4. Eagle
CHAPTER 4
EAGLE
Well, I didn’t get myself fired for nearly refusing to wear a tux, but threatening the father of the bride at the rehearsal dinner might just be the thing that does it.
I’m waiting for this shit-stain of a man to explain himself or get the fuck out, and lucky for him, he makes the right decision.
“Call off your fucking dog, Lacey,” the man seethes, throwing a glare over his shoulder at her.
I resist the urge to snarl at him as he walks by, just to prove his point, but I suppose I should be happy the handsy dickhead is on his way. I wait until he’s almost back to the villa before turning to Lacey. I walk the few steps between us, bend, and pick up the shoe she’s stepped out of. I set it on the ground near her foot, the sole down against the stamped concrete path, then step away.
I point to the high heel. “Most women want to be swept off their feet, but I don’t think that’s what that means.”
She looks from me to her shoe and then flushes, a light rose blossoming over her throat. I reach out my hand, and she sets her fingers in mine, her touch so light while she balances. She steps into her shoe, rolls her shoulders, and then meets my eyes. “Yeah,” she says, sighing. “That’s not at all what I want. But, Eagle, thank you.”
She looks like she wants to say something when a chirp from the receiver clipped to her dress calls her away.
“I have to go.” She nods at me, talks into the receiver, then storms back into the villa.
I follow a few steps behind, scanning the room. A couple of kids from the wedding party ask if they can keep drinking, so I stand beside the bar, a stern look on my face as the bartender explains that tonight, the grounds close strictly at half past ten. My presence keeps the more persistent partiers from trying to get around the policy, so I keep the pissed-off bouncer look plastered on my face while I keep one eye on that jackass father of the bride.
Even while I’m watching him, he’s doing everything in his power to prove he’s got a death wish. He stares at Lacey’s every move, watching her ass when she bends to clasp the hand of an old lady, staring at her face when her mouth lifts in a smile as she says goodnight to the bride. When the asshole’s poor wife finally laces a hand through his elbow and tugs him toward the door, I swear he’s still looking back over his shoulder, searching the room for Lacey.I weave my fingers together until the knuckles audibly crack, just jonesing for the chance to sink a fist into the nose of that blowhard.
But not now. Not unless he deserves it. That would be the end of my job—and the end of this little thing I’ve got going with my boss. Whatever this little thing of ours is.
The bartender, a nerdy, skinny dude named Marc, points to a bottle of whiskey.“Thanks for keeping the kids in line tonight. Gonna be a long weekend with this group. You want one for the road, buddy?”
I like Marc. He’s good people, and if this were like most nights, I’d grab a drink and shoot the shit with him and Brute for a bit before hitting the road. But Brute’s already walking up to say goodbye, and I don’t feel like drinking alone.
“Nah, man, but thanks.”
Marc nods and busies himself behind the bar, while Brute rolls his neck and yawns.
“You sure you can’t stick around a while?” I ask, clapping my hand to my brother’s shoulder.
“Nah,” he says, giving mine a shake. “Crow’s got me on an early job with him. I gotta grab a couple hours of sleep.” He releases my hand and looks at me. “I’ll put in a word if you want to pick up some laborer shit. Nothing tricky, man. I’m tearing out a kitchen and hauling debris tomorrow. Easy day, good pay.”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “I’m all right,” I tell him. I got no problem with any of my brothers working together, but I’m inching toward fifty. After all night on my feet, I won’t be in any mood to get up at the ass-crack of dawn, haul debris out of a kitchen renovation, and then spend tomorrow night on my feet again for the wedding. I’m getting way too old for that kind of schedule, no matter how much I like extra cash. “See ya, man.”
Brute takes off, and I turn back to the bar when I hear a soft voice beside me.
“Marc, I’ll take a soda, please.”
“You want a shot in that, boss?” Marc grins as he packs a glass full of ice and squirts a fizzy nozzle over the ice. Then he runs a lemon wedge along the lip of the glass, squeezes the rind between two fingers so the slightest bit of citrus oil wafts in the air, and slides the wedge over the rim of the glass. “Just the way you like it.”
Marc sets the drink down for Lacey, and she reaches a long, bare arm across the bar to grab it. She looks at me, an apologetic smile lifting the corners of her sexy red lips. “I like it with extra ice,” she explains. “The lemon bit makes it feel fancy. That’s a Marc thing. I’m not really that pretentious.”
I never thought she was pretentious, but I don’t say anything. I just watch as she drops onto a stool next to me, the sharp edge of her straight blond hair bobbing just past her chin. “You mind if I sit?” she asks. “Long night.”
I shake my head slowly, then motion to Marc. “Can I get one of what she’s having, but without the frou-frou shit?”
Marc laughs and pours a tall class of soda, extra ice, no lemon, and hands it to me. I nod my thanks and take a long sip, staring ahead into the mirror mounted behind the bar. It feels safer than looking at Lacey, who’s crossing her legs and sipping her Coke, sighing like she’s releasing the weight of the world from her shoulders.
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and she looks away too fast, like she’s embarrassed or feeling guilty.
“I didn’t thank you. For earlier,” she says quietly, flitting a look at Marc. “Mr. Acosta was getting a little friendly out there. He’s a bit of an ass, if I’m honest. But you…” She trails off, then turns a little in her bar seat to face me. “You saved me from having to embarrass him or myself.”
I take a long sip, hoping the ice cools down the heat that’s radiating between me and Lacey and the renewed rage I feel at the idea that Acosta was, in fact, harassing her.
“Don’t mention it,” I assure her. “Just doing my job.”
She chuckles softly. She motions toward the stool next to her. “Sit?” It’s a question, gentle but clearly inviting. “No need to stand while you drink. Besides, I think the grandmas have all made it back to their rooms. You’re done for the night.”
She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I climb onto a stool beside her, my legs spread wide. I rest my left hand on the bar, while I hold my drink in my right one. I drain the glass with just a few sips and set the empty on the bar.
Before I realize what’s happening, Lacey trails one short, perfectly polished red nail over the top of my hand, the one that’s got as many scars on it as tattoos. “Would you really have broken his bones?” she asks quietly.“If he’d touched me?”
She lightly touches the tiny, healed marks, pulls her hand away and rests it in her lap as if realizing what she’s doing.“Sorry,” she whispers. “Speaking of touching, I shouldn’t have done that.”
She flicks a worried glance up at Marc, but he’s got his back to us as he closes up the bar for the night.
I turn a bit on my stool and study her face, the way her lips are slightly parted, the melted chocolate of her eyes. I don’t say anything, don’t respond to her apology. This is the second time she’s touched me, and I know enough about women to know they don’t touch men they don’t want to touch. Not once—and definitely not a second time.
I wait to say anything until Marc isn’t behind the bar anymore. Once he goes off toward the kitchen or doing whatever shit he’s got to do so he can close up and call it a night, there’s no one around to hear what I want to tell her.
“Lacey.” I growl her first name. I normally call her boss—keeping it light, formal. But I like the way her name feels against my lips. I’d like to know how the woman attached to the name feels against my lips too. “You need me for anything, and I mean anything, all you have to do is say the fucking word. And you never have to apologize for touching me.”
I don’t look away, and neither does she. We’re locked in an epic stare-down, the tip of her tongue trailing absently over her lower lip, like she’s seriously considering my words.
“The way that fucker looked at you all night, followed you around like a lovesick puppy…” I sniff hard and clench my hands into fists. “I was itching to teach him to keep his eyes to himself. But when he touched you?” I shake my head and pinch my fingers together to show her how close I was to blowing up. “I was this close,” I tell her, “to adding a couple more black marks to my employment record. Not to mention a couple more scars to these hands.”
She swallows hard and sips her drink, her fingers twirling the little lemon wedge around the rim of the glass. “You noticed that, huh?” Her question isn’t an accusation. She sounds relieved.
I turn fully on the tiny-ass stool to face my boss. This woman who’s probably half my age, but who I’ve seen hold her own with drunks and dickheads over the last two years. She’s as tough as they come when she needs to be, but catch her in the right moment, and she’s open, a delicate butterfly with its wings spread to the sky.
Looking at her now, I see how hard she’s struggling to pull a mask around herself, to hide in a cocoon of being brave, but the raw emotion in her eyes is clear.
I meet her stare with my own. “I notice everything about you, Lacey.”
She presses her red lips together and wriggles in her seat, uncrossing then crossing her legs again. Another flush blooms across her chest, and goddamn, I can’t stop myself from looking. I let myself trace the outline of her collarbone to the hollow of my throat with my eyes, then stop myself when my gaze hits her cleavage. I’m overcome by the desire to press my face to her chest, lifting the weight of her breasts in my hands and tasting, feasting on all that hides beneath that black dress.
Lacey must be some kind of a mind reader because I swear I see her flick a look at the erection that’s starting to tent the frontof my dress pants. She clears her throat. “Eagle, I-I…” she stammers, but no real words come out. Then she slides off the tiny stool, her body so close to me, I smell jasmine and vanilla wafting from her heat.
“Eagle, excuse me,” she whispers. “I have to go.” Then she takes off in the direction of the ladies’ room.