Chapter 3
THREE
D AKOTA
I hurry to my room, tossing things on my bed and tucking a few things away in drawers. The last thing I want is for him to see the mail that has FINAL NOTICE scrawled in bright red letters across the top or the lingerie I put on earlier and took photos in for a new side hustle. Bristol, one of my best friends, jokingly mentioned selling pictures of her feet online last month for some extra cash, and it sent me down a rabbit hole. A girl had to know her options, especially when circumstances were dire. And mine are about as dire as they get, especially considering I have to go back out there in a minute and tell Mr. Casino Cowboy that I don’t have all the money I need for rent this month. Right after he fixes my sink for free or hires a handyman to do it.
I glance in the mirror as I make my way back out the door to the kitchen and stop short. I’m covered in whiskey stains, and my body glitter has started to clump along my cleavage. My lipstick is smeared, and the clasp on my necklace has dropped to the bottom, ruining the cute aesthetic I’d started the night with. In the bright light of my bedroom, I look as disheveled as my apartment is right now. I don’t need another thing for him to judge and find wanting.
I stop and grab another crop top out of my drawer, wipe the glitter with a tissue, and adjust my necklace before I swipe another round of gloss on my lips. I run a brush through the curls that have started to tangle at the long ends of my hair too. I’m in desperate need of a trim and a dye, but it’s one more thing I can’t afford at the moment. At least not until I get paid for this last month.
I need to be able to afford my bridesmaid dress and the makeover that I need to look the part. Our best friend Hazel is getting remarried to a pro football player (and regrettably, Grant’s younger brother) in a few short weeks. Between the family money and the rich pro-sports friends, I’m going to have to whip up a miracle to make it look like I even remotely fit in with the bridal party. But I’m not about to let Hazel down.
When I get back out to the kitchen, Grant’s under the sink, messing around with the pipes. His jacket’s off, the tie’s gone, his shirt’s unbuttoned, and his sleeves are rolled up neatly to his elbows. The muscles I thought his jacket perfectly accented? They’re even better in the shirt. And the way his body is stretched out, one leg bent to help give him leverage on whatever tinkering he’s doing, is doing things for me. Especially since I don’t have his disapproving glare or his impatient tone aimed at me right now.
“Hartfield?” He calls out my name louder than he needs to, probably still thinking I’m in the other room.
“Yes? ”
“Do you have a tool kit of any kind? I need a wrench.” He softens his voice this round.
“You need a wrench?” I repeat it like a question because I’m baffled at this series of events—that Grant Stockton is on his back under the sink in my kitchen at midnight, that he needs a wrench, and that he appears to know what to do with it.
“I have Jesse’s above the cabinet,” I answer. Or at least I think I still have my brother’s old tool kit. I haven’t touched it in years.
“Can you get it, please?” The please is a little more impatient than the rest of the question.
“Yes,” I say as I walk into the room. “But it’s on the cabinet above the sink, and I’ll need the ladder.”
“Fuck!” he curses. “I don’t want to let this go. It’s loose, and if I do—”
“Okay. Okay,” I reassure him. “It’s fine. I’ll just climb on the edge of the sink. Hold on… Let me just—” I place my feet carefully around his body until I’m standing over him, place my palms on the counter, and boost one knee up onto the edge of the sink. One more boost, and I’m up to the level I can reach the top of the cabinet.
Thankfully, the tool kit is still there dusty and a little worse for the lack of use, but still where Jesse always kept it when we lived here together. I pull it down and set it carefully on the counter next to the sink.
“Got it?” Grant asks when he hears the thunk of it hitting the surface above his head.
“Yep. Just getting down, and I’ll get the wrench.” I dangle one foot back down, trying hard not to step on the man beneath me. That’s the last thing I need because I’ll never hear the end of it if I crush his precious hand or—
“Fuck!” I scream as my knee slips on the pool of water at the edge of the sink Grant created when he tested the faucet. I fly off the counter and fall to the floor—a fall that’s only broken by the body of the man beneath me.
“Holy fuck!” His curse echoes mine as he catches me. I land in the most awkward position imaginable—practically sitting on the man’s face.
I’m spread across his chest, one knee on either side, his hand wrapped around my thigh from where he tried to stop my fall. It’s currently resting just under my left butt cheek. He’s gripping the back of his head with his other hand, where he hit it on the back of the cabinet door as my body slammed into his chest. He’s forgotten to hold whatever he had been keeping shut under the sink, and water starts to leak out from under it.
“Are you okay?” He rubs the back of his head, apparently not registering anything other than the immediate potential for injury to our bodies.
“I’m fine. Are you okay?” I ask as I try to move carefully and only manage to entangle us further.
“I’m fine. Just be careful sitting up. Fuck. I let go, and now there’s more water. Don’t trip—” He finally looks up to see me practically riding his face. Well, not quite—there’s still clothing and two inches of air—but too close for comfort by the way his face contorts.
“Hartfield.” The pained way he says my name makes me want to die. My face heats, and I scramble up, twisting my ankle in the process but managing to get away from him. I fall back onto the carpeted dining room floor and stare up at the ceiling. I’m trying to think of something funny to say. Or maybe something bitchy. Anything that’s going to stop the awkward silence.
“Fuck!” He ends it for us. “It’s wet again.” Wait… what? Oh. Right. The sink. The pipes. Shit. “The water’s starting to come faster. The wrench?”
I leap up and hobble over to the counter to get the wrench as he dives back under the sink to try to re-secure it manually. I unlatch and root through the tool kit until I get the wrench and hand it to him. It’s a few more curses and twists plus a handful of grunts, and he resurfaces again.
“That should hold it for now,” he explains as he sits back up again. I hobble my way to the dining chair and sit down. He frowns at the way I’m favoring my ankle. “Are you okay?”
“Just twisted something. It’ll be fine in a minute.” I waive it off, but as he stands to put the wrench back, I don’t miss the blood on his hands.
“You’re bleeding!” I jump up out of instinct and nearly fall again.
“I’m fine. Just sit down.” He gives me a glowering look, and I take a step back as he grabs a paper towel off the roll and wipes the blood from his hand. He reaches back to touch his head, and his fingers are stained crimson again. “Well, fuck,” he mutters.
“Let me see,” I insist, his grumpy threat forgotten as I hobble my way around to look at the back of his head. I raise onto my tiptoes and see a small abrasion from where the cabinet must have dug in when I fell on him. My cheeks heat again as I remember our position, and I shake my head. “The cabinet got you. Give me a second, and I’ll get my first aid kit out of the bathroom.”
“I’m fine,” he insists.
“You’re not fine. Just let me get it cleaned up.”
“It’s just a scratch. I’m fine. I can clean it up when I get home.”
“I’ve got it.”
“You need to get off your ankle,” he insists.
“I can be the judge of my own ankle. I can walk ten feet to get the kit.” I make my way into the bathroom, open the cabinet, and pull it out—holding it up for full effect. “ See?”
“I just don’t want you to fall again.” The man worries even when he’s grumpy.
“I fell because there was water. There’s no water on the carpet.”
He presses his lips together in irritation but doesn’t say anything as I open the first aid kit and pull out some alcohol wipes. I rip one open, tossing the wrapper onto the counter.
“Sit.” I pat a chair in front of me. He glares at it, but he follows the order. I gently press my fingers to the crown of his head, my fingers slipping through his hair as I tip his head forward. “I’m just gonna clean it up.”
I swipe the pad across the small wound, and he grunts loudly, jolting in his chair. You’d think I shot the man.
“It’s just a little alcohol,” I say softly.
“It fucking stings,” he grouches. Wounded animals never like to be touched.
“You can handle it.” I take another swipe, and he complains under his breath, but he holds still. I eye the lollipops that are still sitting out on my counter next to the toolbox from a promo event we did last weekend. “If you quit complaining, I’ll give you a sucker for being a good boy.”
“You’d be better off giving them to the children you’re entertaining downstairs,” he deflects.
“This again?” I ask, dousing the wound with one last fresh wipe before I throw them all away and close the kit. There’s too much hair for a Band-Aid to do anything other than get tangled, and the bleeding is slowing anyway.
“What again?”
“You hypocritically giving me shit for flirting with younger men when you date younger women.”
“I don’t date younger women.”
“I’ve seen you with younger women.”
“I might spend time with them, but I’m not dating them. ”
“Potatoes, po-tah-tohs,” I counter. “You know what I mean.”
“You’re literally luring them with candy and treats. Spitting in their mouths. Spreading your legs.”
“Slapping them. Dumping ice water on them,” I fire back.
“Yeah, well after all that, they need the fucking ice water.” His eyes follow me as I drop the used wipes and wrappers in the trash on the far side of the kitchen.
“I’m doing just fine. Those guys are paying fifty dollars for a half shot of Jack and a glass of ice water.”
“Christ,” he curses, shaking his head.
“See. You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t clever.” He shakes his head. “I just said it’s asking for trouble. Lawsuits. Guys thinking it’s an invitation for more when you—” He stops short.
“When I do what?” I dare him to finish his sentence.
“You know what you’re doing.” His eyes lift to meet mine.
“I don’t think what I do with my body is any of your business. And if they think it’s an invitation, that’s their problem.” This is exactly why I hid everything when he got here.
“I would fucking make it their problem. But if Jesse was here…” His gaze drifts to the toolbox that has Jesse’s initials engraved into the side.
Grant has a point there. No way in hell would Jesse ever let me sell that shot if he was still alive. He’d be giving me the same lecture Grant is, but I’d be talking back less. Because I looked up to Jesse. Grant is… complicated.
“Well, he’s not, and someone has to pay the bills.”
“I thought things were doing better?” His head snaps up, and he looks at me with surprise. “You said New Year’s and Valentine’s were good.”
“They are. People still come here. But the competition around here is stiff.” I narrow my eyes at him, and he has the decency to look a touch sheepish. The Avarice’s new bar is slowly drawing some of my regulars away with its fancy specials and glittery new interior. Not that I want to admit that to him outright.
“We don’t have the same clientele,” he notes defensively.
“We don’t? You’re telling me that those college guys wouldn’t be at your bar if you had hotter bartenders?”
“My bartenders are plenty fucking hot. I hand selected most of them, and we don’t charge fifty dollars for an underpoured shot.” His jaw ticks with irritation, and I stand straighter as I imagine him handpicking his staff.
“You also don’t deliver that shot with a side of public humiliation that gets his friends cheering and him wondering what kink he’s been missing his whole life.” I press my lips together, shaking my head as I cross my arms in challenge.
“What kink he’s been…” he scoffs. “Do you hear yourself? Do you run a bar or a sex club?” he asks derisively. I inhale sharply and bite my tongue to keep from snapping at him. I wish I had a whole bottle of alcohol to douse his wound with.
“Whatever I have to run to keep the doors open and the lights on.” Every time he tells me not to do something—it just makes me want to do it that much more.
“Again, Jesse would—”
“I don’t give a shit what Jesse would or wouldn’t do. He’s not here. He’s gone because of decisions he made—the two of you made, really. So let’s not pretend either of you was particularly good at them. I make my own decisions, and I don’t give a shit what you think of them. You’re not my brother, Grant. You have zero say. I’m tired of you treating me like I’m some lost sibling of yours who needs your constant oversight.” I lash out, and I hate how bitter I sound and how invested I am in his approval—the way his lack of support for anything I do grates on my nerves until they’re raw enough to make me say things like this.
Grant stiffens and then stands. He grabs his jacket off the chair without another word and heads for the door.
“I’ll call a handyman in the morning. He should be able to fix that for you.” He’s terse now, all business, and it pricks that he’s refusing to even fight back. He always fights back. It’s just the way we work through things. We’re both too strong-willed to cede ground easily.
“Don’t you want your rent? If you give me a second, I can get it for you.” I’m just trying to buy time; find some way I can apologize for the bitchy thing I said without letting him think he’s run the board. But if I apologize now, he’ll seize it. He’ll see me as weak, someone he can manipulate. Just like everyone else in this town.
“Fine.” He pauses at the doorway.
Unfortunately for me, I forgot the part where I need to ask him for a pass on a few hundred dollars-ish of the rent. A thing I’m fairly certain is gonna go over like a lead balloon now. I cringe as I go to my safe.
“I’m a little short this month,” I say softly as I press the code into the door.
“How short?” he asks in a scolding tone.
“A thousand.”
There’s a long pause, like he’s holding back other words he might say.
“Fine.” The man has a new favorite word.
“I’ll pay you back next month.” I hedge.
“You won’t. Not if things are bad like you say. And with the wedding, you’ll be working less, which means fewer tips,” he states sharply.
“So what do you want me to do then?” I pull the money I do have for him out and then lock the safe. He watches me as I walk toward him, holding out the stack of cash and raising a brow expectantly when he stays silent.
His eyes catch mine, and he studies me for a minute.
“If I was your brother, I’d just let it slide. But I guess since I have zero fucking reason to care, you’ll have to find another way to make it up to me.” He’s got the door open and is halfway down the hall before I’ve processed what he’s just said.
“What does that even mean?” I call after him.
“I’ll send a handyman over here Monday. I’ll text you the time later today. Try not to have lingerie scattered over half the fucking place when he comes!” He calls back down the hall. The door to the outside slams behind him, and I’m left pondering what the hell I’ve just walked myself into now.