Chapter Eight
“Why are you here?”
The door to the bar slams shut, choking the sunlight that illuminated through the bar for a brief second. Heavy boots slap against the concrete floor as Cain Michaels, the president of The Sinners motorcycle club, stomps in my direction.
To everyone else, Cain is one scary motherfucker. But to me, he’s just Rosie’s husband.
“What’s it look like?” I sass, turning back to push a bottle of brandy onto the top shelf.
“It looks like you’re working on your day off. Rosie said you had a thing with your brother today. So I’ll ask you again—why are you here?”
Because this bar is my life.
Because if I go to dinner with Dylan, Gareth will be there, too.
And if I see Gareth, I might fully shatter.
“Because I have time to kill,” is what I opt to tell Cain, shrugging nonchalantly as I grab another bottle of booze and put it on a shelf. For a few seconds longer than I need to, I keep my back toward him, my thoughts lingering on seeing Gareth as I spin my ring.
I always spin my ring when I think about him.
“You know, there’s more to life than your job.” He takes a seat on a barstool, reaching over to pluck a maraschino cherry from the jar I just refilled. “What was up with that guy I saw you with a while back?”
My heart stutters, freezing me in my tracks for a second before I readjust my carefully constructed mask. I roll my eyes. “Not you too.”
His shoulders lift. “Seemed like there was something there.”
Spinning on my heel, I reach for another bottle in the box. “Cain, if I wanted to divulge my love life to you, I would have done it by now.”
“Yet my wife went to a baseball game because of your love life. Seems like I know some of the details already, so you might as well fill me in. Maybe a man’s perspective would help.”
I’d rather choke down this entire bottle of vodka in one breath than talk to Cain about my situation with Gareth, but I don’t tell him that. Instead, I plaster on a wide grin.
“That’s kind of you, bossman, but really there’s nothing to tell. And I am about to get out of here, I just wanted to get this box unpacked.”
“Hot date?”
“Psh. You know I don’t date, Cain. I use men for the one thing they’re good for.” I wink at him playfully, and he wrinkles his nose.
“No surprise there. You know King’s been hoping to get a taste of that attitude of yours, right?”
“King can keep wishing.”
“Oh, he will. I’m sure of it.”
King’s been laying it on thick for weeks now, and every time I tell him I’m not interested. I roll my eyes. “I don’t know how many different ways I need to tell him he’s not my type, but I’ll keep trying, I guess.”
“What is your type? Baseball player? Where’s he taking you tonight?” He reaches across the bar again and grabs another cherry.
I glare at Cain with a look that has him lifting his hands in surrender. “Dinner with my brother, if you must know, you nosey ass.”
Cain laughs, then slides off his barstool, rapping his knuckles against the wood grain of the bar a couple of times. “Have a great time, Indy. And stop coming in when you’re not scheduled. You deserve a break.”
“Says the man who works twenty-four seven, three sixty-five,” I call as he walks toward the stairs.
The bar upstairs was once primarily The Sinners clubhouse, but has now been mostly converted into rooms for Rosie’s Refuge, her organization that gives women a safe space to stay after experiencing assault.
Now, Cain keeps an office upstairs and often retreats to it for both club business and to help with Rosie’s Refuge.
“The club can’t run itself,” he yells over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs. “You know that.”
Shaking my head, I get back to the box of alcohol that definitely won’t put itself away, and stretch every last possible minute before I have to leave to go meet my brother.
CaliStar is packed, bustling with vibrancy as I pull open the heavy glass door and step inside. The Michelin-star restaurant in the heart of Ridgewood has a several months long waitlist; in fact, the only reason why we’re even here is because Gareth made the reservation.
Evidently, the chef, Lennon Blackwell, is a Bears fan.
The hostess greets me and I scan the restaurant for the familiar face of my brother, but I don’t see him yet.
After a quick glance at the clock on my phone, I smile at the hostess. “Reservation under Fox.”
“Your table is ready for you, miss.” She gestures for me to follow her.
As I walk, I smooth my dress, the black one I wear when I need to look a little more upscale than I really am. I’ve traded the fishnets for nude tights, and my combat boots for plain, pointed-toe flats.
That’s as good as it’s going to get.
I look at my phone again, telling myself Dylan’s probably circling the street for parking and that’s why he’s late. Although my gut tells me otherwise.
The waitress leads me through the restaurant and onto a private back patio where delicate string lights shimmer above the tables, mingling with the flickering glow of candles.
Then something in the air shifts. It’s subtle, but electrifies with the undeniable charge I feel only when I’m around him.
After taking in my surroundings, I lift my gaze, instantly colliding with Gareth’s heady stare, and butterflies erupt in my stomach.
He stands, rounding the table to pull out my chair as the hostess says, “Enjoy your meals.”
I forget how to breathe when Gareth’s fingertips brush against my arm as I slide into my seat.
“Hey,” he greets, helping as I scoot my chair closer to the table.
“Hey.” I look up at him as he moves back to his own seat, drinking in his dark gray slacks and crisp light gray button-up. He popped a few buttons, exposing a white T-shirt underneath, and rolled up the sleeves to his elbows.
He makes my damn mouth water. I look away before I’m caught staring.
“Where’s my brother?” I ask at the same time as he says, “I didn’t think you’d show.”
My brows crumple. “Why wouldn’t I?
Gareth mirrors my expression and leans back in his seat. “Dylan canceled.”
“What?” I ask too quickly, digging for my phone I’d slid into my purse before I sat down. “He didn’t tell me he wasn’t coming.”
“You didn’t get the text? He sent it about an hour ago. I guess he has food poisoning.”
“Story of his life,” I mutter, unlocking my home screen. My fingers glide over the glass as I get to my messages, pulling up my brother’s. “Shit.”
I did miss a message.
Dylan
Hey sis, I need to raincheck on dinner. Been puking my guts out for an hour. Word to the wise, don’t get seafood from a street vendor.
Stomach souring, I put my phone back in my purse. “That’s disgusting.”
“Tell me about it. Food poisoning is that guy’s middle name. Always has been.” He picks up his menu, flipping to the first page. “So, dinner. Looks like it’s just you and me.”
“Looks like it.” I pick up my own menu and take in the selection of entrees like I haven’t studied the options for the last three nights.
But now that it’s time to decide, I’m not sure what I’m in the mood for. Definitely not seafood.
“Don’t sound so excited about it.” He smiles, and I swear it shines brighter than the string lights.
“Well, I expected dinner with my brother before he leaves again, but instead—”
“But instead you no longer have to pay for your meal—or his—and you get to hang out with one of your oldest, dearest friends.”
“Sounds suspiciously like a date in disguise.”
He lifts his eyebrow, placing his menu down. “Do you want it to be a date, Trouble?”
Heat pools between my thighs at the use of the nickname he gave me years ago. Yes. “No.”
“Mmm” is all he says before returning to the menu, just as the waiter appears. When our drinks have been ordered and he hurries away, Gareth puts his sole focus on me and asks, “So, what’s new?”
Laughter bursts from my lips at such a simple question. I shake my head. “Nothing, Gareth.”
“Nothing?” he echoes.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Just whatever you’ve been up to.”
My chest tightens, and I realize this is probably the point where I should work in the boyfriend angle. “Work. Spending time with Zach.” The name tastes like acid on my tongue, sliding down my throat like poison as I watch Gareth’s features twist.
“How’s that going?” He’s trying hard to mask the bitterness of his tone, but I know him—I’ve known him a long time, and I can tell when he’s putting that sweet, golden persona forward.
“Great,” I lie, my cheeks heating. I look down, hoping Gareth hasn’t noticed them go scarlet. He knows me too.
“Whimsey got lost a few days ago.” He changes the subject, but the new topic sends ice down my veins.
“What? Is she okay?” I sputter, my gaze snapping to him.
When I was seventeen, I spent a long weekend at Gareth’s family ranch and fell head over heels in love with their Australian shepherd. So much so, I still send treats and toys out to the ranch just to spoil the old girl.
“She’s okay. I found her out by the lake. She had barbed wire lodged in her paw, but Jessie said she’s as good as new now.”
“Oh thank God.” I place my hand against my chest. “I miss her.”
“You’re welcome to go see her anytime. Just say the word, Trouble. I’ll take you there.” Gareth’s eyes flash with a heat that settles between my thighs, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to moan from the look he’s giving me.
The waiter breaks the tension, showing up at the worst—or best—possible time to take our order. Gareth orders the pan-seared salmon, and I opt for a filet mignon—I’ve never been a salad for dinner kind of girl.
“How’s the team?” I ask casually when it’s just us again, wanting to steer back into neutral territory. Baseball is safe—can’t go wrong with talking about work, right?
“Doing pretty well. We just lost a good player though, so that sucks. He got traded to the Raptors.”
“Is that normal?” I take a sip of my sparkling water. “To have players traded mid-season?”
“It’s not abnormal, but it’s not preferred. The team loved Max. Now we have a new guy starting, but Coach hasn’t told us who or when yet.”