Direct Action (Downrange #3)

Chapter One

“Sorry, sorry. I know I’m late. Summer traffic is the worst,” I grumbled as I rushed past one of my bosses, Ryan Strong, who unfortunately was a dead ringer for the actor Ryan Gosling, which made him distracting in an ‘I can’t stop thinking about banging you’ kind of way.

“You’re five minutes early,” he contradicted.

“Five minutes early is ten minutes late,” I countered.

My dad had taught me that back before the dementia had started eating away at the man who’d been the wisest person I knew. Now there were days when he barely recognized me.

Stop.

Recalibrate.

“I’ll be out on the floor in a minute,” I told Ryan, as I pushed into the locker room our awesome management had given us, taking half of a storage room to give the female staff members a fully kitted-out place to change and store their stuff.

Pete had even put a couch in the room that was super comfy.

“Hey, Chloe,” Poppy greeted from in front of her locker.

“Hey.”

I busied myself opening my locker in an attempt to ignore my friend.

I could feel her giving me the side-eye, and I was not in the mood for another lecture.

She’d given me one last night before our shift ended, and again this afternoon when she called me.

Luckily, I was at my other job and had a valid excuse to cut the talk short.

“You can’t keep this up, Chloe.”

Here we go.

I tossed my purse into my locker and pulled out my pen holder and notebook, diligently focusing on my tasks.

“You were up at five this morning,” she told me, something I knew. “You worked until three. Now you’re here and won’t get cut until after one. After you cash out, do your side work, and drive home, that leaves three hours’ worth of sleep if you’re lucky.”

She wasn’t wrong, and I was feeling every hour of sleep I’d missed out on this week. But I needed the money. I had no choice but to work two jobs or move in with my mother, and as much as I loved her, I would rather work seventeen jobs and never sleep another wink.

Just because I loved her didn’t mean she didn’t drive me batshit crazy. I’d last approximately three days, give or take a few hours, living with her before I’d give up the comforts of a bed in favor of a cardboard box.

“I can get you a job at the Vault.”

Not this again.

“No.”

“I work a three-hour shift and walk out with a minimum of five hundred dollars. You make twenty an hour at—”

“I know how much money I make.”

Sadly, I couldn’t forget my twenty-dollar-an-hour job didn’t even cover my rent on my one-bedroom apartment.

Maybe I should see if there were any studios coming available in my building.

That would save me a few hundred dollars a month.

That would go a long way, and maybe I’d be able to afford a to-go coffee again one day in the next millennium.

“You’d be perfect—”

“Poppy, I love you with all my heart, but I’m not cut out to take off my clothes in public.”

“You say that like the Vault’s a strip club. It’s not. Think Coyote Ugly but themed.”

Every time Poppy tried to sell me on the idea of going to work in the bar nestled up in the hills with a steep cover charge and a drink minimum I couldn’t afford, she always referenced the movie where the bartenders and servers danced on the bar top in cutoffs and crop tops.

The movie was the bomb, but I didn’t think I could even manage to climb on a table or the top of a bar.

And showing copious amounts of skin wasn’t my thing, unless I was in my bikini on the beach. But that felt different, especially seeing as I was a SoCal girl and grew up running on the sand and in the surf.

“How about this,” she continued. “Tomorrow night, come with me. Just watch the show we put on, and if you really hate it, then I promise to never mention it again.”

I’d do anything to get Poppy to stop mentioning the Vault. “Fine.”

She slammed her locker, bopped over to me, and kissed my cheek. “You’re gonna love it.”

I wasn’t, but I did love seeing my friend smile.

“Yeah, yeah.” I waved her off. “See you out there.”

I heard the door close and dropped my chin to my chest. I was exhausted. So tired I was becoming delirious. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up this pace.

“We’re going to have to move him, Chloe. We have no choice,” my mother had shared with tears in her eyes.

We did have a choice—me working two jobs so I could help pay for my father’s home that the insurance didn’t cover.

I’d looked at the home the insurance company had suggested. Over my dead, broken, tired body would my father move an hour away from the women who loved him and live in a small white box of nothing. And that was what the rooms were—boxes. White, boring nothingness.

Hell to the no.

The truth of my situation penetrated my fatigued brain—I was going to have to work at the Vault.

For my father, I’d dance around half dressed.

For my mother to keep the love of her life close, I’d swallow my pride.

I swiped away the only tears I’d give in to and headed out to the floor.

“Hey, mama, when you get a chance, I need a refill,” a blond dude, who was trying his best to look like he was a surfer, called out when I hurried past his table.

And ‘mama’?

Gross.

Now, don’t get me wrong, some men could totally pull that off—like some men could pull off a darlin’ or babe. But the pretend surfer guy could not. No, rewind, he absolutely could not.

I fought a lip curl and smiled instead. “Sure thing, buckaroo.”

Surfer wannabe didn’t have the mouth control I had and frowned at my purposely ridiculous comeback.

Sigh.

There went my tip.

I was at the drink station when Poppy came up next to me and knocked her hip against mine.

“Did he seriously call you ‘mama’?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Not gonna lie,” she started, “if Rio called me ‘mama,’ my panties would drench. But Mr. Sex Wax needs to stop scrolling social media.”

Poppy was referring to Rio from the show Good Girls. Not that I’d seen the show, but it was impossible not to see the viral memes.

“If he tells me to get into the car, I won’t be able to stop myself from laughing in his face,” I told her, mentioning the other, arguably more popular clip.

“Who’s telling you to get into the car?” Ryan asked.

Good God, the man was silent on his feet.

“The guy sitting at table eight,” Poppy shared. “He called Chloe ‘mama.’”

Ryan blinked in confusion. Poppy didn’t miss this and unfortunately went on to explain. “There’s this show called Good Girls—hot guy Rio calls Elizabeth ‘mama.’ It’s got the ladies on Insta shivering. There’s also this reel where he tells her all sexy, ‘Get in the car—’”

Ryan held up his hand, halting Poppy’s explanation, and looked at me. “This guy giving you trouble, Chloe?”

Why did I suddenly wish Ryan had replaced the ‘Chloe’ with ‘mama’?

Lord, I need to get a grip.

Yeah, on his dick.

Holy smokes, where had that come from? Sure, Ryan was hot, and his boy-next-door hotness mixed with I’m-dangerous-and-I-know-it made him the ultimate hot guy with an edge.

And sure, again, he’d fueled more than a dozen hot-for-boss fantasies, but I managed to keep those thoughts limited to the bedroom, when Mr. Boss Man Ryan and I had our private playtime.

As an aside, Mr. Boss Man Ryan was what I’d named all my toys—you know, the battery-operated kind that were stored in one’s nightstand.

The name wasn’t original, but boy did they sure get the job done—in a big way.

“Chloe?” Ryan interrupted my thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“I asked if the guy was bothering you.”

Right.

Shit.

“No.” I waved off his concern and went back to refilling drinks.

“You know you don’t take shit from customers, right?”

Yes, all the servers at the Dirty Plank were constantly reminded by Ryan, Mason, Pete, Aiden, Gavin, and Fallon we were to report harassment immediately. That included unappreciated comments. The men who owned the bar were sticklers about respect and safety.

“I know,” I confirmed. “He wasn’t giving me shit, just trying to be . . .” What was pseudosurfer trying to be . . . “Funny.” I ended on a shrug, and my declaration sounded more like a question, but after my inappropriate musings my mind was frazzled.

“More like trying to pick you up,” Poppy put in.

I watched in morbid fascination as Ryan’s eyes flashed something that looked like disapproval. It was there, then gone, and if I hadn’t been staring directly at him, I would’ve missed it.

“As long as you’re good with it,” Ryan said through a tight smile.

No sooner did he turn his back to leave than Poppy gave me big eyes. Of course she didn’t miss easygoing Ryan’s terse comeback.

Only in my dreams would Ryan Strong care if a man in his bar was trying to pick me up.

And only my wildest dreams would I never have to watch him walk out at the end of the night with his arm around a gorgeous barfly.

Sigh.

Such was the life of a woman who had a major crush on her boss.