Uncut (Unexpected Book 4) Page 10

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.

  “Tristan, 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 y
ou 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.”

  “Nice to meet you, Thea. Tristan Cooperson, not Whiskey Sour.” I order myself to stop ogling the curvy-sexy goddess. I extend my hand, touching her. Fuck, I sound and feel like a teenager in lust.

  Thea stares at our hands for several seconds, mirroring the dumbfounded reaction that her touch creates. An electrifying surge radiates through my hand, traveling all over my body. I have to move before it consumes me, but I don’t want to. This feels right. Perfect. Her eyes shine, locking with mine. For the first time, I notice their strange coloring—blue with a hint of purple. The dim light of the bar never allowed me to appreciate them.

  “Do you want to come up for some coffee or tea, maybe water? I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer.”

  “Yeah, we have time,” Matt says, opening the metal door wider.

  Feeling a little dazed, I follow the gorgeous mess that stopped my heart the moment she opened the door and looked at me. Those dazzling eyes framed with long eyelashes that reach for the sky hypnotized me. The entire package is different from anyone I’ve ever seen before. There’s something about her that . . . I don’t know.

  The short flight of stairs takes us to another light-blue door. As Thea opens it, the sound of instrumental music and nature sounds from her small apartment reaches me. The crowded space fits one bed, a table, an old brown sofa, plastic containers, and lots of bookshelves filled with books, crafts, and plastic boxes. The table has tools on top, cords, charms, and colorful yarns. A penetrating aroma of incense burns for a couple of breaths before I get used to it.

  “You’re working on making jewelry this late at night?” Matt asks when we reach the apartment. She stares at the bracelets she wears on her arms, nods, and smiles. “Nice. Can I use your bathroom?”

  “Yeah, behind the only door in this apartment.” She looks around the unmade bed, and scrunches her face. “Sorry for the mess, but it’s been a busy week.”

  Matt doesn’t say a word and he disappears through the small door.

  “So, you two are . . . an item?” she asks, biting her lip, and instinctively I growl a no. “Sorry, about . . . assuming that you and . . .” She bites her lip. “He . . .”

  I guess she knows Matthew’s sexual preferences.

  “No worries, I get it. Matthew doesn’t have many filters.” I walk over to the table and start admiring a crocheted flower and checking the drawings on the sketchpad. Then casually say, “Though, I am bisexual. In case you’re wondering.”

  What the fuck did I just say?

  My gaze lifts and meets hers. I’ve no fucking idea where that comes from or why I want her to know. In fact, this is the first time I’ve ever actually admitted it out loud.

  “Yeah, no filters. If you only knew the things I know about him.” She gives me a coy smile and heads to the kitchen. I follow behind, wanting to know more about him, about her. Questions pop inside my head. Like, why is there a magnetic pull between the two of us? Or, am I only imagining it? “There aren’t many like Matt. It takes a lot of courage to embrace who you are and to be open and free.”

  Is she talking about me, or her? That surprises me. She looks like a free spirit, someone who wouldn’t care about what the rest of the world thinks about her or what she does. Her eyes flicker, her shoulders sag, and I believe I’ve found vulnerability within that happy armor she wears. Someone who’s fragile, breakable.

  “You’ve been too quiet since yesterday.” I slide down the chair while drinking my coffee. Last night Tristan went to the Silver Moon to assess the place. It took several calls at different times until he agreed to meet me there. Tristan watched the operation from one of the far tables from the bar. According to Thea, he arrived early and only drank a couple of whiskey sours. We spoke with Reed, although it felt like Tristan had interrogated him about the bar. Since we left the bar, he hasn’t said much. “If you don’t want to buy it that’s understandable.” Tristan finally meets my gaze as he tilts his head. His wet strands of hair move to the left. “How about you train me?”

  His dark gaze locks on mine. “How do you make your business decisions, Matt?” He chuckles. “I can only guess they are out of impulse. That’s not me. I like to do my homework before I invest my money. I don’t jump into something without knowing the risks. It’s a terrible approach.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I want to buy the bar, but I have to study the place. Maybe we can be partners.” He places his tablet on top of the table and takes a drink of his coffee, then gives me his full attention. “I’m making a business plan, assessing the risks and . . . I’ll let you know what I conclude when I’m done with it. Also, there’re a few issues I’m handling back in California. Then I have Thrice to think about. I doubt I’ll be able to give Reed a hand while he decides to sell. How about you, can you be at the Silver Moon?”

  “Yes. I can be at the Silver Moon every other week and every weekend,” I tell him, while I sigh with relief that he hasn’t been avoiding me, but just been busy. “If I have questions he’s there. Maybe Thea can teach me more about her job. You can swing by whenever.”

  He nods, finishes his coffee, and lifts his tablet from the table.

  “What’s her story? Thea’s? I noticed you were very interested in her.” His eyes are glued to the tablet, so I don’t know what the question means. Is he jealous? Maybe interested in my butterfly? I noticed the glances they gave to each other at the bar and while we visited Thea in her apartment. “I don’t know her, but how about this time you follow my rule and don’t mix pleasure with business?”

  “Is this because you want her to be part of Silver Moon after we buy it,” I push down his tablet and hol
d his chin between my fingers, “or because I noticed you were very interested in her?” I copy his words.

  “I don’t know her well, but my gut tells me that she needs more than a horny man to jerk her around,” he says, moving his chin away from my hold. “If you decide to make a move, be the guy I know you can be.”

  “I like her,” I state, because I do. I’m attracted, yes, but I don’t think I’d take that attraction any further from what I do now. Innocent flirting and a few stolen caresses. Last night, the sight of her without the uniform threw me off balance. Usually I see her with that ugly polo shirt and the cap. The loose hair and bare skin I saw stirred my entire body, but then I remembered that she’s a good friend, and trying to change our relationship from platonic to physical will jeopardize what we have. “I wouldn’t initiate anything with her unless I was serious, and we know I’m not the serious kind. She's strong but fragile. I couldn't take care of her the way she deserves.”

  “You could,” Tristan utters rising from his seat. “You're caring, sweet, and protective.” He brushes my lips with his. Fuck, I’ve missed his lips. “I'm taking a shower and heading to Thrice. Call when you're in California. We can discuss the bar and catch up with whatever Reed decides.”

  “I'll call you, because I miss you too,” I say loud enough so he can hear me. Tristan doesn't come back or acknowledge me. Which is for the best. That peck made me want to offer him a quickie, but I know what happens to Tristan when he's sleeping around—with men. I’d rather miss our sexual relationship—and I do—than have him drunk and lost. Caring for drunks or anyone intoxicated isn't fun. I did that a lot for my brother, and it's not a route I'm willing to take ever. I respect and admire my parents, but I doubt I could abstain from alcohol like Gabe does because Chris is a recovering drunk. Maybe I'd have to be in love to even contemplate that.

  Tristan enters the kitchen and says, “I didn’t say that I miss you, but some days I do.” I grin at him and blow him a kiss to make him squirm. “Breakfast at four in the morning isn’t the same without you.”