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He laughs like it’s a stupid question. “At the rate I’m going, I’ll get caught up by Christmas. And that’s if Tess gets her ass back here and finishes the tranny rebuild and two oil changes she started yesterday.”
I watch Lisa saunter over to their table and rip their check off her pad, talking while she slides it onto the table. I’m not sure I want to know what’s coming out of her mouth. “Any chance you can give Tess the afternoon off?”
Conner sighs into the phone and I hear a sharp metal clang like he’d just slammed a socket wrench into the heavy metal table he uses for rebuilds. “What did that cocksucking brother of mine do this time?”
I tell him about Jessica coming in and stirring everyone up before dragging Declan out by his balls. “He left you alone?” Conner says, angrily.
“I’m not a fucking idiot, Con—I know how to use the bottle opener and make change,” I say, an unrecognizable edge sneaking into my tone. “I didn’t call about me, I called about Tess.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s a pussy-whipped, dumb-ass, piece of fucking …” he mutters under his breath before letting the insult trail off. “How is she?” he says and I know he’s not asking about this brother’s fiancé.
You know Tess,” I say, hitting the volume button on the TV above the bar, trying to drown out the sound of my voice. “She looks fine, but …”
“Yeah.” Another sigh, followed by another clang. “Fuck it. Let me call her, tell her I’m closing up early to help you with the bar. Give her the night off.”
“Alright, man—thanks,” I say, quickly, watching Cari carry her check up to the bar. I hang up right before she stops in front of me. “Need something?” I say, wiping the bar down in front of her even though it was spotless.
She doesn’t say anything, just flashes her check before holding it out for me to take. As soon as I take it she reaches into her purse for her wallet.
“Something wrong with your food,” I say, keying in the total while behind her, Tess’s phone goes off. She answers it, looking momentarily confused before the expression gives way to one caught between gratitude and annoyance.
“I’m pretty sure your girlfriend spit in it,” Cari says, fishing her debit card from her wallet.
I started to say Lisa wouldn’t do something like that but then I remember what Declan said about her. That’s she as crazy. Instead of defending her, I take the card out of Cari’s hand and run it for half the amount. Behind her, Tess finishes her conversation and gets up, heading for the door. She leaves without saying goodbye and I don’t try to stop her. She knows I called Conner and she’s pissed. A few seconds later, I watch her pass by the window, on her way back to the garage. She flips me the bird as she passes by.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I say ripping off her receipt before slapping it and a pen onto the bar between us. I meet her gaze, my hand still settled on top of her receipt, not letting her take it just yet.
She narrows her eyes at me for a second, an angry flush crawling across her chest. The birthmark on her chest is darker than I’ve ever seen it. The deep wine color can only mean one thing. Cari’s pissed. Between having my fingers inside her, her taste in my mouth and watching her finger fuck herself, my cock’s been hard all day. Knowing she’s angry at me pushes me across the line.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, giving the last word some weight, just to see how far I can push her. I think it might be my new favorite thing. Seeing how far I can push her.
Cari goes a little pale, the blood rushing from her head to her chest. She opens her mouth but before she can say a word, the side door closest to the bar—the one that requires a key—opens, letting Conner in. And he has someone in tow.
Seeing us in what looks like the start of pretty good row, Conner jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “This guy’s looking for you, Legs,” he says, stepping out of the way so the guy behind him can step up.
“I’ve got a delivery for Cari Faraday,” he says, reading the name off the clipboard in his hand. “That you?”
“Yes,” Cari says, regaining a semblance of composure. She blots her hands on the skirt of her dress before reaching for the package. It’s large, two feet by three, thin with hard angles, poking through its plain brown paper wrapping. The delivery guy hands it over and she sets it on a barstool, leaning it against the bar.
“Don’t keep me guessing, Legs,” Conner says, rounding the bar, pulling on an apron while he walked. “Open it.”
She blushes, her birthmark glowing bright red, gaze darting between the two of us like she’s trying to figure out which one of us is playing a trick on her. Finally, her curiosity gets the better of her and she reaches out, ripping the paper away from the package.
“Oh…” The words flows out on a sigh, soft and feathery, filled with reverent disbelief. Her hand flies to her mouth, fingers trembling just a bit against a mouth that slowly spreads into a smile. I want to vault over the bar to get a look at what it is but I plant my feet firmly and wait for Conner to do his job.
“Come on,” he says, giving her an impatient gesture. “Let’s see it.”
She lifts the package and turns it, smiling and still a little breathless. When I see what it is, it’s like a fist slamming into my gut.
It’s that painting. The one she went nuts over when it was on exhibit at the museum a few years ago. She must’ve dragged me there a dozen times to stare at it. The artist is local... I finally make the connection. It’s from that guy I met yesterday at the gallery. Everett Chase. Early thirties. Successful. Wealthy. Just her type.
Knowing that, I feel the fist in my gut start to twist at my insides. Tucked into the corner of the frame is a small white envelope with her name printed across the front in small, neat letters.
She plucks it from the frame and lifts the flap to pull the card free. I watch her big blue eyes scan the card, her cheeks so flushed, I immediately look at the spot below her collarbone. It’s as red as an apple.
Someone clears their throat and we all look up to see the delivery guy still standing by the door, clipboard in hand. “I’m supposed to deliver your answer.”
Cari looks down at the card, re-reading the note before bouncing a quick look up at me. Our eyes connect and hold for a few moments before she looks away, tucking the card back in its envelope. Picking up the painting, she turns, reaching out for the clipboard to sign for the delivery. “Tell him I said yes,” she says, handing back the clipboard before heading upstairs without a backward glance.