For the Price (Love In Vancouver #3)

1. Chapter 1

Frankie

Drunk men pissed her off.

Okay, plenty of things pissed Frankie O’Rourke off, but drunk, belligerent, homophobic men were top tier on her list.

“I’m just saying, why do the gays get a whole month?

Isn’t it enough that we let them get married?

” The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to her off-shift bar manager, Sloane, and her group of friends sitting in the back corner.

Sloane and Taunya had pulled out all the stops, decorating the friends’ table and surrounding area with engagement banners and pictures of the couple, Abi and Tess.

“Why do they need to wave it in everyone’s face with a parade? ”

Frankie narrowed her gaze at the man. The pub was busy and loud, but clearly not loud enough if she could still hear him where she sat at the edge of the bar.

He was seated several stools down from her, drinking a tumbler of Frankie’s best whiskey.

He had an open brown suede jacket over a restrictive black shirt that covered his rounded belly, and for the last hour, Frankie had watched his mustache dip into his drink more than once.

His chubby, whiskered cheeks were flushed, and not for the first time, Frankie imagined him in a police lineup.

She had little tolerance for people like him.

Closing her laptop, she slid off the stool and rounded the bar counter, coming to a stop in front of where he was still running his mouth to her staff. She placed a hand on Andy’s shoulder, leaning in so she wouldn’t be overheard. “Let me handle this asshole.”

Andy nodded and stepped aside. Frankie skipped her three-strike rule—the one she typically used for customers stepping out of line—and snatched the man’s tumbler out of his grasp mid-drink.

“Hey, gimmie that back, bitch!”

Frankie curled her lip at him, the pulse in her throat thumping like a jackrabbit on the hunt.

Heat coiled in her veins, and it took every ounce of willpower she had not to throw the drink—glass and all—into his reddening face.

Instead, she calmly handed it off to Andy without taking her eyes off the stranger.

“The only bitch here is you. Now get the fuck out of my pub.”

“You can’t throw me out. I’m a paying customer. I paid for that drink!”

Frankie reached into her blazer for the thin bundle of folded bills she’d placed there earlier, pulling a twenty off the top before returning the rest to her pocket. She slapped the money on the bar counter in front of him. “Now leave and don’t bother coming back.”

“You’ve got some nerve, bitch. Someone oughta teach you some manners,” the man spat, pointing his finger at her. Patrons occupying seats around him perked up at the idle threat. A young woman, close to Andy’s age, slipped off the stool and backed away, clearly afraid. But not Frankie.

Nothing can scare me. Not anymore.

To her surprise, the man listened. She and Andy watched as he took the money and slid off the stool, tossing them one last scowl before retreating out the front door.

Letting a soft sigh escape, Frankie relaxed her shoulders until another notion popped into her head.

Her gaze flew to the round table in the corner again, squinting to see who was there.

Where is McCoy?

She and her girlfriend, Sawyer, should have been there by now. Frankie’s chest tightened, and she eyed the front of the pub again. What if they met the drunk out on the street and the situation escalated?

Ugh, she was being ridiculous. She would have picked up on the man’s intentions if they had been more than just loose-lipped and ignorant.

“I feel bad for people like him,” Andy said, moving away to pour the man’s drink—Frankie’s expensive , top-shelf whiskey—in the sink before putting the glass in the dirty dishpan.

“Don’t waste your empathy,” Frankie replied, returning to her portable workstation.

As she reopened the laptop, her gaze flitted around the pub once more.

McCoy’s arrival was part of the reason she was reviewing her liquor order here instead of in her office.

Not that she would admit that to anyone.

Since she’d fallen in love with Sawyer, McCoy came to the pub less and less.

Frankie was happy for her, truly, but it didn’t stop the burst of nostalgia she felt anytime they were in the same room together.

It had been months since she’d had reason to take her flogger off the hook in her playroom.

Or felt the rush she got taking her lover from behind with a spreader bar fastened to their ankles, and their hands tied behind their back while their face pressed into the mattress.

A week was a long time, let alone months, when Frankie was used to having a sub at her beck and call.

Or rather, having McCoy at her beck and call. Frankie clenched her teeth.

Why did she continue to torture herself?

Andy appeared in front of her, sliding a mug of Irish coffee Frankie’s way.

He bent over, resting his elbows on the counter and peering at her.

“Seriously, boss, imagine how stupid he’d have felt if he’d known he was talking to a trans man that whole time?

” Andy shook his head, his black curls dancing with the movement, and laughed.

“I mean, that’s assuming he was generalizing the entire alphabet mafia. ”

“Let me know if he shows up here again.” Frankie picked up her drink, the whipped cream on top coating her upper lip as she sipped the whiskey coffee. It was the only drink she allowed herself while on the clock. “This is perfect, Andy. Thank you.”

“I will, and you’re welcome.” Andy rapped his knuckles on the counter once and left her to contemplate.

The pub was getting busier, and Frankie knew she’d need to jump in and help sooner rather than later.

She had two servers behind the bar, two on the floor, and Dakota and Rain cooking in the kitchen, but an extra hand was always welcome.

It wasn’t as if she had anything more pressing to do with her night, except wallow in her sour jealousy and steal glances at the table in the back.

She loved love, she really did. It just had never been for her.

The whole ‘opening yourself up for more hurt later on’ had never appealed to her.

Once Frankie’s drink was finished, she carried her laptop past the right side of the bar and down the hallway toward her office.

A lone figure was leaning against the doorjamb outside her office as she approached, their clumsy fingers jiggling the handle.

They were on the shorter side, lean, and at first sight, nothing about them felt threatening to Frankie.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah, why’s this bathroom locked? I gotta piss.”

Understanding dawned on Frankie, and she let out a faint laugh. “You wouldn’t believe how many times this happens. Washrooms are down the hall a bit more on the right.”

The man, whom she could see clearer now, swayed on his feet as he pushed off her doorjamb. “Shit location,” he said before sauntering off.

“You’re telling me,” Frankie said, watching him a moment longer.

Then she unlocked her office door, stepping inside to put her laptop on the desk.

Then, as an afterthought, she transferred the bundle of bills from her jacket to her safe on the floor.

She set the cash next to her business ownership papers and her 9mm SIG Sauer handgun before locking the safe again.

With any luck, the rest of her night would go smoother.

Business had picked up when Frankie returned to the bar.

She quickly jumped into the thick of things, sending Lian out to the floor to take table orders while she and Andy manned the drink orders.

For early December, it was unusually warm inside the pub—a problem that was exaggerated by the white and grey striped blazer she wore.

“Who turned the heat on this late in the year?” she groused.

Hints of grapefruit, lime, and butterscotch wafted over Frankie as she poured her specialty draft ale into a chilled glass.

She tapped the keg, unable to stop the smile when she noticed it was almost empty.

Nothing lifted Frankie’s spirits more than seeing her personalized take on an old favorite Irish pale ale repeatedly sold out.

Creating a microbrewery in the basement was the first thing she’d done when she’d taken over O’Rourke’s seven years ago.

“Couldn’t tell you, boss,” Andy replied, nudging Frankie as he went to the cooler. “By the way, Cash said the band’s setting up by eight.”

“Okay, great.” Friday and Saturday nights were Frankie’s busiest nights, and she usually tried to bring in live music on one of the days. She handed off the drinks to Lian before turning to Andy once more. “How’s Claire enjoying all the late nights?”

“Loves it,” Andy laughed, cracking two cans of beer open for a waiting patron. “She’s only part-time actually, but still stoked about getting to play bass somewhere besides our living room.”

“I can imagine.” Frankie had known Andy’s girlfriend long enough to know she had a real talent for music. It was good that she was finally getting stage time, even if she considered it a mere hobby.

The conversation came to a natural halt once more, and Frankie approached a petite butch patiently waiting in the same spot she’d been sitting earlier. “Hey, are you waiting for a table, or is here fine?”

“Here’s good. Can I get a whiskey? Straight and on the rocks.”