Chapter 8
EIGHT
D AKOTA
THE DEVIL:
We need to lay some ground rules.
I see the text pop up as I work to fill a couple of beer glasses with the IPA on tap. Not my favorite, but these guys drink it up like it’s water, so who am I to argue? I roll my eyes at his text. If I thought this situation would make Daddy Grant disappear, I was wrong. He’s back in full force.
I hand the beers off and tuck the cash in my apron after I thank them for the tips. My attention returns to my phone, and I run my teeth along my lower lip as I answer him.
Rule number one should be that we don’t tell anyone about any of this.
THE DEVIL:
That’s a given. It doesn’t need to be a rule.
And correction. I didn’t mean we in the collaborative sense. I meant I’m setting the rules.
I roll my eyes at his declaration. Of course. He always has to be in charge. He leads, and the rest of us are simply meant to follow. Not that I’ve ever done it well. I’m pretty sure those brief months he had to put up with teenage me nearly broke him.
You like setting rules then? I guess that makes sense. Your obsession with control is unmatched.
I’ll have to think about how to incorporate that into the content. I know you said you wanted me to beg.
Apparently, you like being a sugar daddy when it suits you. Do you like being called Daddy? Or just Cowboy?
Or maybe a hyphenate? Sugar-daddy Cowboy?
THE DEVIL:
Jesus Christ, Hartfield.
Do not under any circumstances call me Daddy or Cowboy. Sugar or otherwise.
No cutesy nicknames. Period.
I break out into laughter, and Gemma eyes me from down the bar, raising a brow in question, and I just shake my head.
Is that rule number one?
Apparently, it needs to be.
What’s number two, Cutesy Cowboy?
I can imagine him now, pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning back, dressed to perfection in one of his expensive suits, to give me that deadpanned look of disappointment. I can’t help the roll of laughter that escapes as I move to the next customer.
“Okay, you have to tell me what’s so funny.” Gemma sidles up next to me as she grabs some cherry and lime to garnish the drink she’s mixing.
“Just a guy I’m talking to. He’s so uptight, and I drive him insane.”
“In a good way or bad way?” Her brows knit together as she secures the slice of lime to the edge of the glass.
“That’s the question. Both, maybe?”
“Hmm. Can’t wait to hear the updates on this one.” She grins and hustles off to deliver the drink.
THE DEVIL:
Stop. Or I’ll put you on your knees and make you call me sir.
I feel the flush of excitement over my skin and the warmth of interest pool low. I don’t hate the idea. Not even a little bit. But I’m not about to let him know. The man has enough aces up his sleeve. I don’t need to give him any more by letting him know he might, on rare occasions, feature in a fantasy or two of mine.
I’d rather be over your knees. You can slap my ass a few times while I recite the names I’m not allowed to call you.
The dots appear and disappear a couple of times, and I give up on getting a reply. Maybe I don’t have to be nervous about any of this; maybe I’ve already ruined it before it ever got started.
An onslaught of customers makes their way in, and I get lost in the shuffle. I’ve almost finished the line when I turn to another customer, one with pretty deep-brown eyes and dimples. This one is much more my speed than the one I’m trading barbs over texts with.
“What can I get you, handsome?”
“Your number for starters.” He grins and then looks up at the draft board. “And then whatever kind of wheat beer you’ve got on draft.”
“I’ve got a Blue Moon or a new one from Breckenridge. Pick your poison.”
“Breckenridge works.”
“Coming right up.”
“And the number?”
“You have to earn that.” I wink at him and then move to start pouring the glass.
I look down, and my phone flashes again with a message. I hand the beer off and take his card for a tab. He compliments the head on my pour and makes a promise to earn his way into my phone before I can look at it again.
THE DEVIL:
Rule number two is that you don’t fuck around while we’re doing this.
If you read my conversations, then you know I liked to joke with my clients.
You need to find your sense of humor.
“You misunderstood.” A deep voice greets me from the other side of the bar, and I startle before my eyes meet his. He looks prettier than usual tonight in a suit that’s perfectly tailored to highlight his broad shoulders. I’m lost for words, and he’s amused at the fact he’s caught me off guard. “I meant there are no other numbers in your phone besides mine while we do this.”
“That sounds like an overreach.” I manage to find my voice again. “And besides… What if he’ll let me call him Cowboy when I ride?” I give him a teasing grin, and I see the slightest hint of one on his lips, too, before he smothers it.
“He lets you ride, and it’ll be his last rodeo before I break both of his legs.” He leans on the bar. “How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like you need a drink.” I press my lips together and raise a brow.
He opens his mouth to respond, and I hold up my hand.
“Scotch neat. I know.” I go to reach for the bottle, only to find it missing. “Shit. I left it upstairs.”
I blush as I remember why it’s still in my apartment—that he’s seen the photos I took with it. I’m out of my depth on this new dynamic, and there’s a sly grin that tugs at the corner of his mouth as he sees me floundering. The kind that’s almost charming.
“Give me a Jack and Coke then.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
I give him a skeptical look but pull out the glass anyway.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping my focus on my pour .
“Thought I’d be on hand while we establish the rules. In case we need to iron out any details.”
“Afraid I won’t agree to them?” I risk a glance as I add the Coke.
“I don’t think you have much choice.”
“There’s always a choice.” I slide him the drink.
“Fair enough, but yours are pretty limited at the moment.”
I have to disappear to take care of another customer who’s waving me down, and I get caught in the rush of people pouring in for happy hour. But I hear my phone ding again and look up to see that he’s finally rooted back in his usual seat.
THE DEVIL:
Rule number three: I want delivery of assets every night by last call.
Rule number four: Don’t call them assets.
Isn’t that what they are?
It’s what I’m making use of, not what I’m creating.
Rule number five: You don’t ever show them to anyone.
I told you. I set the rules. Actual rule number four: We don’t ever show them to anyone else.
Deal. But I mean it about the assets.
You haven’t given me a better term.
Something wrong with just plain old photos?
I look up from my phone behind the bar and raise my eyebrow at him. He matches it.
THE DEVIL:
It’ll be more than photos you’re delivering. You were going for video and live tiers. You’ll need them if you want to work this debt off before retirement-home age.
I’m still hoping for a last-minute sugar daddy to save me from you.
Afraid the clock’s run out on you for that. See Rule Number Two.
I haven’t agreed to the rules yet.
You’re still confused. You don’t have to agree. They’re my rules to make. Yours to follow. That’s what happened when you got yourself so deep in debt with the Horsemen.
Maybe Levi will save me then.
Not a chance in hell.
Would he let me call him Cowboy?
No.
Daddy?
Hartfield. Look at me.
Do I look like a man who shares?
I glance up, and he looks positively devilish—living up to every single whispered rumor of his reputation from across the room. I don’t respond to him; we just stay locked like that for full moments, staring at each other from opposite ends of the bar.
I’m in danger .
I realize it now. This side of him is so different than the one I normally get. I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad for me, but I know one thing for certain: I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.