Chapter 2 #2
“Anyway, the military gave him all the leave they could. I’m an adult. I’ve graduated. I’m a big girl, and my brother’s a big boy. We can take care of ourselves.” I say this out loud at least a dozen times a day, because any day now, I’ll believe it.
Anita places a bowl of mixed nuts between us and pops a few into her mouth. “Then what is it?”
Deflated, I sigh. “I have five days to get Brian his going-away gift before his deployment.”
“That should be plenty of time.”
“I need to be able to afford it first. It costs my entire paycheck.”
She lifts a brow. “All of your paycheck?”
I nod. “Along with the engraving, yes. I caught him drooling at the jewelers over some stupid-expensive tactical watch. After an insane amount of searching, I found a pre-owned one, but I have to pick it up today. The owner already has other buyers.” I’m about to show her on my phone, but my battery’s already low, and I still need to use it to find this guy.
Wiggling my fingers at her, I say, “Give me your phone.”
Anita hands it to me, and I pull up the Laney Jewelers website, then scroll to the right photo. With a two-toned whistle, she approves.
I smile. “And then hopefully, I’ll have time to get it engraved before Brian leaves.”
“You mean Brian and Mark. What, no gift for his bestie?” she teases.
My lips quirk as my narrowed eyes respond for me.
“Hey, if push comes to shove, girl, I’ve got you.” She holds up a paring knife. “Seriously, how hard can it be to scratch two Bs on the metal band?”
“What I had in mind is a little more than his initials, and this watch is worth weeks of my life,” I say indignantly as I lower her knife-wielding hand.
“As skilled as you are with slicing and dicing, how about we leave the pretty letter carving to the experts.” I tap the counter, not sure what to do. “Who can I get my check from?”
“You can get it from Mark.”
“What? Mark’s here?” My brows pop up as the name of my arch-nemesis rings through the air. Or is it just nemesis? “Mark never comes here. And why isn’t he fishing with everyone else?”
Smiling, she shrugs. “Mrs. D.’s working out the details for the Whitney wedding. I guess he’s filling in.”
“Perfect.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “Any idea where he is?” Anita shakes her head as I slide off the leather stool. “I guess I’ll stop looking for Tyler and hunt down Mark.”
“Hang on.” She fishes cash from the tip jar and hands it to me.
Blinking, I stare at her. “What’s this?”
Her hands grab mine, shoving the bills into it. “A bunch of tourists went all out at brunch. Take it. I don’t want you not to have a paycheck. You’ll be working this side of the bar soon enough.”
Emotions overwhelm me as I stare down at the twenties, tens, and fives. This isn’t just how Anita is. It’s how everyone is here. Always looking out for me when I suspect it least and need it most. Everyone here cares for me. In return, I have to care for them back.
Counting it quickly, I split it right down the middle and toss half back in the jar. “Thanks,” I say, rushing out of there before I’m a blubbering puddle in the middle of the floor.
Sternly, I wipe my cheeks and make my way down the hall. I can cry when I’m at home. That’s what showers are for.
Scowling, I mutter under my breath. “Yoo-hoo . . . Satan. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Where Tyler and Zac are wholesome goodness wrapped up in sunshine and smiles, Mark is the polar opposite, ready to fight, run, or fornicate at a moment’s notice.
His brothers are easygoing sails on tranquil waters, while Mark is a storm.
And those eyes. Shamefully, I’ve stared at them more than once.
Some men were meant to build castles while others were born to slay dragons. That’s Mark. A hot-blooded fighting machine who can’t turn it off. It’s what makes him the best. And the broodiest.
When Brian entered the Army, Mark rushed in after him, besties since their stupid blood oath in the fifth grade. Seriously, how deep did they need to cut? They both required five stitches each. But that was them. Two beautiful idiots pridefully counting every last scar.
It’s the reason why no matter how hard I try, I can’t avoid Mark. Like my brother’s shadow, he’s always around. A personal tormentor, ready and eager to strike at will.
I pop my head into the break room. A few waitresses are eating a late lunch and gossiping about customers.
Gasping, Kara looks up at me. “I thought you were off,” she says, offended at my very presence. “Tyler said you needed a personal day.” Her eyes roll to a resentful stop. “Must be nice.”
Why would Tyler tell them that? I ignore her, and not just because Kara’s an ass, but because convincing Kara that Tyler is wrong would be as fruitful as convincing Mark I should be a bartender.
There’s no point. It’ll never happen. But I still need to pick up my check. “Have either of you seen Mark?”
“Oh my God,” Starr says as she whips back her pink hair. “Is Mark Danger Zone Donovan here?”
Kara claps and squeals like a seal, while I rub my temple, praying that the migraine she just spurred up goes away. High-pitched and hopeless, she carries on. “He’s so lickable. I heard he now holds the record for the most confirmed kills.”
Confused, I stare. “How does that make him hot?”
She smirks. “You wouldn’t understand.” She scans me up and down before dismissing me with her eyes. “You’re too young.”
“I’m only a year younger than you, Kara.”
She scoops her breasts into her crossed arms, forcing cleavage that even her overstuffed push-up couldn’t tackle. “There’s a world of difference in a year.”
Perhaps to a dog.
“Trust me,” Starr says. “His brothers are princes, but Mark Donovan is a full-fledged demi-god.” She licks her spoon suggestively. “I’ve got something that sharpshooter can aim at.”
She sucks her finger, amplifying the point. I dry heave and leave the room. Only God knows where that finger’s been.
Kara calls after me. “Tell him we’re looking for him, too, okay?”
Their giggles echo wildly as I shake my head. Sure. Why not? Because maybe if I offer two semi-virginal sacrifices to your demi-God, he’ll give me that promotion I desperately need.
“Jess?” I hear Mark say. His deep, gravelly voice flows effortlessly down the hall, though I don’t see him.
As I approach his office, the door is ajar. I slide a hand on the handle, pausing as soon as I hear, “What about her?” Because Mark isn’t talking to me, he’s talking about me.
The door is cracked ever so slightly, an obvious invitation to listen in. His heavy footsteps move farther away, and I nudge the door a hair, wide enough to peer inside.
Framed by the large picture window at the other end of the office, Beelzebub stands in all his glory: dark blue jeans, crisp white shirt, and chestnut-brown hair mussed to perfection. The million-mile stare he sports is fixed somewhere off in the distance as he presses the cell phone to his ear.
It’s wrong of me to stare. But I can’t not stare. I mean, it’s hardly the first time I’ve seen Mark Donovan. It’s just the first time I’ve dared to unapologetically stare at his ass.
He shifts in place, and the move is hypnotic. Did he bulk up . . . his butt?
I knew he did some heavy lifting, but this is ridiculous.
I mean, once, when traffic was blocked, he and Brian lifted a fallen maple to the side of the road.
By themselves. So, yeah, I get it. Muscle mayhem.
But now, his arm bulge alone has his shirtsleeves within an inch of their lives.
It’s as if he graduated from bar-belling trees to tanks.
“What?” he snaps indignantly.
I shouldn’t hang on his every word, but I do. Who’s he talking to? Is someone complaining about me? Because I’ve been crushing it. Taking double shifts. All smiles. Amped up like an Energizer bunny. Nobody works as hard as I do, and not just for the tips. I have the Bishop legacy to maintain.
And yes, I may have mixed up an order here and there, or spilled one tiny little kid’s milk.
But I fixed every last mistake. And the milk spill Boomerang clip the kids posted got a ton of love on TikTok.
Granted, the putrid dairy after-smell was wafting about for weeks, but thankfully, it’s gone. Almost.
“No. No way,” I hear Mark say, chuckling. I frown hard. I know that laugh. That’s his evil laugh.
It’s the laugh he had when he and Brian set a rope snare and trapped me in it, which, in my defense, I was eight.
It was also the laugh that accompanied that nasty bowl of foul-tasting jellybeans and his insistence that girls couldn’t eat them.
He knew what he was doing. Throwing down a double-dog dare in the face of the female race.
Well, I ate every last one. And whoever decided that vomit and boogers were palatable should be shot.
He also had that very same annoying laugh when he came up with that stupid nickname—
“Choir Girl?” he says with a scoff.
Fire fills my face as my grip on the door handle tightens.
This is the same man who tosses nicknames like babe or princess at every walking vagina in town, but for me, I’m simply Choir Girl.
I mean, sure, I was in the church choir.
And not just because everyone there was nice or that they handed out cocoa and cookies after every performance, which I lived for, but because Mom was there, too.
It was our space as much as anyone else’s.
“Me with Choir Girl?” He says it as if disgusted. By this point, I’m already inappropriately one foot in the office and charging straight at him. But Mark doesn’t notice and just keeps going.
“Not with a ten-foot pole,” he says with another scoff, and half of my heart shatters as he goes from being cold to cruel. “Make that a hundred-and-ten-foot pole. She’s too”—he pauses for a moment for just the right word, the wheel in his mind landing on—“Jess.”