Page 15 of Frenemies

Me: Extra crispy.

“Chase,” Jax leaned forward, bringing his face close to the screen. “Don’t do this.”

D.W: How many chickens are we talking about?

Me: Consider it an extermination.

“Chase,” Jax yelled and slapped his hand down. “You don’t want to do this.”

Didn’t I?

“You always did like cookouts. This one should be killer,” I looked Jax dead in the eyes and added before ending the call.

Jax started this war, but I was going to end it. Miami was about to be cleansed by the fires of purification.

Burn baby, burn.

This mother…

I spun around, whipping the cloth I was holding off Roach’s wrist. “Get your grubby paws off my clean bar.”

“Ouch.” Roach pulled his arm back to rub the red spot appearing on the back of his hand. “It’s not your bar. It’s ours.”

“Excuse me?” My brow arched.

Just because we happened to be in their clubhouse did not make this their bar. I cleaned it. I stocked it, and I served the alcohol. This was my goddamn bar.

They didn’t have anyone to blame for that but themselves. After spending two weeks in this disorganized chaos they called a clubhouse, I couldn’t take it anymore.

They should be thanking me for taking on this task. This rowdy bunch wouldn’t know what to do if someone slapped them in the face with a copy of ‘Bartending For Dummies.’

“Why are you even here?”

I cocked my hip and eyed his hazel stare. There was a touch more gold swirling in them today. I’d almost consider him handsome if it wasn’t for the mess of hair on his chin he called a beard. Had any of these bastards ever heard of grooming?

“I’m helping out until Chase gets out of the hospital.”

That’s what Beast wanted us to tell them—can’t say I blamed him. I highly doubted they’d be too happy to find out their president took off again, and this club was barely hanging on as it was. “You got a problem with that?”

“I don’t recall the Prez claiming you as his old lady.” Roach folded his arms over his broad chest. “And even if he had, I don’t take orders from bitches.”

My hand flew up, pointing a pink nail at him. “You’re cut off.”

His jaw dropped.

“And I’m telling Lane you’re the one that chased away her last date.”

“I did not.” He bellowed and then stopped to narrow his eyes. “What date?”

I knew that would get him. He could pretend to be nothing more than her brother’s best friend all he wanted, but I saw how he looked at her.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure Mike will treat her like a lady. He has quite the reputation.”

Who was Mike? Who the hell knew. But there was always a Mike or John or Jack.

Roach leaned in, resting his elbow on the bar, and said, “What kind of reputation?”

“Oh, you know,” I waved my hand through the air. “Typical frat-guy lady’s man stuff.”

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