Clay managed to avoid Samantha for most of the day. While she was out with Katrina, and even after she’d returned, he’d stayed down at the bar going through liquor inventory and keeping himself busy prepping for the evening crowd. Happy hour started at four, and Monday was ladies’ night, which meant half-price drinks for the women who came into the place.
The weekly promotion was great for business, but having an influx of female patrons also attracted a whole lot of men who were looking to score, and that made for a very busy night. At three-thirty, employees started to arrive—Hank, the cook, who prepped the appetizers, Elijah, who made sure all the drink glasses were cleaned and stocked for the rush of orders, along with Tara and Gina, who tended the bar, and Amanda and Tessa, who were experienced cocktail waitresses.
While Samantha had been gone earlier with Katrina, Clay had left a Kincaid bar shirt for her on the table to wear, along with a note telling her to be downstairs and ready to work at the designated time. He glanced toward the door that led up to his apartment just as it opened and the woman who’d spent way too much time in his head today appeared and walked toward the bar, where he’d just delivered a case of beer.
Damn, she looked good. He’d been worried about her fitting in with the rest of his employees, but all his concern evaporated as he watched her approach. Gone was the sophisticated, obviously wealthy-looking lady who’d come into his bar last night with the sole purpose of getting drunk. With her hair down in loose, natural waves and minimal makeup, this woman looked young and fresh and bright-eyed and eager. She looked as though she belonged in this environment.
He knew her attire was the main reason, and Jesus Christ, could the jeans she’d bought today be any tighter? The dark-wash denim molded to her curves, accentuating the sway of her hips, her sleek thighs, and long, slender legs. The material of the T-shirt he’d left for her to wear stretched taut across her chest, and he was a fucking idiot for feeling possessive about the way his last name, Kincaid’s, was imprinted across her full breasts, as if it were a statement that she belonged to him, rather than the name of the bar. All he needed to add was property of above Kincaid’s to complete the stupid-ass need to put a claim on her before any other men arrived and hit on her.
And he knew they would. Tonight’s male clientele for ladies’ night tended to be the cockier, more presumptuous type of guys, who, after a few drinks, became overly aggressive, rude, and lost any filter that they might have had when they’d first come in. For the most part, Clay managed to keep things under control, but he knew that Samantha was going to experience one hell of a culture shock tonight. If he was lucky, she’d be gone before the end of the night and heading back to where she’d come from.
Because he really, really needed her to leave. She was too much of a distraction and temptation, and proved as much when she met his gaze from across the room and gave him a sweet, sultry smile that made his cock twitch in his jeans and a groan roll up in his throat. He swallowed it back before the sound could escape.
“What the hell is she still doing here?” Tara asked from beside him, a frown on her face as her gaze traveled in the same direction as his. “And why is she wearing a bar uniform?”
“Because she needed a job,” he muttered, and made himself busy shoving beer bottles into the vat of ice so he didn’t have to make eye contact with Tara.
Knowing there was no way he could keep Samantha’s living arrangements a secret for long, he decided to get it out in the open and be done with it.
He straightened and finally met Tara’s gaze. “And since everyone is going to find out soon enough, she’s staying in my apartment upstairs for a week or so.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Tara said, her eyes widening incredulously. “I thought you said you’d take care of her like any other tipsy patron. Make sure she leaves safely and all that.” She shook her head, and a tiny hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You just couldn’t resist rescuing that damsel in distress, could you?”
He wasn’t about to answer her question, and he didn’t need to justify his reasons for letting Samantha stay. “Don’t worry. She won’t be here long.”
Tara cut him a sidelong glance filled with curiosity as she set a stack of napkins on the bar top, then started refilling the swizzle sticks. “Why is that?”
“Because she’s never worked at a bar, and she doesn’t have a damn clue what she’s in for tonight.”
Tara didn’t bother to hide a smirk. “So, you’re hoping tonight’s rowdy crowd will scare her off and send her back to wherever she came from?”
“That’s the plan,” he admitted. Because after this morning’s encounter, he had no idea how long he could keep his hands off her. Especially when she’d already allowed him to kiss her with such lust and heat and had made it known she wanted a whole lot more of everything he had to offer. And fuck, did he want to give it to her. Badly.
Samantha finally reached the other side of the bar and sent him a cheerful smile. “I’m ready to get started. Where do you need me?” she asked, her innocent words not so innocent in Clay’s dirty mind.
On your knees in front of me…lying flat on your back with your legs wrapped tight around my waist as I slide hard and deep—
“Since Clay seems incapable of speaking at the moment, I’m Tara,” his bartender said in a wry tone, introducing herself as she waved one of the other bar waitresses over. “Let’s have Amanda give you a crash course on taking drink orders and what to expect tonight.”
Samantha didn’t even look a little bit nervous about her first night on the job. “That would be great.”
“She can help you out for the first few hours after we open,” Tara went on as she placed a small rubber mat on the service bar counter. “But at some point we’ll be slammed and you’ll have a section all to yourself and you’ll be on your own.”
“It’s a good thing I’m a quick learner.” A too-confident Samantha turned to Amanda and introduced herself, then the two of them walked away so Amanda could give her a quick lesson on drink terminology and how their order system worked.
“Is there something going on between the two of you?” Tara asked, the amusement in her voice evident as she began slicing lime wedges. “Because for a minute there, you know, while you were staring at her like a deaf-mute, you looked like you wanted to vault yourself over the bar, tackle the woman, and do all sorts of dirty things with her.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, enjoying herself immensely.
Get the fuck out of my head, Tara. “You have quite the imagination.” He gave her a bland look.
“Deny it all you want, Saint Clay,” she said, narrowing her gaze as she pointed the knife at him to emphasize her point. “But I’ve never seen you look at another woman that way. Not even Vicky.”
Vicky, the woman he occasionally hooked up with and who had been his casual fuck buddy for the past year. No, he’d never, ever felt this insane kind of hunger and need for Vicky as he did for Samantha, which was why she made the perfect hookup. But he wouldn’t admit his weakness for Samantha to Tara, or anyone else, for that matter.
“I thought your degree was going to be in business, not psychoanalysis,” he said in a droll tone meant to deflect her scrutiny.
The slight furrow of concern between her brows remained. “Just…be careful, Clay.”
I don’t want you to get hurt. He could see the unspoken words in her eyes, and the fact that Tara even thought that was a possibility aggravated him. There was only one woman he’d ever let get close enough to hurt him—his own mother—and the brutal devastation and anger he’d experienced after her heartless actions pretty much ensured that Clay would never give any other female that much power over him ever again.
So, no, Tara had no reason to worry about him doing something as careless and stupid as falling for Samantha, a woman he could pretty much guarantee would be gone in a few days. A week, tops. He’d bet his bar on it.
“Nothing is going on,” he said in a voice that sounded much steadier than he felt. “I’m just helping her through a tough time in her life. That’s it.”
Tara opened her mouth to respond, but before anything else could spill out, Clay held up a hand and cut her off. “This conversation is over. I’m going to see if Hank needs help in the kitchen before happy hour starts.”
Tara’s lips pursed, but when he turned around and walked away, he heard her mutter distinctly behind him, “Stubborn ass.”
Yeah, whatever. He’d been called much worse.
He went to the small kitchen in the back, where Hank was pulling huge trays of chicken wings from the oven, which he would then throw into the fryer as they were ordered. Elijah, who currently had no dishes to wash, was helping Hank prep the other items—beef sliders, chicken fingers, potato skins, and a few other appetizers.
“Everything good in here?” Clay asked.
Hank gave him his typical, jovial one-sided smile and a thumbs-up as she moved about the kitchen. “Yep, we’re good, boss.”
Clay watched the duo for a few more minutes, glad that he’d taken a chance on them both. They were good, hard workers, but then again, they’d not only needed a job, they’d really wanted the employment. For money, yes, but also to restore their dignity.
Especially Hank. He’d hired the other man a few years ago when he’d come into Kincaid’s looking for a job. Any job. At twenty-eight, he’d been a year out of the military and disabled, having lost one of his legs in an IED explosion that had taken his right eye, as well. The shrapnel had also embedded itself into the right side of his face, damaging the nerves and causing paralysis, which was why Hank was so good at that lopsided grin.
Despite all that, Hank was in amazing physical shape. He’d been fitted with a prosthetic leg, and the patch he wore over his right eye made him look like a rogue pirate, which the girls loved to tease him about. Hank had a great attitude and refused to let his losses define him as a person.
The sound of a current rock song coming out of the speakers in the main area of the bar told Clay that it was just about opening time. The digital entertainment system selected popular songs from a playlist and streamed the matching music videos onto the huge flat-screen TV on the far wall. It was a trendy, crowd-pleasing addition to the bar—something to watch, or you could join the action out on the dance floor, which usually ended up packed on ladies’ night.
At four p.m., customers started arriving at Kincaid’s, a gradual influx of men and women, most of whom arrived in groups of two or more. It started slowly enough that Samantha had the chance to learn the basics as she worked beside Amanda. Clay watched her take drink orders, sometimes asking Amanda a question before returning her attention to the customer. From what he could tell, she was picking up the bar terminology more quickly than he’d anticipated. She put in the orders and delivered the cocktails and bottles of beer on a serving tray with more coordination than he would have given her credit for.
For someone who’d grown up not having to work a day in her life, she appeared to be adapting well. Hell, she even seemed to be enjoying herself as she chatted with a group of women as she jotted down their drinks on a note pad. She moved on to the next table of young guys, who openly flirted with her. Clay’s gut tied up in knots when she smiled back at them and laughed at something one of them said. He had to remind himself numerous times that pickup lines and casual advances were the nature of the beast in a place like this, and that all the bar waitresses got hit on on a regular basis. Hell, they even flirted back to increase their tips. As long as a customer wasn’t crude and didn’t make any physical sexual advances toward his girls, the behavior was tolerated.
But that mental lecture didn’t stop Clay from glaring at some douchebag who was checking out Samantha’s ass as she walked away to place the drink orders.
“Jesus, Clay. That scowl on your face is going to scare away customers,” Katrina said as she slid onto a barstool in front of him.
He’d been so busy staring at Samantha he hadn’t seen Katrina come in.
She followed his line of vision to the woman making him crazy in so many ways. “Or maybe that’s your intention, to intimidate the hell out of every guy in the place so they don’t touch your shiny new toy.”
“She’s not my anything,” he said gruffly, wishing everyone would stop making that assumption. He shifted his gaze back to Katrina, surprised to see her at Kincaid’s on a Monday evening. “What are you doing here, anyway? You never come in for ladies’ night.”
“That’s because it’s like a meat market out there,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she indicated the crowd of men and women mingling. “You know everyone here is looking for a casual hookup, which is why I’m sitting alone at the bar.”
Clay shrugged, though he knew she spoke the truth. “Not my business what they do once they leave the premises. I just serve the drinks while they’re here, and you still didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”
“I’m providing moral support.” She flashed him a grin.
“For Samantha?” he guessed as he refilled the garnish caddy with maraschino cherries.
Katrina nodded as she reached over and grabbed a stemmed fruit, then plucked the cherry off with her teeth and ate it. “Thought it might be nice for her to have a familiar face here tonight.”
“I take it you two hit it off today while shopping?”
“Yeah.” Katrina’s expression softened. “She’s actually really nice. For a rich girl.”
He raised an inquisitive brow. The fact that Samantha’s family owned a billion-dollar investment firm wasn’t a piece of information he’d shared with Katrina, or anyone else. Maybe Samantha had told her, though he didn’t think it likely, considering she was attempting to create a new life, away from the Jamieson wealth and influence.
“And you know she’s rich based on what, exactly?” he asked.
Katrina rolled her eyes, as if it were obvious. “When I picked her up, she was carrying a three-thousand-dollar Louis Vuitton purse. At first, I thought it was a damned good knock-off, but when we walked into Target, she looked like a kid in a candy store. Although it was very cute how she tried to budget your money,” she said with an amused grin. “Then, she seemed overwhelmed by all the shampoo and body wash choices and kept asking me what was the best product for the best price. A normal person would know exactly what they needed, and what brand to buy, because it’s what they used on a regular basis.”
It was clever and accurate deductive reasoning, but Clay didn’t confirm or deny anything as he wiped down the service area. “Thanks again for taking her to the store and helping her to get what she needed,” he said, and changed the subject. “Ladies’ cocktails are half off tonight, so what can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll take a mojito, please.”
“Coming right up,” he said, and tossed mint and lime into a glass so he could muddle it together before adding the alcohol.
Katrina turned in her chair, content to watch the activity going on around her from afar. The bar was starting to pick up and get much busier—which was normal by six in the evening, when everyone was done with their day jobs and wanted to take advantage of the half-price appetizers for happy hour. By seven, the place was usually packed and at the peak of activity.
After serving Katrina her drink, Clay continued working behind the bar, restocking items and helping Tara and Gina to keep up with the increasing rush of orders as more women arrived. The dance floor filled up, and the place became standing room only. At a little after seven, his brother Mason and a few of his friends walked into the joint, but Clay immediately lost sight of them as they blended into the crowd.
Undoubtedly, his brother was already working the women in the room, pouring on the charm and lining up his own hit it and quit it for the evening, which was Mason’s method of operation when it came to females. And with his cocky, bad-boy persona, combined with his good looks and multitude of tattoos, he always had an abundance of willing females to choose from. And he never failed to take advantage of that fact.
Another half hour had passed when Tessa came up to the bar next to Katrina, not to collect a drink order but to get Clay’s attention. She waved him over, her expression flushed and irritated.
“Everything okay?” Clay asked, immediately concerned.
“No.” More irritation vibrated in her voice. “Your brother is in the women’s restroom banging some chick, and I need to pee!”
He was so taken aback by her announcement that he frowned. “Mason?”
Katrina snorted, and it wasn’t a pretty sound. “Who else would it be? Do you honestly think Levi would do something so indecent?”
Yeah, Katrina had a point. Only Mason would be so ballsy as to have sex in a semi-public place, while people waited to use the facilities. Ever since he was a teenager, his brother had developed an I don’t give a fuck attitude that made him impulsive and careless, one that continued even now, at the age of twenty-seven. Mason had some of his shit together—he was a talented tattoo artist and owned his own shop—but their fucked-up childhood still affected him on an emotional level, and he dealt with all that painful shit in his own way. Namely by being reckless, wild, and pretending to be so aloof no one would even try to get close enough to crush him, the way their own mother had. Thus, his inclination toward one-night stands. Easy sex and no attachments. Ever.
Yeah, all three Kincaid brothers had mommy issues, and they each dealt with the residual effects in their own way. Growing up with a junkie for a mother who’d abandoned her kids for days at a time in order to get high, then had landed in prison for drug possession and prostitution, tended to leave a lasting impression on a kid. And that hadn’t even been the worst of what they’d gone through.
“Since Mason is ignoring me, can you please go and take care of the problem?” Tessa asked as she shifted uncomfortably on her feet.
Problem was too easy of a word for Mason. His brother was a pain in his ass. A thorn in his side. The shit on his shingle. There was nothing easy or predictable about Mason, and tonight’s escapade proved as much.
Clay exhaled a harsh breath, but just as he tossed his damp rag behind the bar, intending to cut short Mason’s fun, the man himself sauntered out of the crowd and headed toward the bar. By himself. But the arrogant swagger in his walk and the satisfied smile on his face definitely confirmed he’d just gotten lucky—and could easily get lucky again if he wanted to with one of the many females ogling him as he strolled by.
When he reached the end of the bar where they were gathered, relief flashed across Tessa’s features. “It’s about damn time, Romeo,” she grumbled, and quickly beelined it for the ladies’ room.
Mason merely smirked, which increased Clay’s annoyance. “What the fuck are you doing in the women’s restroom?”
“It’s called getting laid,” Mason replied as he slid onto the stool next to Katrina, who was frowning at Mason. “You should try it sometime, big brother. It might improve your testy mood and mellow you out some.”
“My mood is fine,” he snapped, unwilling to admit just how much he had been on edge since that morning’s hot, erotic kiss with Samantha. And watching her hustle around the place in those snug jeans and formfitting T-shirt wasn’t helping his intense attraction to her, either. His dick had been at half-mast since she’d arrived at the bar, with no relief in sight.
But this wasn’t about him. It was about Mason’s behavior. “I don’t appreciate you being so crass in my bar. If you were anyone else, I would have tossed you out on your ass.”
“Luckily I’m in good with the owner.” Mason grinned.
Clay reached into the bin of ice chilling the beers and pulled out a Sam Adams—his brother’s drink of choice until he moved on to the harder stuff in an hour or so. “Not that good, so don’t fucking press your luck.” He removed the metal cap and set the bottle on the bar.
“Jesus, Mason,” Katrina finally said, a sharp, chastising bite to her voice. “Can’t you keep it in your pants for one night?”
Mason laughed at the obvious displeasure in her tone, and she visibly bristled. “Now why would I want to do that, Kitty-Kat?” he asked innocently, using the pet name he’d given her so many years ago.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she responded sarcastically. “So you don’t catch something and your dick falls off?”
Her unflattering comment didn’t even seem to faze him. “Not gonna happen. Condoms first, always,” he said, and took a long drink of his beer.
Katrina made a distasteful sound in the back of her throat. “You’re gross and disgusting.”
“So you’ve told me many times before,” Mason said, and suddenly grew more serious, which didn’t happen often since being a smartass was more conducive to keeping most people at a distance. “But you’re my very best friend, and I know deep down inside, you secretly love me despite my faults.”
There was the slightest teasing note to Mason’s voice that kept his reply from being too intimate, but the glimmer of something more briefly flashed in Katrina’s eyes—a longing and desire that Clay had seen in her gaze before.
Jesus, his brother was a blind idiot for not seeing what was right in front of him, that the one woman who understood him better than he knew himself was his best friend. And she wanted more than the sibling-like relationship Mason had boxed her into.
Clay didn’t know how his brother could be so obtuse, unless Mason deliberately kept Katrina squarely in the friend zone to protect his own emotions. Because if he didn’t take that chance, there was no risk of being rejected or deserted, and that was something Clay identified with all too well.
Whatever had passed between Mason and Katrina was gone in the next instant, when Samantha came up to the service bar to return a drink order. Her face was flushed from rushing around, and she looked a bit frazzled by the fast-paced environment, as well as trying to learn on the fly.
“I’m so sorry, I punched in the wrong order again,” she said with an apologetic grimace as she set a Tom Collins on the counter. “Who knew there were so many ‘Collins’ that a person can order? The guy wanted a John Collins,” she clarified, sounding flustered and contrite. “I realize this is the fourth time I’ve ordered the wrong cocktail, and I know I’m wasting your profits since you can’t resell the drinks. You can take the cost out of my paycheck.”
Clay wanted to laugh, because one, she looked so damned cute, and two, money and making a profit wasn’t a concern for him. But she didn’t know that, and it wasn’t something he made public. In fact, very few people—like a handful, and that included his brothers—knew just how wealthy he really was.
“Don’t worry, Cupcake,” he said, the endearment slipping past his lips much too easily before he could catch himself. “It’s all part of the learning curve.”
Clay grabbed a highball glass, filled it with ice, and reached for the bourbon.
Mason, who was sitting directly across from Clay and just a few feet away from Samantha, turned her way. Instantaneous interest lit up his blue eyes. “Cupcake?” he asked, presenting her with his most charming grin. “Is that your name? Because you look pretty damn sweet to me.”
Katrina groaned and rolled her eyes.
Samantha laughed, and Clay was stupidly relieved when she didn’t flirt back with Mason, something that didn’t happen often with his brother. Those tribal tattoos covering his muscular arms were pretty much guaranteed to seduce most women, and those piercing sapphire eyes framed by thick black lashes usually had a woman’s panties hitting the floor within seconds—just ask the girl Mason had just screwed in the bathroom.
“No, my name is Samantha,” she said as she placed extra cocktail napkins on her tray. “Clay gave me the nickname of Cupcake because I’m a lightweight when it comes to drinking alcohol.”
“Did he now?” Mason’s gaze shifted to Clay, scrutinizing him as he raised a brow.
Oh, Clay knew that penetrating stare very well, the one that saw through many of his own defenses, as only a brother could. Before Mason said something inappropriate, Clay decided his best course of action would be to head Mason off at the pass with a change of subject and an introduction.
Clay garnished the fresh drink he’d just made with a lemon slice and set it on her tray. “Samantha, this is Mason. He’s—”
“A manwhore,” Katrina said tartly, cutting Clay off before he could say brother.
Samantha’s eyes grew wide as she waited to see how Mason reacted to that. Obviously, Katrina was still miffed with him.
True to character, Mason didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he grinned, as if she’d just complimented him. “Be careful, Kitty-Kat,” he said, leaning close enough so that when he spoke, his breath stirred against her blonde hair. “You’re starting to sound jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” Katrina insisted as she jerked away from him. “I’m just telling Samantha like it is so she keeps her distance. You, Mason Kincaid, are the male equivalent of a slut.”
He put his hand over his heart and feigned a wounded look. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Katrina just shook her head and let it go.
“It was nice meeting you, Mason,” Samantha said as she picked up her tray, then made her way back into the throng of customers to deliver the new drink.
Mason turned his head and watched her the entire way, and Clay knew his brother’s gaze was on her tight, curvy ass. He managed, just barely, to swallow the possessive growl that was trying to claw its way out of his throat. The last thing he needed was his brother homing in on the fact that Clay wanted Samantha for himself. Not that it was going to happen, but he wouldn’t allow Mason to make a play for her, either.
Once Samantha disappeared from sight, Mason glanced back at Clay. “So, need some help breaking in the new bar waitress?” he asked wolfishly before finishing off the rest of his beer.
Clay glared at him, when he really wanted to punch his brother in the face. “Don’t be an asshole, Mase.”
“She’s off-limits,” Katrina suddenly announced. “She’s living with Clay.?
?
Mason’s jaw dropped open in shock, and he snapped it shut again, his disbelief rendering him momentarily mute. After a few seconds passed, he shook his head at Clay. “What the fuck? Are you serious? Did you take in another stray and decide to keep her like you did Xena, Saint Clay?”
Clay clenched his jaw against Mason’s sarcastic remark and sent Katrina a thanks a fucking lot glance before addressing his brother to tell him what he’d explained to everyone else so far. “It’s temporary until she can find a place of her own, and before you ask, no, we’re not hooking up.”
“Too bad for you,” Mason said in male sympathy, then he grinned like a rogue. “That’s gotta be hard, letting her sleeping in your bed without you in it.”
“Oh, you’re ‘punny’,” he said of his brother’s double entendre.
Mason slid off the barstool, obviously ready to move on to another form of entertainment. “I’ll see you later, Kitty-Kat,” he said to Katrina as he wound the purple-tipped ends of her hair around his finger to give it a playful tug. “And I might be in a little late tomorrow morning, depending on how my night ends.” He winked at her.
“Not too late,” she grumbled. “You have an eleven o’clock appointment with a woman who specifically asked for you. She wants a tattoo of a lock and key on the inside of each of her inner thighs.”
Mason’s gaze lit up. “Damn. I can already tell that tomorrow is going to be a great day since I’ll be spending it between a woman’s legs.” And with that raunchy remark, he returned to what he did best…man-whoring.
Katrina expelled a deep sigh, the sound rife with fatigue that wasn’t so much physical as it was emotional. “And that’s why I don’t come here on Monday nights,” she said, reaching for her purse as she stood. “Your brother is here, and he drives me crazy for at least eight hours a day at the shop. No need to subject myself to any more torture than I’ve already put up with.”
When she pulled out her wallet to pay, Clay waved away her attempt. “Your drink is on the house, and I’m sorry Mason can be such a dick sometimes.” That, at least, got a smile out of her. “Have a good night, okay?”
She nodded. “Yeah, you, too.”
