Page 22 of Beyond the Temptation: Vol 2

EAGLE

Well, I didn’t get myself fired for nearly refusing to wear a tux, but threatening the father of the groom at the rehearsal dinner might just be the thing that does it.

I’m waiting for the shitstain of a man to explain himself or get the fuck out, and lucky for him, he makes the right decision.

“Call off your fucking dog, Lacey,” the man seethes, throwing a glare over his shoulder at her.

I resist the urge to snarl at him as he walks by, just to prove him point, but I suppose I should be happy the handsy dickhead is on his way. I wait until he’s almost back to the villa before turning to Lacey. I walk the few steps between us, bend, and pick up the shoe that she’s stepped out of. I set it on the ground near her foot, the sole down against the stamped concrete path, then step away.

I point to the high heel. “Most women want to be swept off their feet, but I don’t think that’s what they mean.”

She looks from me to her shoe and then flushes, a light rose blossoming over her throat. I reach out my hand and she sets her fingers in mine, her touch so light while she balances. She steps into her shoe, rolls her shoulders, and then meets my eyes. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s not at all what I wanted.”

Then without another word, she storms back into the villa.

I follow a few steps behind, scanning the party which is now winding down. A couple of kids from the wedding party ask if they can keep drinking, so I stand beside the bar, a stern look on my face as the bartender explains that the grounds close strictly at half passed ten. My presence keeps the more persistent partiers from trying to get around the policy, so I keep the pissed-off bouncer look plastered on my face while I keep one eye on that jackass father of the groom.

Even while I’m watching him, he’s doing everything in his power to prove he’s got a death wish. He stares after Lacey’s every move, watching her ass when she bends to clasp the hand of an old lady, staring at her face when she lifts a zillion-watt smile as she says goodnight to the bride. When the asshole’s poor wife finally laces a hand through his elbow and tugs him toward the door, I swear he’s still looking back over his shoulder, searching the room for Lacey.

But at least once he’s gone, I can breathe a little easier.

“Eagle, you want one for the road, buddy?” The bartender, a nerdy, skinny dude named Marc, points to a bottle of whiskey.

I like Marc. He’s good people, and if this were like most nights, I’d grab a drink and shoot the shit with him and Brute for a bit before hitting the road. But Brute’s already walking up to say goodnight, and I don’t feel like drinking alone.

“You sure you can’t stick around?” I ask, clapping my hand to my brother’s shoulder.

“Nah,” he says, giving mine a shake. “Crow’s got me on an early job with him. I got to grab a couple hours of sleep.” He releases my hand and looks at me. “I’ll put in a word if you want to pick up some laborer shit. Nothing tricky, man. I’m tearing out a kitchen and hauling debris tomorrow. Basic shit.”

I shake my head. “I’m all right,” I tell him. I got no problem with any of my brothers working together, but I’m inching toward fifty. After a night on my feet, I’m not going to be in any mood to get up at the ass crack of dawn and haul debris out of kitchen renovation, and then spend Saturday night on my feet again. I’m getting way too old for that kind of schedule. “See you at the compound.”

Brute takes off and I turn on the classy yet weirdly comfortable backless bar chair when I hear the soft voice beside me.

“Marc, I’ll take a Coke, please.”

“You want a shot in that, boss?” Marc grins as he packs a glass full of ice, then squirts a fizzy nozzle over the ice. Then he runs a lemon wedge along the lip of the glass, squeezes the rind between two fingers so the slightest bit of citrus oil wafts in the air, and slides the wedge over the rim of the glass. “Just the way you like it.”

Marc sets the Coke down for Lacey and she reaches a long, bare arm across the bar to grab it. She looks at me, an apologetic smile lifting the corners of her sexy red lips. “I like it with extra ice,” she explains. “The lemon bit makes it feel fancy. That’s a Marc thing. I’m not that pretentious.”

I never thought she was pretentious, but I don’t say anything. Just watch as she nods at the stool next to me, the sharp edge of her straight blond hair bobbing just past her chin. “You mind if I sit?” she asks. “Long night.”

I shake my head slowly, then motion to Marc. “Can I get one of what she’s having, but without the frou-frou bit?”

Marc laughs and pours a tall class of Coke, extra ice, no lemon, and hands it to me. I nod my thanks, and take a long sip, staring ahead into the mirror mounted behind the bar. It feels safer than looking at Lacey, who’s sipping her Coke and sighing like she’s releasing the weight of the world from her shoulders.

Our eyes meet in the mirror. “I didn’t thank you. For earlier,” she says quietly, flitting a look at Marc. “Mr. Warner was getting little friendly out there. He’s harmless,” she rushes on, “but you...” She trails off, then turns a little in her bar seat to face me. “You saved me from having to embarrass him or myself.”

“Just doing my job.’” I take a long sip of my Coke, hoping the ice cools down the heat that’s radiating between me and Lacey.

She chuckles softly. My left hand rests on the bar while my right one holds my Coke. She trails one short, perfectly red polished nail over the top of my hand, the one that’s got as many scars on it as tattoos. “Would you really have broken his bones?” she asks.

She fingers the tiny healed marks and then, as if realizing what she’s doing, pulls her hand away and rests it in her lap.

I study her face, the way her lips are slightly parted, the melted chocolate of her eyes. Marc isn’t behind the bar anymore, he’s off cleaning or doing whatever shit he’s got to do because he can close up and call it a night. So there’s no one there to hear what I tell her.

“All you have to do is say the word.” I don’t look away, and neither does she. We’re locked in an epic stare-down, the tip of her tongue trailing over her lower lip. “The way that fucker looked at you all night, followed you around like a lovesick puppy.” I sniff hard and clench my hands into fists. “I was itching to teach him to keep his eyes to himself. But when he touched you?” I shake my head and pinch my fingers together. “I was this close,” I tell her, “to adding a couple more black marks to my employment record. Not to mention a couple more scars to these hands.”

She swallows hard and grips her Coke, her fingers twirling the little lemon wedge around the rim of the glass. “You noticed that?” Her question isn’t an accusation. She sounds relieved.

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