Uncut (Unexpected Book 4) (17 page)

Tristan C. Cooperson

There’s an email address and some phone numbers. No company name or position. I narrow my gaze at the card, then move my attention to his dark green eyes. They study me, and I feel as though some kind of force is trying to pull me toward them. As if they’re trying to trap me. The sensation makes every cell of my body buzz, sucking in the air around me.

“Bartender!” I break our stare and glance to the left where a funny-looking dude is waving at me. “Dudette, I need my beer.”

Right, I’m the only bartender working tonight. I push the card inside my back pocket and resume working after that brief trip to . . . I don’t know where he sent me. Limbo? I’d rather not go back again. There’s something about that guy I don’t understand but makes me want to find out. Ridiculous, but his dark places call to my curiosity. It’s as if I recognize his soul, or a fellow fighter. There’s something within him that I empathize with and . . . I have to push those thoughts away and remember that I have work to do. The voices asking for drinks and demanding service take me back to the present where I should always be.

“’T’sup, Butterfly.” I hear that typical greeting and my lips stretch. Matt. I check the time. Ten at night. Damn, time flies and tonight I’m not having fun at all. “How’s the music?”

“Would you believe me if I say that I have no idea?”

“Another crazy night?” He squeezes my hand, making me smile, and drop whatever walls I tried to put up when I heard his voice. Matt has to stop dropping by so often or . . .

Instead of answering his question, or my own rhetorical question, I give him a slight nod, losing myself in those enticing eyes. Seeing him every day has to stop soon or the anti-Matt shield is going to break beyond repair.

“Hey, bitch, where is my drink?” Matt’s nostrils flare. I shrug it off and move to the guy who just screamed at me. Some college dude that looks barely legal. I wish I could check his ID, but I don’t have the time, and I trust our bouncers. They do a pretty good job checking at the entrance, catching fake IDs and marking whoever is under twenty-one.

“I’ll take it from here,” Matt says so close to my ear that he caresses the sensitive skin of the back of my neck. “You’re in charge of the hard shit. I’ll be in charge of the drafts and sodas.”

There’re a lot of orders waiting for me to fill. For the first time I pay attention to the music playing on stage. “True Colors.” An acoustic version of an old ’80s song with a dreary-slow pace.

“You’re hard to please,” Matt says, while pouring a draft of lager.

“I’m not.” I fill Reed’s tray with a few margaritas and start with the next order.

“And a bad liar too.” He kisses my cheek. I squint, wondering how he knows I’m lying and if I should be mad at him for giving me a chaste kiss that froze my limbs. “When there’s a song playing that you don’t like, you scrunch up your nose.”

I shrug and move away from him as I fear that my traitorous body might do something stupid tonight, something my body might want, but my mind knows better than walking into that territory.

Though my plan of keeping him away doesn’t work, because as the crowd at the bar thins—thanks to Matt—he has time to chat. “Have you thought about my proposition yet?

I shake my head.

“Editing will supplement your income, Butterfly.” Matt starts his campaign. “Yes, it might be a tedious gig as I don’t type my shit. Which means you’re going to do so and then edit. You’ll be the first to know Tucker’s fate, and . . . even have an input on what happens next. Plus, the pay is awesome
.
”

“Decker, order up.” Reed slams his hand on top of the bar. “T, another whiskey sour. The guy who ordered it said that he has a tab open with you.”

I scan the area, and soon meet Mr. Whiskey Sour’s eyes. The serious face remains, but his eyes smile at me. My heart swells, because my gut feeling tells me that this man doesn’t smile as often or as easily.

“Yeah,” I say, and busy myself preparing it for him. This is the second of the night. I’m glad to know he won’t go home drunk and desperate as he did some weeks ago.

I don’t blame him. There had been times that life was better if I didn’t face it . . . until I woke up from the haze, and realized everything was worse than before I consumed my weight in alcohol.

After handing Reed the drink, I start closing one of the registers as the clock on top of the shelves reads one forty-five.

“Hmm, he made it,” Matt says, crossing his arms. I follow his line of vision and he’s staring at the guy who I just made the drink for. Tristan I think is his name.

Ah, he’s here for Matt. No wonder he smiled, a smile directed at Matt and not me as I thought. Maybe they’re an item. “Hot date with the handsome suit?” He shakes his head. “But you know him?”

“Nah, I don’t date, remember? If I ever do . . .” He flashes me that smirk adding one of his best weak-knee winks. “I’ll ask you first.” My insides go all gooey but I train my facial features to remain neutral. “Tristan is a friend and potential business partner,” he says, as if introducing me to him from afar.

Matt’s mouth twists and his eyes narrow. “Forget about him, though. Let’s finish the few customers that we have left and clean up so you can head home soon. If you behave, I might introduce you to the
hot suit
.

“T
ristan, this is Reed, the owner of this fine establishment.” Matthew introduces me to the gray-haired waiter who’s been busting his ass along with the bartender chick. “Reed, meet Tristan Cooperson. He owns several nightclubs and bars in the California area and Oregon.”

“Nice meeting you.” I look around the place. The “fine establishment” has seen better days. I didn't graduate from college, but after three years of education and a lot of classes to major in engineering, I learned enough to recognize a building with structural damage. The cracks on the walls are the tip of the iceberg. The entire building should be rehabilitated, not just renovated. “How long have you been in business?”

“My father opened it back in the late seventies. He died ten years later. Instead of selling, I quit my day job and continued his legacy.” He sighs, shakes his head, and smiles at the picture hanging next to the failing shelves. It's a picture of a younger version of himself and an older man who looks a lot like him. “If the walls could talk.” He whistles, looking at each wall with a tight smile.

Reed rubs the back of his neck and shrugs, staring at Matt. He doesn't explain further, and his eyes close briefly. After observing the flow and studying its potential, I am contemplating the possibility of buying the Silver Moon—and partnering with Matt. He believes that with the proper administration, this establishment can be big. He also wants to do it because the place has sentimental value to his parents. Some tradition that began in the late ’80s, or was it the early ’90s?

“You're selling then?” I direct my question to Reed.

“I'm considering the possibility, yes,” he answers me, but stares at Matt. “As I explained to Decker, I need time to sort out my future. I don't have a plan or a place to retire to, yet.”

Scanning around, I consider the potential of the establishment. This place can change for the better; maybe we can bring it back as a vintage bar.

“I might want to buy the bar from you,” I say, glancing briefly at Matt who grins. I hate to admit it, but he was right when he said it was an opportunity I wouldn't want to miss. It won't compete with Thrice, as both are different concepts, and if done right, I'll be taking over the Seattle night scene faster than I planned. “You need personnel. How about you let us, Matthew or me, come often to help and familiarize ourselves with the business. If you decide not to sell or we realize it isn't viable to buy, we call it off and neither one of us loses.” I pull out a business card and hand it to Reed.

Reed takes a look at the card and narrows his gaze before speaking. “If I decide to sell, I’ll give you boys a call. If you want to pitch in while I’m short on staff, you’re welcome. I’ll pay you with a beer or two.”

We say our goodbyes and he ushers us outside the bar through the back door.

“You have to chill,” Matthew says as we step out of the bar and the cold drizzle of Seattle rain hits my face. “Does the word ‘friendly’ mean anything to you?”

“That’s how I work, Matt,” I respond, knowing
friendly
comes later when I trust enough. But I don’t say that. Knowing Matt, he trusts anyone that moves and breathes. That’s one of the things I like about him; he uses his heart as much as he uses his head.

After taking a few steps toward the street he grabs my elbow. “Not so fast, I have to introduce you to someone,” he says, releasing my arm and ringing the bell next door.

“Should I be concerned, Matt?”

“Only if you’re afraid of beautiful women.”

I’m about to leave him when the door opens. I halt in my tracks. The sight is the opposite of what I expected—some weird dude to hang out with. Instead it’s
her
—the bartender. She’s not wearing that boring polo T-shirt that reads Silver Moon. This woman might have the same face, but she's different. A striking, hot beauty. Her long wavy hair is a combination of dark chestnut, caramel highlights, blondes, and a few reds. She pivots to turn on more lights, and I notice her bare shoulders covered with freckles, and a tattoo that reads “Live Fearlessly.” A small butterfly kisses her right shoulder. Cute. Adorable.

“Hi.” She greets Matt with a sweet, soft voice, and squints her eyes when she spots me. “It’s a little late for house calls, don’t you think?”

Maybe? I don’t know. I want to answer her, but I’m speechless at the sight of her. The sleeveless dress she wears hugs her curves. God, she has a gorgeous ass that I’d like to worship. A thin, golden bracelet enfolds her sexy ankle. She’s barefooted, and both feet have a few curvy designs . . . henna tattoo? The toe ring is cute. Those toenails look sexy with the dark nail polish. Another glance at the entire picture ignites my body. I glance at Matthew, who is in awe just like I am.

Matt clears his throat, and I clear my head. “Hey, Butterfly, you clean up well.” He touches the back of his neck. “I promised to introduce you to the hot suit, didn’t I?”

After staring at us for a couple of breaths, she directs her first musical words at me. “I’ve met Mr. Whiskey Sour before. Hi. The name is Thea, not Butterfly.”