.

  “If you ever want a break, you can stay at my place.” Her lips tilt into a smirk. “My bed is always open.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head, and decide to change the subject before taking her up on that offer. “You have community service tomorrow, right?”

  “Ugh.” She throws her head back and groans. “Yes. The last day of hell awaits me.”

  “Is it an all-day thing?”

  “Nope, just until noon.”

  “Picking up trash again?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  I bite back the urge to ask what she did to earn community service. This isn’t the time or the place to ask. I know from experience, from when I’ve had someone blurt out questions regarding my past in front of people, it’s not a good time. It’s humiliating—something I’d never want Cassidy to experience around me.

  The woman eating a quesadilla while dancing in her seat is becoming one of my closest friends. And if I dig deep into my soul for answers I’ve shoved away, just like I’m biting back that urge to ask questions … I know there’s the urge to have more with her.

  Chapter Eight

  Cassidy

  My community service options sucked.

  It’s not like in the movies, where you get a simple task of painting a wall or washing a car, and then when you arrive, a hot guy is working. You bond, fall in love, and live happily ever after. No, my type of community service isn’t Hallmark movie–worthy.

  Mine is picking up litter.

  The guy I’m working with? Said I was cute for a girl with a small ass.

  I check my watch for the thousandth time and sigh in relief.

  My work here is done, ladies and gentlemen.

  I’m ripping the latex gloves off my hands when a car similar to Lincoln’s parks on the curb next to me. The window rolls down, and sure enough, Lincoln is perched up in the driver’s side, staring at me with interest.

  How can he afford such an expensive car?

  A Porsche this nice isn’t something a regular paycheck can purchase, especially one on a bartender’s salary. Hell, even with my parents’ money, they don’t roll around in vehicles that cost six figures. He and Archer have high-end rides, never seem to be in need of cash, and even though they don’t walk around in expensive clothes, theirs aren’t cheap.

  I know quality clothing, and they wear quality clothing.

  Maybe they come from money.

  And that’s how he can afford such luxury.

  It’s hard for me not to be curious about these things anymore. Quinton came from money, so I never questioned how he afforded his Mercedes, the five-hundred-dollar meals, and Tiffany jewelry. It turns out, most of it was probably purchased with money he’d earned selling drugs to my fellow coeds.

  Lincoln’s voice snaps me out of my questioning haze. “You finished yet, my little criminal?” The midnight-blue baseball hat he’s wearing covers his ebony-black hair and shields half his face.

  As I step closer, a gust of wind whips around, pushing the masculine scent of him mingled with the tropical air freshener in his car toward me.

  “All done.” I toss the gloves into my trash bag. “What are you doing?”

  Not going to lie, him being here is mortifying. It was the same the last time. There is nothing worse—okay, other than being arrested because you dated a criminal—than the guy you’re crushing on seeing you picking up trash, looking like the so-called convict you hate. And it’s not like I dressed up for the occasion in my old jeans and ill-fitting sweatshirt.

  He shifts the car into park and relaxes in the leather seat. “I was in the neighborhood and figured you needed lunch after a hard day’s work.”

  I need lunch, a shower, and then a shot of vodka.

  With the sun shining in my eyes, I lower my hand over my brows to get a better view of him. “Your treat?”

  “My treat, you little hellion.”

  I half-shrug. “Sounds good to me.”

  Whistling, he jerks his thumb toward his passenger seat, and I hear the click of the doors unlocking. I make a pit stop to check out with Helga, the monster in charge of community service.

  On my first day, she asked if I was ready to get whipped into shape and said, “Helga doesn’t like slackers. Helga sends slackers back to jail. Don’t piss off Helga.”

  I’m pretty sure I pissed her off as I snorted to hold in my laughter.

  After tossing the bag into the trash, I stop at my car to grab my purse and pour sanitizer into my hands on my walk to Lincoln’s car.

  “Okay, it smells like my first piña colada in here,” I say, scrunching up my nose as I slide into the passenger seat and inspect the car. “I took you for more of a woodsy-scent kinda man.”

  He playfully glares at me. “My mom gives my car fresheners to me, and what the hell is wrong with piña colada? You get in my car, and it’s like a mini vacation to the Caribbean.”

  “Nothing is wrong with piña coladas … if you’re a fifteen-year-old girl getting her first drink on spring break.” There’s no holding back my smile.

  This.

  This is why I love hanging out with Lincoln.

  As soon as I saw him, my thoughts weren’t stuck on hating community service, or losing my future, or my crazy-ass ex. His presence eases my mind and soul.

  There’s no better company than this man.

  “Keep insulting my air freshener taste, and my treat for lunch will be a cup of water and three french fries.”

  “Fine,” I groan. “For the sake of my stomach, I shall stay quiet … for now. Once I’m fed, I can’t make any promises.” Shifting to grab the seat belt, I buckle up. “Where to?”

  “Anything you’re in the mood for?”

  I spent my morning picking up trash, cigarette butts, and a few used condoms—who the fuck tosses condoms on the side of the road?—so I’m in need of a reward, like a nice steak and lobster.

  But as great as that sounds, I’m not a brat who expects people to buy her expensive meals, so I say, “Surprise me.”

  Anchor Ridge is a small town, known for its local restaurants, shops, and bars. With the exception of Burger King, McDonald’s, and Starbucks, there aren’t many chains. My choices are limited, and since I haven’t ventured out much, I don’t have an answer that doesn’t involve an Egg McMuffin.

  Lincoln nods. “I got you.”

  I’m updated on Georgia and Archer’s love situation while he drives out of Anchor Ridge and along the outskirts of town, closer to the city. He flicks his turn signal and cuts the wheel into the parking lot of a quaint yellow home that’s been converted into a restaurant. A bright pink-and-yellow sign reads, Yellow Peep.

  “Have you been here before?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.” I’ve heard of it, and it’s definitely no McDonald’s. In alarm, I glance down, inspecting myself, and tug at the hem of my sweatshirt. “I don’t think I’m okay to go into a place like this.”

  He scratches his cheek. “I’m not catching your drift.”

  I throw my hand down, gesturing to my homely appearance. “Uh, I look like someone who was picking up trash on the side of the road. Literally.”

  “Babe”—his voice is stern, but his eyes are soft—
“picking up trash or not, you’re fucking gorgeous. I wouldn’t think twice about walking in there with you.”

  I blush—like seriously blush—in a way I’ve never blushed before. “Stop lying.”

  “Not lying. You look damn good.” He kills the ignition. “Now, let’s get you fed. You deserve a good meal after today’s contribution to society.”

  He steps out of the car, opens my door, and extends his hand. I grab it, the warmth of his large hand burying mine underneath it, and we walk into the restaurant.

  Hand in hand, like we’re a couple.

  A relaxed ambiance collides with us the moment we enter through the doors. A man in the corner is playing piano as people sit at white-clothed tables—some with mimosa flutes in their hands, some with waters, and some with coffees. No one is dressed like me—no freaking one. Sure, there are some casual diners, but no one underdressed, who was picking up condoms ten minutes ago.

  As much as I want to haul ass out of here, Lincoln’s words ring through my thoughts, crashing through my insecurities.

  Fuck it. I’m starving.

  Who cares?

  It’s not like I’m interested in anyone but the man who already told me he gave no fucks about what I was wearing.

  We stop at the hostess stand, where menus are stacked up with a basket of rolled silverware placed beside them. The girl behind the counter, complete in a white button-up shirt and black slacks, greets us before leading the way to our table in the corner of the room.

  “I’m going to wash my hands,” I tell Lincoln before scurrying to the restroom and returning minutes later. Lowering myself onto the chair, I set my eyes on him. “You so planned this, didn’t you?”

  He unrolls the cloth napkin and drapes it over his lap while I do the same. “What do you mean?”

  “You planned to find me finishing community service, so you could take me to lunch because you love hanging out with me.”

  He shoots me an amused smile. “What can I say? You’re cool … like a little sister.”