His Reckless Obsession (Bratva Brotherhood #1)

Chapter 1

Aurora

I stare at the polyester nightmare dangling from my boss’s meaty fist and wonder why I even bothered getting out of bed this morning. The so-called maid costume hangs limply, a black-and-white mockery of what I thought this job would be. The ridiculously short skirt could pass for a napkin.

Not a costume. More like a couple pieces of fabric.

Nick Basso’s lips curl into what he probably thinks is a persuasive smile while he lounges at his desk in the back office of Red Bird’s Cocktail Lounge.

The small space is a disaster. Crinkled receipts, cheap cigars, and a week’s worth of half-full coffee cups clutter the worn oak surface.

Half a dozen or so dress shirts are strewn across a faded green sofa I wouldn’t let my cat sit on. Or even my worst enemy’s cat.

Given Nick’s reputation, far too many staff members and customers have utilized the stained eyesore for a late-night booty call.

I may be desperate for cash, but I draw the line at sleeping with my boss.

And I draw another one at this absurd outfit that would have even Barbie blushing.

“I’m not putting that on.” I fold my arms across my chest as if I can physically deflect the suggestion.

Or maybe I just want to protect my girls from that mortifyingly low neckline.

“You’ve never had a problem with me wearing my regular clothes for waitressing before.

What’s different tonight?” I wrinkle my nose.

The little black dress I’m currently sporting may be five years old, but it’s still in decent condition…as long as no one examines the small patched tear under my armpit. The shape accentuates my curves, which is a plus in this line of work.

My boss thrusts the sorry excuse for a maid costume at me with his thick hands.

The coarse black hair on his knuckles matches the greasy mop on his head and the rug on his chest that peeks out from his open collar.

Together, they form some sort of unholy trinity.

“Bachelor party in the back. They paid extra for the theme.”

Of course. Because Nick will do anything so long as enough money is involved. “What’s the theme? Sorority Halloween bash? It’s not even October yet. Are we going to serve them shotgun beer and watch them do keg stands, too, while everyone clusters around and cheers?”

“The theme is making Nick enough money to hire someone else if you’re gonna be difficult.

” Still clutching the heinous outfit, Nick rounds the desk and squeezes my shoulder.

I suppress a shudder when his knuckles skim the top of my breast before he drops his hand.

“Be thankful the stripper costume’s already taken. ”

The threat lands exactly as intended. Right in my empty wallet.

My jaw clenches so hard, my teeth protest. “I won’t be able to bend over in that without mooning half the bar.”

“Yeah? Bet you’ll see some great tips then, Bailey.” His eyes glaze as if he’s picturing my ass already. “But if you don’t want to get paid, I’m happy to send you home.”

I want to continue arguing until my boss morphs into a halfway decent human being, but we both know how this ends. My little sister has hopes of attending medical school once she graduates college. Both are expensive.

I can’t let her down.

My mind flashes to Samantha’s elated expression when I told her I’d help pay for her education. She was ready to give up, but at least one of us should have an opportunity to turn a dream into a reality.

A pang of intense, familiar longing cocoons me.

Aurora Bailey, don’t go there. You have a hell of a lot to be thankful for.

“Fine.” I snatch the costume from his hand and try to ignore the incoming tension headache. “But if anyone touches me, I’m adding five percent to their tab. And that’s five percent for every finger.”

Nick’s condescending chuckle haunts me as I trudge toward the staff bathroom. “That’s my girl. Feisty sells drinks.”

I bite back a retort telling him exactly what he can do with his drinks. Maybe tonight won’t be as awful as I’m expecting. Inebriated guys at bachelor parties do tend to tip more.

Extra cash could allow for an extra grocery run. I ate the last of the bananas and a spoonful of peanut butter for breakfast. Lunch consisted of an emergency single-serving bag of pretzels I’d stashed in my locker.

As if on cue, my stomach growls, and I force away fantasies of a hot meal.

The walls in the cramped employee bathroom close in on me as I strip out of my dress. The fluorescent bulbs overhead flicker, painting my skin a sickly shade of pale. Grandma’s gold cross gleams at the end of the long chain around my neck.

I pull the costume over my head and as suspected, the outfit barely covers my ass. At least I’m wearing a pair of panties without holes today for the inevitable moments I flash customers tonight.

It’s those little things in life that count.

Suppressing a yawn, I study my reflection in the scratched mirror.

My green eyes look huge thanks to kohl eyeliner, though my concealer does little to hide the dark circles beneath them.

Pulling the band from my ponytail, I shake my hair loose.

The strands reach my collarbone, just long enough to hide my blush every time I lean forward and flash my cleavage at the entire bar.

I lean my palms on the counter, inflate my lungs, and remind myself I’m here for my sister Samantha, the only family I have left who cares about me. And I refuse to let her down.

When I push through the door to reenter the bar, the wall of noise hits me first. Pounding music and clinking glasses compete with inebriated laughter and dozens of shouted conversations. Just like I do every shift, I scan the space for threats.

Red Bird’s is packed tonight, with bodies pressed together in the dim lighting. Customers cram into faded red velvet booths that line the wall beneath a huge mural of red-winged birds in flight.

The birds remind me of Nick. Aggressive and territorial.

I weave between the scarred wooden tables placed strategically around the bar, ignoring how the floor sticks to the soles of my shoes and hyper-aware of eyes tracking my body from cleavage to below my hemline.

An open area doubles as a dance floor and separates the back hallway and bathroom from the other seating section filled with booths and two-tops.

Including the back room, the entire bar boasts nearly four thousand square feet of drunks, dancers, and, well, drunk dancers.

As I near the bachelor party in the back, I take stock of the other waitresses rushing around in equally ridiculous costumes.

Rachel’s in the stripper outfit Nick mentioned, a black lacy one-piece ensemble that reveals more of her toned, dark-skinned body than it hides and comes with thigh-high fishnet stockings.

A flushed Lindsey’s wearing a sexy red lifeguard swimsuit and passing out jello shot syringes from her first aid bag.

I cringe when I spot Sarah in a naughty nurse costume and thank my lucky stars I dodged that bullet. Pretty sure she’ll trigger some bastard’s cardiac arrest before the shift’s over. Hopefully, poor Lindsey won’t be expected to administer CPR.

Oh god. I’m stuck in a living, breathing nightmare. Or a frat boy’s wet dream, depending on your perspective.

As I approach, an older man with a long gray beard and no top teeth grabs Lindsey’s arm and yanks her against his body. Whipping out an ancient flip phone, he fumbles to snap a picture.

Lindsey attempts to edge away, but the man clings. “Sorry, no pictures.”

Toothless laughs and takes a photo anyway before patting her ass. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Lindsey’s face flushes the same crimson as her swimsuit.

Anger courses through me, scalding my blood and melting away reason. I’m halfway to the old man’s table before I realize my intent.

“Hey!” Snatching the flip phone, I quickly delete the photo and then slam the device on the table with more force than necessary. “She said no pictures, and keep your hands to yourself. At your age, you should know better.”

“What the fuck?”

Lindsey ignores the now gaping customer and squeezes my hand, whisper-yelling “thank you” in my ear.

“Anytime.” I return the squeeze. “Why don’t you take a break while I go check on the bachelor and his buddies?”

Still fuming, I storm off as fast as I can without tripping in my heels.

Along the way, I check hands hovering near drinks for pills, phones angled toward skirts, and men who linger too long by the bathroom door.

Unfortunately, Red’s is exactly that sort of place, so I learned every exit, every bouncer’s position, every corner.

Us servers can never be too careful, and Nick sure as hell won’t protect us.

A stocky man in a black vest flags me down from a table of middle-aged biker regulars, casting me a teasing glance. “Hey sweetheart, you on the menu tonight?”

“Sorry, Rick, I’m still much too sour.” I wink as I give him my usual reply. “How about I bring you guys the usual?”

He feigns a heartbroken sigh. “I suppose that will have to do.”

“I’ll be right back.”

I return with their drinks, dropping them off on my way to the bachelor party.

A dozen or so flushed-face twentysomething guys in designer jeans and button-ups erupt in cheers when I enter their section.

With his plastic crown, the groom-to-be is the life-sized version of a corporate-gone-casual Ken doll.

I’d wager an entire month’s paycheck with tips that they started drinking long before they arrived.

Another corporate type with black rectangular glasses and brown hair gelled into a forehead swoop grasps my wrist.

“Hey there.” Ken’s friend eyes my costume, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You’re wearing the maid outfit I chose.”

“Gee, thanks for that.” I disentangle myself from Mr. Handsy. “I’ve always wanted to parade around in a skimpy, demeaning outfit and get leered at by a bunch of blitzed men. If I had gold stars to dispense, I’d offer you one.”

Mr. Handsy scowls, but Ken and several of the other guys snicker.

Tone it down, Aurora. This is not the way to get tips.

Backpedaling as much as possible and injecting a little more friendliness into my demeanor, I jot down their orders.

Most of this crew comes across as polite enough, but Mr. Handsy gives me a bad feeling.

I beat a hasty retreat, promising to return with their drinks as soon as I put in their orders.

That’s when I spot him.

I swear the room heats up by ten degrees as I drink in the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Based on the controlled, predatory way he observes his surroundings, he may be one of the most dangerous too.

For a full three seconds, I forget how to breathe.