Page 5 of Direct Action
“Nothing like dropping a few grand on a suit I’ll never wear again,” I grumbled.
“Like you’re not going to expense it.”
I shrugged, pretending like that was my intention all along, when in fact it hadn’t occurred to me.
Pete knocked on the table, for reasons only known to Pete, as he announced, “I’ll let you get behind the bar. I’ve got paperwork to finish before I head home.”
Like everything else with the bar, we all rotated shifts bartending, but my shift didn’t officially start for another twenty minutes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of red hair. And there it was—Pete didn’t give a shit about my shift or about paperwork. My friend had just zeroed in on tonight’s entertainment. In the land of sun and sand and bleached teeth and blondes-a-plenty, Pete exclusively went for redheads. And not pink-champagne red or strawberry—nineties-supermodel-Angie-Everhart red. The darker the hair, the fierier the personality. Add in an explosive attitude, and Pete was a goner.
I smirked and pushed back from the table, now understanding Pete’s quick dismissal. “Good luck with all that paperwork.”
On my way to the bar, my gaze slid through the crowd. When we’d bought the building, it was a wreck. The marine-themed mural painted on the exterior was old and faded. Not to mention, it was ugly as fuck. The roof had more leaks than a sieve, and the smell of fried seafood clung to the walls in a way that made it obvious no amount of scrubbing was going to clean away the stench. In the end, we decided to demolish the building and build new. That had been a pain in the ass none of us had been prepared for, but well worth it.
What at one time had been nothing more than an investment for the six of us, run by an old teammate when we’d been running missions out of Colorado, had ended up being what brought us all back to San Diego. It had given us a purpose while we regrouped and decided on what was next after we’d effectively fired Pete’s sister, Mia, in an effort to force her to give up hunting bad guys and get her shot at happiness.
The five of us had gone back to hunting. Mia found her happily ever after. As had Mase with Calista. And if that wasn’t a mind fuck, I didn’t know what was. The guy was the most distrusting person I knew, yet he’d fallen fast and hard for the gorgeous blonde. Though I knew it had nothing to do with her looks. Mason had lived his life like a monk—I’d seen him turn down beautiful women night after night. I didn’t get what was so different about Calli until I saw them together. Then I got it. It was way she looked at him—not like he was the only man in the room, but rather like she saw inside his soul. She saw Mason Hughes—not the former Navy Seal, not the warrior—the man beneath his carefully crafted mask. My other teammate Jack Donovan had found that, too, with Catarina. And with their couplings, things were changing. We now had two highly capable women on our team. They were welcomed additions. What wasn’t welcomed was the rock that had settled in my gut. The recognition I wanted what they’d found but the realization it was likely unattainable.
“Whoa! Sorry.” Chloe stopped short of slamming into me with a tray full of drinks.
“My fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Her hazel eyes roamed my face, the intensity of her scrutiny unnerving. “You okay?”
Chloe’s question caught me off guard. With practiced ease I blanked my expression, going for my default while I was at the bar—easygoing and carefree. “The night’s young and the bar’s packed. Everything’s perfect.”
Another long appraisal before she nodded. “Tips should be rockin’ tonight.”
I recognized the forced cheerfulness in her tone. I should’ve asked her if everything was okay—as her boss, of course. But I needed to escape, evade, resist the temptation that was Chloe. Fight the pull of her. Keeping my distance was paramount. One wrong move and the loose hold I had on my control would snap.
Everything about Chloe was a battle between recklessness and self-restraint.
A war I was determined to win—the problem was I no longer knew what winning looked like.
Which battle I should be fighting.
In the end, I made the smart play and kept my mouth shut and reminded myself she was my employee. The last thing she needed was me rabid for a few nights, with her tangled in my sheets—or hers. I wasn’t going to quibble about the location as long as she was under me, moaning my name.
And that right there was exactly why she was untouchable.
I wasn’t ready to face the reality of what I felt for her.
I wasn’t ready to admit that if I allowed myself even a taste, she’d wreck me when she walked away.
And I was a complication she didn’t need.
Because that was what it would be—complicated.
Chapter Three
The beat of CeCe’s song “All Boots” pounded in my chest as the women of the Vault danced in the small spaces between the packed tables. The three bartenders were on top of the bar, swaying their hips to the music. All of them in various states of dress—none of them showing more skin than the average woman who came into the Dirty Plank on a Saturday night looking for a hookup. Some of the women had on suede bralettes with lots of long fringe. Some were in cutoff shorts that would make Daisy Duke proud, others were in low-rise jeans with shiny belt buckles. All of them in cowboy boots.
The dancing wasn’t choreographed, per se, servers just moving around the tables giving the patrons a show. Some moves were more suggestive than others, but none of them involved lap dances or touching. It was energetic, sexy, fun, playful, entertaining. What it wasn’t was sleazy or erotic, nor were men shoving dollar bills at the dancers.
Poppy stopped by the table I was sitting at, put a little extra swing into her hips, and smiled. She was one of women in cutoffs, but she wore a Johnny Cash concert tee that gave off eighties vibes with the strategic cutouts and the fabric knotted above her belly button, giving the onlookers just a tease of skin.
It lasted three minutes, and when it was over, the patrons hooted their appreciation and the servers went back to work.
