19. Chapter 19
nineteen
C assie had been working at E Boutique for nearly three months.
Well, two months, fourteen days and seven-and-a-half nerve-wracking hours,, but it felt longer, because working under Ellen’s eagle eye was no picnic.
The woman was particular about everything from how the merch was handled ( ‘Watch out, those are silk charmeuse, you realize!’ ), where it was placed in the boutique ( ‘No, not there, over here, the sun mustn’t touch these!’ ), to how it was presented to the customer ( ‘This is fashion, not tatty used clothing off the rack at GoodWill!’ ).
So that level of tension, alternating with boredom. Because, honestly, a girl could only devote so much time and mental energy to straightening racks of clothing, steaming wrinkles from new shipments, etcetera, etcetera before she found herself nearly dozing on her feet. Mainly because the clothing, and the jewelry and accessories were all for ‘mature women’. As in, Connor had been on the money with his crack about dressing for a funeral. Take any ensemble in E Boutique, and a gal could show up at any funeral in the U.S. of A. and fit right in with the rest of the elderly ladies.
Sure, many of Ellen’s clients were businesswomen, but they were all over forty.
If Ellen would just get some more youthful, playful clothing in, Cassie knew the place could attract younger customers, too, and really make bank. However, when she broached this subject with Ellen, the older woman looked at her as if she’d suggested E start carrying stripper clothing.
“Yes, you’ve made it plain you don’t like the merchandise here,” Ellen said, her tone frosty. “Perhaps that’s why your sales lag.”
Cassie sucked in a sharp breath. “My sales have been okay. Not as good as Nadya’s, but my customers hardly ever walk out with just one item. I get them to accessorize.”
Even if the accessories Ellen sold were as boring as a plain whole grain cracker.
Ellen’s brows rose, and Cassie winced inwardly. Oops, she’d maybe let her expression give away a bit too much.
“This store is a success because I know my clientèle,” Ellen said, her gaze icing over to match her tone. “If E Boutique’s product is not to your taste, perhaps we should both rethink your employment here.”
Cassie stared at her employer. “So… what? Am I on probation, or something?”
Ellen took her time answering this. She moved her desk diary a fraction of an inch to the right, then folded her hands on it, and gave Cassie that frosty look again.
Damn, the woman could match Stick Vanko in her ability to ice the temperature of a room. “Do you want honesty, or would you prefer to be coddled, like so many of your generation?”
Cassie felt as if the woman had smacked her across the face.
Coddled? When had she ever been coddled? Never, that’s when.
She’d been working her ass off since she was tall enough to help fetch and carry for her mom’s interior design business. Nina coddled her clients, she didn’t waste any of it on her daughter or whatever assistant she had working for her at the moment.
And her dad might love her like crazy, but she and Connor screwed up, they knew not to call and expect him to swoop in and fix everything for them. He’d listen, empathize, and ask them how they were gonna deal with the results, in what he called ‘life skills training’. Oh, he was definitely there to love them through their sorrows, and he was as dangerous as a grizzly bear if anyone threatened his cubs, but he’d never been one to wave money or Flyer influence to get them through life’s smaller bumps.
She returned Ellen’s look, stare for stare. “Honesty, of course.”
“Hmm. In that case, I’m simply not sure you’re cut out for a career in fashion. My daughter may be a skilled stylist, but that’s outward change.” She flicked her hand at Cassie in a way that encompassed her hair and her ensemble. “No one can wave a wand and gift you a sense of fashion—of what works to enhance our mature clients’ style, what makes them walk out our doors knowing they are their best selves.”
Cassie sat frozen in her chair, one hand clenched on her lap. Her employer was not pulling any punches. And her words were kind of an eerie echo of Cassie’s own joke about RaeAnn being her fairy-step-godmother.
“So, do you want me to come back for my next shift, or not?” she asked.
Ellen sighed, looking tired and impatient. “Let’s… take the next few days to think it over. We’ll talk again on Tuesday.”
“Okay. Great talk. See you Tuesday.”
Afterward, Cassie didn’t remember gathering her jacket and purse from the tiny area outside Ellen’s office at the back of the store. Numbly, she walked outside, into the early spring evening.
Early March, and winter had finally loosed its grasp on the Inland Northwest. The days were getting longer, planters were bright with blooming daffodils and tulips, leaves opening on the trees, roadsides and lawns once again turning green.
Since it was Saturday, the streets were choked with cars and the sidewalks busy with people from the surrounding valleys streaming into downtown, to bars and restaurants and shows.
Cassie felt alone in their midst, adrift like a stray leaf from the ornamental plum trees that lined the block, skittering on the chilly breeze. Hugging her light jacket around her, she made her way along the sidewalk to her car, dodging a group of laughing, shoving teens.
The worst of it was, she had no freaking idea if she’d just been fired or not.
In her car, with the motor running, anger slowly replaced the ice of devastation in her core. She growled under her breath as she sped up into the stream of traffic headed north toward the freeway.
Ellen Denton was a bitch on wheels. As cold and narrow-minded as her daughter was sweet and easy-going. Cassie was not at all sure she even wanted to go back to work for the woman.
Except that with her luck lately, it was looking like either that, or checking at Walmart. And kudos to the cheery folks who did that, but it was not why she’d gotten her AA in business.
Damn, she knew alcohol solved no problems, but she needed a drink. A free one, since she was likely unemployed—again.
A couple of hours later, having wrestled her way through the stop and go of post-five o’clock downtown traffic, and west out to the Heights, and stopped for a burger and fries at a local drive-in, Cassie finally pulled into the Flyers' clubhouse parking lot.
The place was bathed in the twilight of early spring. As always, a few motorcycles were backed in a row in front of the club. She recognized her dad’s Harley, Rocker’s, and Bouncer’s.
She sat for a moment, car motor running.
Eh, maybe she should park around back. That way, if her dad and the other older brothers were deep in a game of poker or something, and dumb-ass Jason came around, he wouldn’t see her car and think he should gift her with his presence. His heavy-handed attempts to get in her panties would send her right over the edge, after the day she’d had.
In the back parking area, she stepped out of her car, looked down at herself to make sure she looked presentable, and that she hadn't somehow reverted to her old, fashion-challenged self. But her short, black skirt hung smooth and straight, her sleeveless black top with its tracings of tiny flowers bloused gracefully under her short, fitted, denim jacket, and her kicky, black platform sandals showed off her bright turquoise toenail polish, and gold toe ring.
And in the side mirror of her car, her short hair framed her face, her makeup was perfect, and her chunky, gold-tone earrings and bracelet set off her ensemble. She curled her lip at her reflection. Perfect jewelry for a ‘mature fashions’ boutique, but not really her style.
Well, at least she didn’t look like a pathetic loser who'd just effed up another job.
As tears threatened again, she took a breath and blew it out hard. Enough of that crap. She marched up to the back doors of the clubhouse. She punched in the code, the lock clicked open, and the heavy, barred doors opened under her hand.
Inside, the lights were low, and at first glance, the clubhouse was empty.
But the huge, flat screen TV on the back wall of the main room was on. The sound was low, but Jason Momoa was locked in the hand-to-hand combat with another dude, both of them clad in old-fashioned clothing against a backdrop of forest and rocks.
As the scene changed, she spied a man's head over the back of the long leather sectional sofa that curved around, facing the TV.
She squinted. He had dark hair, which meant he could be either Streak, or Moke, or Bouncer--although if he was the latter, she was out of here. The aging biker seemed to exist in a perpetually surly mood.
Tonight, she wasn't in a great mood herself.
She'd just see who the lone Flyer was, and then stay or go. If he was Moke or Streak, she'd feel comfortable having a drink with him and his old lady, whom she probably just couldn’t see over the back of the oversized sofa, and watching some mindless TV.
It wasn't until she'd made her way to the end of the sofa that she realized she'd left one Flyer out of her calculations. The Flyer lounging on the sofa, with a bottle of whiskey on the ottoman-slash-coffee table, and a glass in his hand, was the man she’d spent the last two-and-change months trying to forget.
Heavy rolled his head to the side, and looked over at her.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Cassie stood still, but her insides were jumping like popcorn in a microwave, and she felt breathless, her angst burned away to make way for a new, even more powerful emotion. It felt way too much like excitement, anticipation.
Damn him, after weeks and weeks of not seeing him, he still looked just as amazing as she remembered.
No, even more amazing.
An oversize, over muscled male in his prime, lolling on the leather sofa like a lion after a kill. Capable of great speed and incredible force, but so sure of himself in this place that he had no need to prove his dominance.
He wore his Flyer's cut over a red compression tee, black athletic pants with white stripes up the outsides of his long legs, which were stretched out on the ottoman before him, and soft, black sneakers on his feet. His hair was longer than she'd seen it, messy on top but faded tight and short on the sides and back.
And she was not the only one looking. His gaze traveled over her from head to hip, the rest of her hidden behind the arm of the sofa, and back up again to fasten on her face. Cassie felt that gaze like a physical touch, leaving a trail of heat behind it, her belly clenching, and her nipples pebbling inside her bra, which thank God was padded, so no nips on display.
One of the actors bellowed something, and Jason Momoa threw his opponent to the rock-strewn ground and stood over him, panting. The move revealed his knife, protruding from the other man's chest.
Cassie glanced over at the screen, because Jason Momoa, but her gaze returned just as quickly to the biker lounging on the sofa.
Who evidently was going to just stare at her and not say a damn word. So fine, she'd do the talking. "Hey. Where is everyone?"
Heavy's thick brows drew together, and he frowned up at her. "Scuse me? You don't come around for, what, three months? And when you do, you don't even say, 'Hey, Marcus, how's it going? How's that new gym of yours? Yeah, the one I signed up for, but then ghosted without so much as a word or explanation.'"
Cassie could have said a lot of things in reply to this. Clever, casual things that would prove to him that she really hadn't spared him much thought at all in those weeks.
But instead, she unfortunately opened her big mouth and replied, "Hey, Marcus. How's your girlfriend?"
Gah! She pressed her lips together, heat burning up her throat and over her face as the words hung in the air between them. Like a flashing neon arrow pointing straight at her and announcing, ' See? Still hasn't gotten over her stupid crush on you! '
Which was not true, damnit.
She'd dated, hadn't she? That cute guy from the car dealership across from E.
Gabe, that was his name. She knew that. They’d even had pretty good sex a few times … until his ex-girlfriend saw them out dancing, and having too much fun for her taste, and crooked her finger.
He’d gone running back to her the next day with one apologetic text to Cassie.
First Dean and then Gabe… it was always something with the guys she dated.
But damn Heavy now for giving her his most beguiling smile, one that was wickedly teasing, softened his square face, and put a sexy twinkle in his hazel eyes.
"If I had a girlfriend," he drawled, "I'm sure she'd be fine. But since I don't... why don't you take a load off, and join me for a drink... pixie."
Jerked out of the daze caused by that smile, Cassie blinked. "'Pixie'?" she repeated. "Where in the hell did you come up with that?"
He chuckled, a deep huh-huh of sound in his chest. "Siddown and pour yourself a drink, and maybe I'll tell you."
"Fine." She flung out her hands in exasperation, then tossed her little purse on the ottoman, shrugged off her jacket, and walked around to plop down on the sofa beside him.
Near but not too near.
Didn't want to look like she was ready to snuggle or anything. Which she unfortunately was, having probably just lost another effing job.
But no snuggling with this guy, nope. That way lay danger. The man ought to be the one with flashing lights over his head, red neon signaling 'Danger! Stay back.'
“So, really, where is everyone?” she asked. “Can’t believe this place is empty on a Saturday night.”
She grabbed the second glass sitting by the bottle. It looked clean, so she poured herself a couple fingers of whiskey.
“They’re out on club business,” Heavy said.
Cassie looked at him in question, and he shook his head, in a way that she knew meant she shouldn’t ask any more questions.
Oo-kay, that kind of club business then. She knew the Flyers weren’t an outlaw gang or anything, but she also knew they occasionally found it expedient to skirt certain laws, and even take the law into their own hands. And as a daughter of the club, she knew better than to stick her nose where it wasn’t invited.
Except for one thing. “Why aren’t you out with them?”
“Because,” he growled, like a bear prodded one too many times by a sharp stick. “Got orders to stay behind.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you in trouble with the club?”
He scowled at her. “Fuck no. As a new business owner, I gotta walk the line, at least for a while.”
Cassie nodded. She understood that. He surely didn’t need any headlines in the local paper, ‘Owner of new local gym arrested on charges of blah-blah’.
And she had to quit staring at him, because even his scowl was sexy as hell.
"Honey Rye," she read aloud from the label of the bottle in her hand, for something to do. "Local craft distillery. Smells good, and... m-mm, tastes good. Wow, time was when the brothers had only cheap rotgut around here. It’d burn the lining of a girl’s throat right out."
She lifted the bottle in a silent query, and Heavy held out his glass for her to refill. She did so, and then sat back on the sofa. Typical of furniture designed for men, it nearly swallowed her.
Holding her glass up so it wouldn't spill, Cassie scooted backward in the sofa, rocking her bottom until her back met leather as well.
Heavy watched her, that little smile back on his face. "What?" she demanded, taking a sip of her drink. "This sofa is humongous."
"Sofa's just right," he said. "You're short, pixie."
"I do not look like a pixie," she snapped. "And that better not be a reference to some dumbass cartoon fairy."
He chuckled again. "It's not. Rocker's woman Billie designs computer games, y’know?”
Cassie did know, but what that had to do with her, she did not know.
“Billie had us trying out her new one,” he explained, his eyes twinkling. “It’s still in beta testing or whatever they call it. Has a character that looks just like you, though. Small, feisty, bad-tempered and—"
Cassie held up a warning hand. "Do not say 'cute'."
"Wasn't gonna. Wouldn't call you cute, either. Not anymore." His gaze dropped over, and seemed to linger on her bare legs, one curved under her, the other out straight before her, her foot arched off the lip of the sofa.
Cassie had to bite her lip to keep from asking what he did consider her.
"Too bad I don't have wings," she said instead. She could use ‘em.
"Maybe you do," he said. "The pixie in that game kept hers hidden, till she wanted to bust 'em out and go all ninja on someone's ass."
Cassie snickered. "A ninja fairy? This I've gotta see."
"Pixie," he corrected. "Also, she didn't exactly wear enough clothes to be a ninja."
She raised her brows, and he grinned again. "She wore next to nothin', really. Little dress that looked more like a skimpy nightie, and when she got busy fighting, her ass peeked out—a lot. It was like yours, all round and sexy and spankable."
Cassie choked on her whiskey. "You have never seen me with my ass poking out."
And, and … spankable? What the actual fuck?
And even worse, why the hell did the thought of his broad, calloused palm smacking her bare ass send a shiver of sheer excitement down through her lady parts?
He gave her a glinting look. "Kinda have."
"When?" she demanded.
"Aw, now I don't wanna say, or you'll never dance with me again."
She eyed him over her own glass. "Uh... we’ve only danced once, and that was a long time ago."
“Last fall," he said, giving her that look. "At your dad's wedding."
She glared at him. "Ri-ight. Twice, and then you couldn't get away fast enough. So don't tell me you were admiring my ass, you weren't."
Especially not in those ugly knit pants she'd worn that evening. And the equally ugly top. She nearly cringed, remembering the disastrous way she used to dress. And her hair—ugh.
“Oh, I noticed your ass,” he said. “But be fair-- I thought you were just a kid. Barely outta high school or something. You were dressed like one … with no makeup, and that colored shit in your hair.”
“Hey, a lot of glam chicks color their hair,” she said, although half-heartedly, because her hair had been ugh-ly then.
“I s’pose. But all I know is, you looked like a kid then, and now…” his gaze swept slowly over her from head to toe, and back up again. She swore her skin tingled with warmth as if he’d brushed one long, calloused finger over it. “You don’t.”
“Also,” he added, “weren’t you and Drew a thing for a while back then?”
She stared at him, taken aback. “What? I’ve never been with Drew.”
“You sure? You two left the Rides for Kids concert together that night.”
“Of course I’m sure,” she snapped. “Drew’s sweet, but we’ve always been just buddies, even before he met Piper. And I’m not a damn kid, either. I’m 23.”
Heavy’s eyes gleamed. “Nah, I figured that out a while back. Still don’t know where you’ve been for three months, though.”
She fluttered her lashes at him. "Why, Marcus, did you miss me?"
He chuckled, a deep, delicious sound in that massive chest of his. "Sure. You ghosted me."
Yep, and he’d never know why. "I’ve been around. Working."
“You been going to some other gym?”
She shook her head.
He grunted, looking somewhat mollified. "Well, time to get back to it, then."
“Oh, is that all you’re worried about?” she said grumpily. And for one shining moment she’d actually thought he’d missed her as a woman, but he’d only wondered where one of his damn gym clients went. Wasn’t that just her effing luck?
On the screen, Jason Momoa was stripping off his rough shirt, leaving him clad in his long hair and a pair of tight leather leggings. She sighed inwardly. Best scene in the film.
At least she still had her on-screen boyfriends, although JM wasn’t doing it for her as usual … because of the real life hunk of man lounging beside her.
Heavy followed her gaze and snorted. "You like him, huh?"
Cassie shrugged, keeping her gaze resolutely on the screen. "Like you wouldn't be looking if some skinny actress with big tits was stripping down."
When he said nothing, she could no longer resist giving him a sidelong look. His gaze was on her legs, and he was smiling to himself. This time he shrugged. "Maybe... maybe not," he said cryptically.
He drained his glass, and leaned forward, reaching for the bottle. "So, what brings you to the clubhouse? Since you haven’t been here in so long."
"Maybe I just wanted to party,” she said. Only not all by her lonesome, like he’d been, till she walked in. And if that bottle had been full, he was hitting it pretty hard.
"Nah. You were in a shit mood when you walked in." He refilled her glass, and sat back, giving her a penetrating look. "Still kinda are, underneath the sass. What's goin' on, pixie? Break up with your boyfriend?"
She tossed her head. "’If I had a boyfriend’," she said, mimicking his deep voice. "But I don't, so... "
She took another drink, sighing as the heat burned down her throat and settled in her belly.
He chuckled. “So we’re both single. That what’s eatin’ you? Lonesome?”
He nudged her leg with his knuckles. His touch was warm, and he turned his hand and stroked the side of his forefinger along the bare skin of her thigh. She watched, mesmerized by the pleasure of his touch and the sight of his big, powerful hand against her smooth skin.
"Hey," he said, tapping his finger against her thigh. "Talk to me, Cassie Carson."
She looked at him. Talk? About what? Oh, right. "You really wanna hear my problems?"
His mouth quirked, and that dimple appeared. She sighed inwardly. He really should have to have a license for that thing.
She realized she'd spoken this aloud when he stilled, and then tipped back his head and laughed, a long, deep, rollicking rumble of mirth.
"Shit." Cassie dropped her legs and prepared to bolt--anywhere but here, where she'd just humiliated herself with him for the umpteenth time.