Serving Trouble (3 page)

 

Chapter Three

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the university students had replaced the old-­timers and locals. Noah kept an eye on the crowd as he worked. The bouncers had arrived at eight just before the crowd began to fill in for the DJ. An outside company handled the booking, and his rep there had assured him that the guy spinning tonight would appeal to the barely twenty-­one crowd. Noah thought it sounded like the loud, repetitive stuff the guys he'd served with overseas played to pump up before heading out on patrol.

Damn war follows me everywhere.

He suspected the noise was part of the reason Chad and Lena had headed out to their truck. Lena, a West Point grad, had served two tours in Afghanistan, and now she relied on her ser­vice dog to navigate her PTSD. A bar overflowing with college kids and house music was too much for her. But Josh still hadn't turned up and they were determined to wait for the youngest Summers brother.

Noah handed over a beer with a forced smile and scanned the room for Josie. She'd looked ready to crumble after taking Travis's order. One glance at her pale face and Noah had been tempted to start a fight in his own bar. He'd told himself not to bother. He didn't need to play the hero. Not here. Not for her.

But he'd abandoned his post behind the bar and found himself at Travis's table by the time he'd finished telling himself to stay away. He'd threatened to break the other man's nose a second time if the lazy, unemployed ass didn't leave. Travis must have heard the rumors about Noah returning home unhinged and mad as hell, because Josie's ex had left. Sure, Travis had called him crazy. But the words had bounced off Noah as he'd headed for the back room.

Eyes on the busy bar, he caught sight of Josie. She was fighting her way through the mass of ­people with a tray of drinks for the corner booth. The crowd parted for her, the women offering a friendly smile and the guys—­shit, they moved out of the way to get a better look at her curves. Even that black dress, better suited for an office than a bar, couldn't hide the fact that her breasts were fit for a fantasy.

Or maybe that was just his wicked imagination wanting something he couldn't have now that she was wearing a Big Buck's apron. Hell, these kids probably smiled at her just to be freaking nice to the woman distributing the drinks. He was the one who took one look at her chest and daydreamed about her breasts stripped free from that dress. And yeah, he was also the one who'd abandoned “nice” when he'd walked away from the marines.

He'd tried those first few months back. He'd smiled at every damn person in The Three Sisters. Most of the time. Once he'd walked away before getting his lunch. He'd bit his lip when men like Frank, who'd fought long before him, offered a simple thank you. Hell, he'd even tried flirting while volunteering at the Willamette Valley Gun Club. He'd dusted off his charm for Lena, pissing off both Chad and her ser­vice dog.

Now he didn't give a damn if everyone thought he was an ass. The things he'd done, the ­people he'd fought for, and the ones he'd been forced to call enemy had smashed his idea of good and bad. He lived in the grey area. Aside from keeping this bar running, a blow and a beer topped his list of wants.

Josie tapped a tipsy fool on the shoulder as she fought her way to her customers. Hell, he didn't want his best friend's little sister serving him a beer . . .

“Hey, man, I need three light beers. Whatever's cheap,” a freckle-­faced kid called.

Noah turned and retrieved the drinks. He set the bottles on the bar. And then it happened. One quick glance at Josie—­because damn, he couldn't keep his eyes off her—­and he saw a tall, built guy stumble right into Josie's filled tray. She fought to keep the cups balanced and failed. Three vodka tonics spilled down the front of her dress.

Noah moved to the side of the bar and lifted the slab of wood that separated his domain from the rest of the room.

“Hey, you didn't open these!” the guys who'd ordered the beers called out.

He didn't answer. He headed straight for Josie, pushing his way through the crowd. The jackass who'd pushed her had stumbled away. And she'd bent down to collect the cups on the ground.

“Leave it,” he growled when he arrived at her side. “I'll send someone to pick it up.”

“I can do it.” She set the tray on the floor and reached for a plastic cup. As a rule, he stopped using the glassware after eight to avoid broken glasses everywhere. Also, he didn't have a dishwasher at the moment, which was starting to look like a damn good thing. If she'd been carrying glass . . . hell, he could picture broken pieces nestled between her breasts, cutting into her skin . . .

He took her arm and drew her up from the ground. “You're wet.”

“And I smell like a vodka,” she said with a laugh, holding the tray covered in empty cups. “Can you make new ones? Without charging them? I can cover the cost of the ones I spilled.”

“They can wait for new drinks or go to the bar,” he said as he led her through the crowd, toward the door to the back room. He pushed his way into the quiet storage area.

“Might lose them as customers,” she said, her tone serious and easy to hear now with a wall between them and the music.

“I don't care.” He headed for the row of four metal lockers by the desk. He opened the first door and withdrew a black T-­shirt. “My dad kept a bunch of the old Big Buck Country Bar T-­shirts.”

“I don't need a shirt.”

He turned and found her standing within arm's reach. The wet fabric clung to her chest, leaving the dress in the not-­suitable-­for-­work column. Beer, vodka, tonic—­he didn't give a damn what was spilled down her front. He wanted to lick her clean.

“Take the shirt,” he said and he held it out to her. “Then you're free to go. I'll collect your pay from the register. All cash for the night.”

“What about tomorrow night?” she demanded, taking the shirt from him. But she didn't move to put it on.

He hesitated. Part of him wanted her here, where he could watch over her, save her from anything and everything—­including himself.

“I need this job, Noah,” she added.

“You could find something else—­”

“Because I spilled a few drinks?” Her voice was low and incredulous. “On my first night?”

Because I want you. Because I can't touch you if you work here. Because—­

“Or because I took a minute to calm down so I wouldn't pour a shot of whiskey over my ex's head?” she demanded.

Noah let out a low laugh as the rush of adrenaline faded along with his need to save her. But his desire? It didn't budge. “If Travis comes back, you have my permission to pour a bottle over him.”

“Does that mean I can keep the job? Because you promised to help me,” she said. “Five years ago—­”

“Sweetheart, I'm not that guy anymore.” He looked her straight in the eye, daring her to look back and see
him
. Sure, he'd rushed to her rescue tonight. Twice. But he still wanted her. She should be off-­limits, but the part of him that had come back from serving his country broken and jaded just didn't care.

“I don't need a hero,” she shot back. “What I need is a friend willing to give me a job. I need the money.”

“Maybe I can give you a loan,” he said. Dammit, what was it about this woman that sent him spiraling into old habits, determined to look out for her?

Seeing all that determination to fight for what she needed—­he remembered the teenager in the alley struggling against someone so much bigger. And he knew, he fucking
knew
, that fear lay on the other side of her resolve to fight. If her determination broke, the fear would surface. He might be an ass, but he couldn't walk away from Josie knowing she was afraid.

“No, it's too much,” she said.

“How much do you owe, Josie?”

“Seventy thousand dollars,” she said simply.

“What the—­?” His eyes widened and he stepped back. “You planned to make that here?”

“I have a payment plan,” she said. “Which is why I need a job.”

And yeah, she was spelling it out for him as if he were a child. But how the hell had she saddled herself with so much debt?

“I thought you had a scholarship,” he said.

“I don't have student loans.” She bit her lower lip and cocked her head. “Well, I do have some, but they're low and I've deferred payment for now.”

“And you can't ask your dad?” He was still trying to wrap his head around the number she'd thrown out.

Seventy thousand dollars.
Most ­people he knew didn't make anywhere close to that in a year, or even two.

She shook her head. “This is my responsibility.”

Why? He needed to know. He had to find out what the hell had happened to Dominic's little sister, to the girl he'd thought about for the past five years, hoping like hell she was happy, or at least safe. But hearing that number—­something had gone very, very wrong. While he'd been off fighting for his country, for Caroline, for a damn paycheck, Josie had landed herself in trouble.

“The job is yours,” he said. And yeah, he had a sinking feeling those words would come back to bite him. “If you tell me who you owe.”

“You can't tell Dominic,” she said fiercely. “Or anyone else.”

He nodded and hoped like hell she didn't make him say the words. He couldn't promise until he knew how she'd landed in this mess.

“I owe the hospital in Portland and a team of doctors.” Her voice wavered, but she held his gaze.

“For what?” His imagination pieced together parts of an imaginary puzzle. Had she been in an accident? Had someone hurt her?

“Keeping my baby alive for twenty-­seven days.”

“Ah, Josie.” He wanted to reach for her and wrap his arms around her. But he could see her determination eroding. If he pulled her close, she might crumble. And he had a feeling that she needed every ounce of strength right now. “I didn't know . . .”

That she'd been pregnant. And not a soul in this gossip-­crazy small town had breathed a word about her losing a child.

“No one did. I didn't even tell my father I was having a baby.” She let out a sharp laugh. “I was planning on it. But then Matt, the guy I was seeing, left.”

He felt a rush of white-­hot anger so damn potent that he would have killed, with his bare hands, the man who'd abandoned Josie. Sweet Jesus, if he'd known . . . But what could he have done from halfway around the world? Hell, he'd been stationed with Caroline and in the end he hadn't been able to save her.

“If I came home pregnant and alone, I'd just confirm everyone's opinion that I'm a wild screwup.” She spoke quickly as tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. But she didn't look away.

“College was my shot to prove them wrong,” she continued. “So I stayed in school. I tried to do everything right. Prenatal vitamins. Organic food even though it cost so much more. I got a babysitting job. And I applied for Medicare. I hadn't bothered with insurance before. I was healthy. But then my water broke and there was nothing they could do to stop the labor. And he wasn't ready. My baby was just too early.”

“I'm so sorry,” he said. The words sounded hollow and insufficient. His friend's little sister, a woman who'd been his friend and, hell, even his lover for one brief night, she'd given birth alone. And she'd watched her baby die surrounded by hospital staff.

“But you understand why I need the money.” She swiped at the tears as if determined to press forward. “My world stopped when my water broke, when he was born and he couldn't breathe. And everything crumbled when he died. There was nothing I could do for him. But I can do this. I can pay back the hospital and doctors who gave me twenty-­seven days with him.”

“Yes, you can,” he said.

“Thank you.” She lowered her chin to her chest and let the tears flow.

Hero or not, he was going to fight like hell for her. He'd known it before the first tear fell. But this time he was stepping into the fight with a big fat failure on his record. When he'd jumped to Josie's aid in the alley, he'd known he would win. But now? He didn't have a clue how to erase the grief and pain. He wasn't sure how to help her earn that kind of money.

“The job is yours, Josie,” he said gruffly. “For as long as you need it.”

And that was all he could promise.

J
OSIE FOUGHT THE
tears. He'd given her what she needed—­a job. She'd found a way to earn money that didn't involve babysitting. With her resume, and in the current job climate, it felt like a miracle.

But she'd secretly hoped to earn her position. Prove herself. Instead, she'd hidden from her ex and spilled a tray of drinks followed by the truth. She told him about Morgan, the baby she'd named after her late mother when she still had a sliver of hope he'd survive.

And Noah had handed her the job.

“I should get out there,” she said, and by some miracle her voice sounded even, almost normal.

“You don't have to finish your shift. Your dress is still wet and . . .”

“And I look like I've been crying? I can fix my makeup in the bathroom. Plus, you handed me a new waitress uniform.” She held up the shirt and forced a smile.

“No.” He shook his head. “I gave you something to cover you up when you walked to your car.”

“But it's crowded out there.” She pulled the shirt over the vodka-­soaked material clinging to her boobs like a second skin. She tied the excess fabric in a knot at her back. The T-­shirt looked cute, as if she'd planned a retro look with a black miniskirt.