Take A Shot On Me (BAEs OF BAYSIDE)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Dice

I couldn’t care less where you stick it.

Lot Webber has no business managing a bar.

But I knew this train wreck was coming as soon as I heard she was back and her father requested a mandatory staff meeting.

“Listen up!” Maurice barked, leaning on a cane that had become his sidekick since his limp worsened. “Doctor says the knee’s gotta be replaced. I can’t put it off any longer. In my absence, Charlotte will be in charge.”

She stood off to the side, eyebrows shooting up into two sharp arches the instant he dropped the name bomb. Lot hated Charlotte. She said it sounded like someone delicate and demure. She was neither.

I wasn’t proud of the small, perverse pleasure I got from her scowl. But the joke’s on me.

Days later, here she is—like sin dipped in rebellion, curves and confidence for days, and my brain short circuits on the spot.

That face card, a mane of mahogany locs with gold clips catching the glow above the bar, and a tiny hoop glinting in her nose, were already enough to set a man’s life off course, but the rest… shit.

Black crop top stretched across her tits, a heart with a dagger through it, reading Savage in blood red that wasn’t far from the truth.

A plaid shirt is tied low at her waist, hanging over her round hips and that generous gift of an ass I’ve had dozens of fantasies about.

Beneath it, are black tights, her thick legs flexing under the weight of combat boots—platform heels that look like she’s ready to stomp somebody’s soul, and I have a feeling it would be mine.

I shift the bottle in my hand, pretending not to notice the sensual punch of white musk and something smoky radiating off her skin.

“Lot.” I make my voice sound casual. “Can you draw somewhere else? Some of us have work to do.”

“I am working.” Her hazel-brown eyes lift from her sketch pad, flashing with annoyance. “I’m out here getting inspiration.”

“For what?”

“New shirts. Edgier logo.”

I hand off the whiskey and wine to Tiff, the waiting server, then glance down at my white polo with a ship and Docks Bar stitched in ocean blue. “What’s wrong with this one?”

Not that I care. It’s just an excuse to keep her talking. She’s barely said ten words to me since she came back from New York after ghosting me for five years.

Five. Fucking. Years.

And now she’s standing in my way, still fine as hell, still full of fire and attitude, still making me feel shit I don’t want to feel.

“It’s dated,” she says, shooting her trademark side-eye that only makes me itch to get under her skin.

“The honeys have no complaints about me in this shirt. Or out of it.”

“I can’t account for their poor taste,” she deadpans. “But for the record, fraternizing with customers is bad for business.”

“Sure that’s not personal?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I couldn’t care less where you stick it, as long as it’s not in our customers.”

“Right.” I smirk.

Lot and I—we’ve got history. Started as neighborhood kids.

Grew from there into something undefined.

Not just friends. Never lovers. A connection without a label.

She was the first person I ever felt anything real for.

The first person to see through my jokes and the bullshit behind the mask. The first person I trusted.

Didn’t stop her from leaving. Or from cutting me off when she did.

Christ. I don’t need this. But Bayside Harbor’s too damn small to avoid her. And—for now—she’s my boss.

“Hey, Dice!” Benny, my right hand, calls from the other end of the bar. His voice cuts through the Whet Wednesday hum. “Midnight Ale!”

“Heard.” I grab the tap, but before I pour, Lot sticks the pencil behind her ear and braces a hand on one hip.

My gaze drops—traitor that it is—to the expanse of brown skin, soft round stomach, and the dangling belly-button ring winking like a beacon.

Her father would lose his mind if he saw her behind the bar dressed like this. Not that his opinions ever stopped her.

Reminds me of when she was fourteen, leaving for school in a skirt past her knees, then hiking it up to mid-thigh as soon as she was around the block. Another time, I would’ve teased her about it. Not today.

“You got a problem working for me, Dyson, just say it.”

So now I’m Dyson. I finish filling the glass, watching the foam settle before meeting her narrowed eyes, daring me.

I want to say it… and more. But the second I open that vault, we’re having an entirely different conversation.

“No problem here, boss.” I slide the glass down the bar.

“Whatever,” she mutters, tossing her thick locs over one shoulder. “Just do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

“Might wanna get on that liquor order, then.”

“What order?”

She’s serious. “The one sitting on your desk. I printed it two days ago with a note that said Please sign.”

“Why didn’t you just sign it?”

“Because that’s your job.”

“Then make it yours.”

“Your control-freak father insisted on signing everything.”

“Well, he’s not here, is he?” she snaps. “I don’t like paperwork. Consider it a promotion until he returns.”

“Do I get a raise?”

“You get a chance to prove yourself.”

That strikes a blow. For six years, I’ve kept this place alive. Bartender, weekend DJ, the reason the crowd keeps coming back. My specialty cocktails. My music. My regulars. I know every inch of this business. But Maurice Webber still refuses to see me as anything other than my past.

I should’ve left a long time ago. I’ve had offers. Better pay, bigger scenes. But I stayed for reasons I’m not about to examine. My motto is to skim the surface. Don’t dig deeper to where the shit’s all buried.

“I’ll do it,” I say. For her—not that I’ll admit it out loud. “Can’t risk running out of stock.”

“I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“Do you even know what our inventory levels are?”

“I’m more of a big-picture thinker.”

“Right. You stick to sketching those shirts we don’t need, and I’ll make sure we don’t run dry.”

She levels me another blistering side-eye before sashaying toward the office, hips swinging like punctuation.

I tell myself to let her go. Let her win this round. But ignoring my better instincts, I toss the bar towel down and follow, catching her just inside the doorway of her old man’s sanctum.

“Five years, and you’re still running.”

“Back off.” She bristles like the thorns on the rose inked along the swell of her cleavage.

I should heed the warning. Shouldn’t let myself get distracted by perfect tits and all the unresolved tension sticking to my skin like sweat.

But something thick and reckless pulls me closer.

Close enough to see the pulse tripping in her throat.

Close enough that if I dipped my head, I could taste it.

Dumb idea.

Lot’s always been off-limits. Too important to screw up. But now, she’s drawn some kind of enemy line between us, and hell if I know why.

“What’s with all the hate, Lot?”

“There’s no hate.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Get over yourself. Not everything’s about you.”

“Then what’s it about? We used to be friends.”

“We were never friends.” Her words are a blade, slicing clean through the bullshit to the hurt I’ve long denied.

“My bad.” I raise both hands in mock surrender. “Guess I saw it differently.”

“Don’t pretend you care.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Forget it.”

“You seriously playing that? Like you don’t owe me an explanation.”

“I don’t owe you a damn thing.” She storms into the office and slams the door in my face.

“Losing It” vibrates through the speakers, FISHER’s beat syncing with the chaos pounding in my chest. I rub at the knot beneath my sternum and force myself to walk away.

Back at the bar, Delaney, a regular, leans over in a tight, low-cut dress. “Hey, Dice. Where ya been?”

“It’s not important. I’m here now.”

“So you are.” Her bright-pink nails trail up my forearm, tracing the lion tattoo. “Make me something special.”

This is my element. My zone. Flirting. Mixing drinks. Brushing it off.

I flash her a wink and grab the shaker. “You got it, sugar.”