Stepbrother Backstage (The Hawthorne Brothers Book 3) (23 page)

Those firm lips of his part, locked and loaded with a
scathing comeback, no doubt. But before he can utter a syllable, an older voice
rings out behind him.

“Hawthorne!” shouts a graying, barrel-chested man marching
toward the bar from the stock room. “What part of ‘wait to be served’ don’t you
understand?”

“Don’t know what to tell you, Jimmy,” my sparring partner
shrugs, knocking back his beer, “I’m not real good at taking orders.”

“No, that’s my job,” grumbles Jimmy, taking his rightful
place behind the bar. He catches sight of me sitting there and goes on,
“Speaking of, what’ll you have, sweetheart?”

I spot the dark-haired man watching me out of the corner of
his eye. His very gaze feels like a challenge. A dare. And as usual, I find
myself unable to pass it up. Normally, my drink is a mojito. But I have a
feeling that wouldn’t go over to well, here.

“Bourbon. Neat,” I tell the bartender, whose eyebrows raise
at my order.

“OK. Coming right up,” he replies, turning away.

The tall stranger leans against the rough wooden bar,
nursing his beer. He smiles at me with more amusement than kindness.

“Bourbon, huh? Was that for my benefit?” he asks
condescendingly.

“Oh, absolutely,” I drawl back, my words dripping with
sarcasm. “I’m
very
invested in impressing you.”

“I tend to have that effect on people,” he replies
nonchalantly. I try not to notice the way his built arms flex as he brings the
beer to his lips. There’s not an ounce of fat on that body of his—just muscle,
sinew, and tons of ink. He’s rocking a full sleeve of tattoos on his right arm.
I find myself wondering where else he’s tatted-up. Wanting to find out for
myself…

“Here you go,” Jimmy says, setting a lowball glass on the
bar before me. Not exactly a light pour, either. But it’s not like I can back
down now.

I take the glass in my hand—the strong, smoky smell of the
booze threatening to singe my eyebrows right off my face. The arrogant
stranger’s hazel eyes are hard on my face, his lips twisted into a rakish grin.
But now that I’m feeling rightly competitive, I’m dead set on wiping that smug
look off his face. Bracing myself, I bring the whiskey to my lips and knock
back a long swig—half the glass at least. The powerful burn hits me like a
sledgehammer at first, but then that satisfying, fiery buzz warms me all over.
I have to say, I get the appeal.

Smiling triumphantly, I look up to watch the stranger’s
reaction…but no one’s there. He’s already fallen into conversation with another
regular at the back of the bar, having totally lost interest in me. I’m far more
disappointed than makes any rational sense. What do I care about holding the
attention of some guy at a bar? Some intriguing, sexy guy I can’t stop stealing
glances at no matter how hard I try…

“Pull yourself together, Porter,” I mutter under my breath, settling
down to sip my whiskey and lick my wounds. Maybe I’m out of flirting practice
after an entire young adulthood of monogamy. Though, come to think of it, I
don’t think I was ever
in
the practice of flirting to begin with. This
whole random hookup challenge of Allie’s might be a bit harder to complete than
I thought.

“Well look at you, drinking all by your lonesome,” a grainy,
sneering voice says from over my shoulder.

The sudden address startles me, and I turn quickly around on
my stool, guard raised. One of the biker guys has wandered over from the pool
table to chat me up. His body looks solid as a tank, all bulging veins and
flushed red skin. Thick dark hair covers his chest and arms, and I can’t help
but picture a gorilla pickup artist as I take him in.

“That’s right,” I inform him, trying to toe the line between
ignoring and encouraging him. I pray that he’ll take the hint and back off…but
instead he steps up to the bar beside me, popping my bubble of personal space
like it’s his God-given right.

“I can fix that for you,” he grins, booze thick on his
breath as he leers at me, “Let me buy you a drink, Hun.
”

“Well, you know what they say,” I reply coolly, “If it ain’t
broke…”

“Damn, girl! You’ve got some mouth on you,” he laughs meanly,
taking a long swig from his beer can.
“
I
’
d
love to know what else that mouth is good for, ’sides
backtalk.”

“Children talk back,” I tell him, my face stony, “Women
choose not to engage in conversation with men who make them uncomfortable.”

“Is
that
what I’m doing? Making you uncomfortable?”
the guy presses, leaning in close to my face. A cold spike of fear cuts through
my annoyance with him. And that spike only drives in deeper as I see one of his
buddies—a haggard, rangy guy—peel
away from the
group around the pool table and head our way. If they start something with me,
I
’
m on my own to stop them. The owner, Jimmy, is down at
the other end of the bar, eyes fixed on the hockey game. And who knows if I
could even count on him, or
any
of the men in here, to stand up for a
random woman over another local? 

“Look. I’m just trying to enjoy my drink in peace,” I inform
the first man, as his buddy steps up to box me in. “Please respect that and
leave me alone.”

“Or what?” the hairy ape grins, crushing his beer can
against the bar. “What the hell are you gonna do about it?”

“You need to work on your manners, Missy,” the second man
adds, cracking his yellowed teeth into a malicious grin. “Around here, it’s up
to you ladies to show us men some respect… Or at least a good time, if you
catch my drift.”

My hand inches toward my back pocket as they go on. I’ve
never had to use my pepper spray on anyone before, but these guys are pushing
me way out of my comfort zone. My mind spins desperately through the options at
hand. Should I bolt? Stand my ground? Mace the shit out of these
assholes? 

“What do you say?” the first man grins, placing his hand
dangerously low on the small of my back. “You gonna be a good girl and pay your
respects?”

Fight wins out over flight for control of my body. I leap up
from my stool and whip around to face the man who’s harassing me, fingers
closing around my canister of pepper spray. But the surge of adrenaline is shot
through with baffled surprise as I watch a firm hand fall on the hairy man’s
shoulder and yank him away from me.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, Vaughn?” snarls the
dark-haired Adonis who blew me off not ten minutes ago. His eyes are bright
with contempt for the man he’s pulled away from me, for reasons that still remain
unclear.

“I’m just having a word with this lady, here,” the man
called Vaughn says defensively.

“Really?” says my unexpected defender, “Cause it looked like
you were being a damned idiot and giving her a hard time.”

“What the hell do you care?” Vaughn whines, “She’s fair
game.”

“Fair game?” I echo, my voice dripping with ire, “What the
hell is this, some kind of frat house? What grown man talks that way?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” says my sudden ally,
giving Vaughn a shove back in the direction of his biker buddies. I’m relieved
to see that none of them rush to their friend’s defense. Maybe this is a
familiar routine with this jerk.

“You think you’re noble or some shit, Hawthorne?” my
aggressor grumbles, retreating with his grimy pal in tow.

“Not really,” the hazel-eyed stranger replies, “I’m just not
the kind of guy who enjoys picking on little girls.”

My relief at being saved from those assholes deflates
slightly. Is that how this guy sees me, as a little girl? Is that why he
stepped in to protect me—because I don’t look like someone who can stand up for
myself? I’ll own the fact that I was scared shitless for a second there, but
still, I would have come out swinging if I’d had to.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, crossing my arms
tightly over my chest. I’m suddenly very aware that my black bra is showing
slightly through my white tank. “I could have handled those guys myself.”

“Oh, is that so?” he grins back, peering down at me with
those dazzling hazel eyes. “What exactly was your plan of action, huh?” I
produce my canister of pepper spray for his appraisal, which only makes his
patronizing grin grow wider. “Got a sidearm, huh? You’re tougher than you
look.”

“And how tough do I look to you, exactly?” I reply heatedly.

“Not tough enough to be in a place like this on your own,”
he says frankly.

“Well, maybe I should get out of here then,” I say, reaching
for my whiskey and taking another big gulp that drains the glass. I have to
say, I don’t totally hate that burn after all.

“Why? You’re not on your own anymore,” he replies, settling
onto the next barstool and giving mine a pat. “Now that you’ve got me for
company.”

“Did I say I wanted your company?” I shoot back, though of
course I do.

“No. But I want yours,” he replies evenly, taking my hand in
his. Electricity shoots up my entire arm, shocking me into stillness. “And I’m
in the habit of getting what I want. Remember?”

If anyone else in the world tried a line like that on me,
I’d laugh in his face and walk away. But coming from this guy, it doesn’t come
off as bravado. Actually, it somehow has the ring of a promise to it. Maybe
it’s because he stopped those guys from harassing me, maybe it’s his winning
smile, maybe it’s just the bourbon, but I do want to stay here and get to know him.
At least a little. Every cell in my body is screaming to be closer to him, even
if it’s just as close as the next barstool.

“What’s your name?” I ask him quietly, letting my hand rest
in his.

“Cash Hawthorne,” he replies, his fingers tightening ever so
slightly around mine in something between a handshake and a caress. 

“I’m Madeleine. Maddie,” I tell him, pulling my hand away as
the sensation finally becomes too much to bear.

“Well Maddie,” Cash grins, “You just became my new drinking buddy
for the night. I suggest you get comfortable. We’re gonna be here for a while.”

He catches Jimmy’s eye and holds up a couple fingers. In a
moment, two fresh glasses of bourbon have appeared on the bar before us. I
settle down before my replenished glass, already very much feeling the buzz. I
don’t usually take my liquor straight, and though I’m no light weight, I have
no doubt that Cash here could drink three of me under the table. But I know
full well that there’s no leaving now. Something about this guy has snagged my
interest—and I intend to find out what that something is.

“To new friends,” I say, lifting my glass to his.

“I’ll drink to that,” Cash says, knocking the rim of his
glass against mine as those hazel eyes bore into me.

A new song comes on the jukebox as we sample our fresh
drinks—it’s “A Boy Named Sue” by Johnny Cash. The coincidence isn’t lost on me.

“Wait a minute,” I say, angling my body toward my sexy new
companion. “You’re not named after—”

“I am, as a matter of fact,” he says proudly, “My dad is a
big fan. All me and my brothers listened to growing up was Johnny Cash, CCR,
and The Stones. Could have been worse though, right? What if he’d been into
Hootie and the Blowfish?”

“That…would have been unfortunate,” I laugh, feeling my guard
lowering with every passing second. This guy is dead
sexy
and
has a sense of humor? He’s earning some checks in the plus column
after a rather unimpressive start, that’s for sure.

“Damn right, it would have been unfortunate,” Cash says, his
deep, changeable eyes lingering on me, “How in the hell would I get a pretty
girl like you to have a drink with me with a name like Hootie?”

So he thinks I’m pretty. That shouldn’t make me as giddy as
it does. And yet…

“That interception you ran with those assholes still would
have done the trick,” I reply, “Thank you for that, by the way. I would have
dealt with it somehow, but I appreciate you stepping in back there.”

“Don’t mention it,” he shrugs, “Their bark is worse than
their bite. Just a bunch of wannabe MC tough guys who watched a little too much
Sons of Anarchy
. Besides, they don’t fuck with guys like me.”

“Guys like you?” I ask, taking another sip of whiskey.

“Vets,” he replies, putting away some more bourbon of his
own.

“You’re in the Army?” I ask, surprised. “But you can’t be
much older than me.”

“I’m 26,” he tells me, a hint of hardness coming into his
voice. “Plenty old enough to serve. Hell, I was right out of high school when I
enlisted.”

“I guess so,” I reply. It’s so hard to think of guys that
young fighting overseas. But then, there’s nothing easy about that kind of
life. “But I thought you said you weren’t very good at taking orders?” I go on.

“I’m not,” he replies bluntly, polishing off his drink.
“There’s a reason I’m sitting here with you instead of coughing up sand in some
fucking desert right now.”

“Oh. You’re not, uh, serving anymore?” I ask haltingly,
trying to keep up with the pace of his drinking out of nervousness. I’ve never
actually known anyone in the armed forces, at least not well. Both sides of my
family have always tended toward artistic and academic pursuits, not exactly
compatible with military service.

“No, I’m not,” Cash tells me, flagging Jimmy down again and
signaling for another round. I hurry and drain my glass, wondering at the speed
with which he changes the subject. Maybe his military record has something to
do with that gravity in his gaze.

“And what about you?” he asks as Jimmy refills our glasses,
“What’s your story?”

“Oh. I’m. Uh. In marketing,” I reply vaguely. It sounds
pretty unimpressive, set next to active military service.

“Sounds fucking boring,” he laughs, instantly dashing any
tension between us… Negative tension, that is. There’s still plenty of
another
kind of tension buzzing in the air around our bodies. I have to laugh along
with him. He’s not wrong.