Unleashed: Declan & Kara (Unleashed #1-4; Beg for It #1) (17 page)

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I made it until 2:30. I
was really proud of myself.

“What can I get you?”
The bartender wore a clingy black short-sleeve button down, tattoos
snaking up and down his arms. He wiped down the bar as he spoke.

“Diet coke, thanks.”

He nodded and filled me
a fountain soda. Not exactly a money-making order, but he didn’t
have a bunch of patrons at this time of day, anyway. In the bar in
the hotel Declan owned. Where I’d be meeting him in 4 ½ hours.

I guessed I lacked
creativity. I’d marched around a whole bunch of city blocks, scared
a few pigeons in a couple of public parks. I’d even paid six bucks
to go into an art museum.

Standing in front of a
nude portrait, all I could think about was last night. Declan had
flipped a switch inside of me. I looked at something tasteful and
classy—at least I guessed it was, it was hanging in an art museum
and all—and I thought about sex. How eagerly I’d let Declan strip
me down. How much I wanted him to do it to me again.

“How’s your day
going so far?” The bartender flashed me a smile. He had dimples. I
wondered if he hated them, they seemed much more school-boy than the
cool look he was clearly striving for.

“Great, thanks. You?”
You could take the waitress out of the diner, but she’d still serve
you up a smile.

“So far, so good.”
He gave me a wink, then headed down the bar to answer the phone.

How was I going to make
it another 4 ½ hours? I was already halfway through my soda. The
pigeons of Billings couldn’t take much more of my milling around.

“Aw, shit.” The
bartender’s not-so-muffled swear caught my attention. He held the
phone to his chest and called over a middle-aged guy who also wore a
black button-down shirt, only his strained over his burgeoning belly.
The conversation lasted all of 60 seconds. Tense, angry, he slammed
the phone down onto the bar.

“She’s calling in
sick again?” the bartender asked. The other guy I guessed was the
manager nodded, grim.

“Don’t tell me.”
A woman around my age dressed in a black t-shirt and skirt came over
to the bar, a round tray clasped against one hip, a fist on the
other. The manager kept shaking his head, not meeting her eyes. “She
didn’t!”

“She did,” he
confirmed.

“I’m going to kill
her. Sheila’s out of town. Jess has a show tonight. We’re
screwed!”

“Everything OK?”
The question popped out of my mouth before I even knew I was asking
it. I was the only person at the bar with them. It seemed the polite
thing to do.

“Fine, thanks,” the
manager answered, not looking fine at all.

“Just a waitress
calling in sick.” The bartender flashed me that dimpled smile.

“Again,” the
waitress added with disgust. “You want to wait tables tonight?”
she grumbled, looking at me.

“I am a waitress,”
I admitted.

“You are?” her eyes
lit up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, well, but at a
diner.”

“But could you help
out tonight?” she asked, eager. “I’d only give you a couple of
tables, four, five tops. It would help so much.”

“No, I don’t
think…?” I looked up at the manager. Wait tables? At Declan’s
bar? That didn’t make any sense.

But he nodded. “We
could use some help tonight. You’ve waitressed before?”

“The last four
years,” I replied automatically, even though I couldn’t really be
considering doing this, could I? I was supposed to meet Declan at
seven o’clock. To have a difficult, awkward conversation and break
out of our agreement. Suddenly, waiting tables sounded like a
fabulous alternative.

“I have an extra
uniform,” the waitress continued. “All you’re doing is drink
orders. I will totally help you.” She clutched my hands. “Please?”

“I haven’t filled
out any paperwork or anything,” I worried. But I could use some
extra cash. Especially now that I wasn’t going to accept Declan’s
offer.

“We’ll figure that
out.” The manager shrugged, not too concerned. “Trish will get
you all set up.” Trish, the waitress, plus the manager and the
bartender all looked at me expectantly.

“OK.” I stood up,
bemused but ready for duty.

“All right!” They
welcomed me, Trish looping her arm through mine and leading me to go
get changed. Maybe this idea was actually a stroke of genius? Waiting
tables kept you busy, so busy you barely had a second to think. It
was how I’d made it through the last couple of years: show up for
my shift, pour coffee, deliver food, punch out. Work worked for me.
When I stopped and thought about it, agreeing to wait tables tonight
made no sense at all. But maybe that was the key: no stopping and
thinking.

A few minutes later I
found myself in a back room wiggling into a loaner set of a black
t-shirt and skirt. One thing was clear: there wasn’t enough fabric.

“Um, Trish?” I
heard her humming outside the changing space as she reapplied some
mascara.

“Everything OK in
there?”

“Do you have anything
larger? These are…”

Trish giggled. “Trust
me.”

“But it’s not
Hooters. This is a nice place, right?”

Now she burst out
laughing. “Let me see.”

Tentatively, I stepped
out in what passed for clothes. The V-neck clung to every curve,
offering up a generous slice of cleavage. It was a stretch to say
that the skirt ended at mid-thigh, especially if it crept up any as I
moved or turned or did any of the typical things a waitress did.

“Perfect,” Trish
declared.

“Are you kidding me?”

“You’re showcasing
your assets.” In saying so, she thrust out her own. “Put those
boots of yours back on and you’ll make some good tips tonight.”

I smoothed out the
fabric as if I could make it magically grow bigger.

“Meet me out in five.
I’ll show you your tables.”

Alone in the room, I
stepped into my boots. A thin sliver of a mirror revealed my
reflection. It made me blush. I didn’t dress like that, not any
more. As a teenager I’d gone through a phase. The Declan phase. I’d
strutted my stuff, skimpy clothes clinging to my curves, all skin and
temptation. But not for the past six years. First heartbreak had
cloaked me, then my father’s illness and passing, then the
financial troubles. I’d mostly taken to wearing baggy jeans and old
work shirts, the kind you’d find on a hardened, middle-aged
rancher’s wife.

I drew up my hair into
a high ponytail and then struck a pose, hip to the side. Imaginary
pen and pad of paper in hand, I sized myself up in the mirror. May I
take your order?

I could do this. Yes,
to me it looked like my clothes had called in sick for the night, but
maybe I was overreacting? These were probably normal, 24-year-old
women’s clothes. I just hadn’t been living a normal, 24-year-old
woman’s life.

Plus, I’d had a lot
of fun the night before in that wee scrap of a dress. It hadn’t
stayed on me for long. Declan had pulled the top down and yanked the
bottom up as he’d taken me up on a shelf, pinching my nipples and
licking and sucking my clit like an animal.

Flushed, I looked at
myself sideways in the mirror. Stomach in, ass out. Showcasing my
assets. It might be fun to see Declan in this outfit. A wicked grin
flashed across my face. It might drive him completely insane.

It would serve him
right, the man was so infuriating. He always had the upper hand,
dismissing me like a kid back in the day, sitting behind that huge
desk in his office. Making me squirm in the crowded restaurant.
Tonight I’d make him squirm. I’d show him I wasn’t at his beck
and call. When he showed up at seven o’clock—if he showed up at
all—I’d be a little too busy to talk. I’d tell him I’d talk
to him when my shift was over. Jutting my chin out with a defiant
tilt, I gave myself a nod in the mirror. Let’s do this.

Heading back into the
bar, I saw Trish buzzing around in a hum of activity.

“Good,” the manager
said, giving me a quick glance before he went back to his clipboard
again, deep in logistics mode before the start of his short-handed
night. Maybe I’d overreacted to the skimpiness of my outfit?

Then the bartender
dropped a bottle.

“Fuck!” I heard him
exclaim, cracking his head as he stood back up. Hand to the back of
his skull, he drew up to his full height slowly, wincing in pain.

“Are you OK?” I
rushed over to see if he needed help. “Are you bleeding?”

A woman’s great, big
laugh boomed out. “Come on over here,” Trish called to me.
“Before Trent recovers and starts using his cheesy lines on you.”

She set me to work
filling small bowls with Spanish Marcona almonds. I’d never had one
before, but I guessed the same rule applied here with the jazz music
and subtle lighting as at the dusty, honky-tonk Silver Dollar Saloon
back home. The best customer was a drunk and thirsty one.

“All right, we have
five, ten minutes tops before things start to pick up,” Trish
explained as she and I distributed the dishes to high, round tables.
“It’s Saturday night so we’ll be slammed. But you’ve only got
those five tables.” She nodded to my section, front and center.

“You’re gonna get a
lot of attention, that’s for sure.” Trish looked me over, then
burst out laughing once more. “I hope Trent knocks himself out
again. That’d be awesome.”

I couldn’t help but
laugh as well. So Trent had dropped that bottle and cracked his head
over me. When was the last time that had happened? That would be
never.

Right on schedule, the
bar started to bustle with patrons. Many of the women wore sleek
dresses, the men in crisp dress shirts with pressed collars against
freshly-shaven skin. Country girl that I was, I had to admit I felt
impressed.

“My, but they’re
gussied up,” I murmured to Trish.

“Not bad, right?”
Trish agreed, with a not-so-subtle nod over to a chiseled guy
drinking over at one of her tables.

At the bar, Trent
filled my first round of drink orders. “I have to ask, are you a
model?”

I barely managed to
suppress a snort along with my laughter. “How many pick-up lines do
you have?”

“Do you have a map?”
he asked in response. “I’m getting lost in your eyes.”

The next couple of
hours flew by in a whirlwind of banter, orders and laughter. The buzz
and energy in the bar eclipsed the tiny Chat ‘n’ Chew with its
locals and regulars, taking their time with what passed for news in
our sleepy corner of the world. I spun around from table to bar,
finding that a quick smile and fast service earned crazy good tips.
Of course, it helped that the prices were outrageous. Imported beers
at $7 a glass, $12 signature cocktails. I could get a full meal plus
dessert for that back home. But this was no place like home, Dorothy,
and I didn’t want to tap my cowboy boot-heels together to go back
just yet.

Busy as I was, I
couldn’t help scanning the room. I still had time before seven
o’clock, but Declan might arrive early. It was his place, after
all. A buzz of anticipation formed in my stomach.

“Why the frown,
beautiful?” A trio of handsome guys arrived at one of my tables.

“Good evening,
gentlemen.” I greeted them with a big smile.

One placed both hands
over his heart. “I’m a goner, guys. That smile did me in.”

“Maybe I should frown
again.” I feigned concern.

“I like this one,”
his friend laughed. They asked me where I was from and seemed charmed
when I said a ranch upstate. They explained they were here joining
some friends for a bachelor’s getaway.

“Mostly fly fishing.
Out in the middle of nowhere,” one lamented. He gave me a tragic
look with his blue eyes. His sweep of sandy hair made him look like a
California surfer dude.

“Oh, I think that
sounds very manly.” We exchanged a smile before I turned to fill
their drink orders.

Trent was waiting for
me on the other side of the bar. “Are you Google? Because I’ve
found what I’m searching for.”

I groaned. “That
one’s the worst.”

“But you’re
smiling,” he pointed out. “That’s halfway.”

“Halfway to what,
exactly?”

“I can show you
later, gorgeous.” He winked at me.

I laughed, basking in
this crazy thing called flirtatious banter. I thought I remembered it
from back in high school. So much of the last six years had been
devoted to sulking (Declan), fighting (cancer), mourning (Dad), and
scrabbling to make ends meet. Sassy and sexy hadn’t had much time
to shine.

But I guessed flirting
was like riding a bicycle, you just hopped on and all the bubbly,
giddy fun came flooding right back.

Turned out the
fly-fishing guys were from L.A. The rest of their buddies joined them
soon enough, in from their flight from New York. Finance guys, ego to
spare and money to burn. The sandy-haired one made a point of
chatting me up, asking me did I like country music (yes), did I give
lessons in line dancing (not a chance), and did I know my eyes were
the color of a summer sky (oh stop you).

At the register, Trish
nodded over at my table. “You’ve got some hotties.”

“Bachelor party.”

Trish whistled under
her breath. “Out for a good time.” She raised her eyebrow
suggestively. “The Ken doll’s cute.” She gave him a wave and I
elbowed her like we were teenagers.

I looked down at my
notepad, checking an order, thinking of the Ken doll. He was cute.
Great smile, flirting with me mercilessly. What if? What if I were a
different person, a regular, lighthearted 24-year-old? I might spend
a night of mindless fun having the kind of sex that honest and true
had no ramifications. No heart on the line, no bizarre agreements to
do his bidding. I wouldn’t be upset when he didn’t call the next
day. I’d go back to waiting tables, maybe meet someone else the
next night.

And just like that, I
could tell Declan had entered the room. A shiver went up my spine.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see a large man with a dark,
commanding presence standing by the entry. I didn’t need to look up
to know it was him. I could feel it in my bones. I could feel him see
me, his scorching, intense gaze fixed on me like a target. And, damn
it, a spark of arousal coursed through my veins, my body instantly
starting to respond.