Perpetuate Read online

  “So what you gonna do?” he asks and easily reaches over my head to return a club soda to the top shelf that someone – probably me - left out at some point.

  Peering into the chilled tin can, I sneer in disgust at the meager contents. Leftover pizza. Oven ready meatloaf in a glass container prepared by Doris, the faceless maid I never see. Oh wait… I fired her last month. I think that lonely dish has been shelved there the whole time. And something that looks like comatose cheese, if cheese comes sprinkled with mold green.

  And way back there nearly blocking the cheerful illumination, shoved behind a tired box of baking soda and a stray, decaying apple, are the brown bottles of brewed nightmares.

  I stare at them for a beat, allowing the dreaded images to flit through my harried head in a burning carousel of agony.

  You promised you’d never leave!

  Shaking myself out of the stolen spell, I let steel greet steel and glance over at the suddenly silent giant in my kitchen. “Dude, I thought you liked to cook. Why is there no food in the house?”

  “Because up until last week, you had a housekeeper that did just fine feeding you. So what if she liked to clean in your boxer briefs and nothing else? The woman had skills.”

  Was it only last week? Seems longer than that. “Don’t remind me. I had to toss out an entire drawer of perfectly good underwear,” I shake my head at the absurdity. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and stock this thing up.” My thumb jerks in the direction of the dieting appliance. “Anyway, I’m going to make everything up to her,” I respond to the question he asked a minute ago.

  “How are you going to do that? You just fired her only family. You think she’s gonna give two shits what you do other than hiring him back?”

  What Carlson doesn’t know, is refusing to consider, is that there is no room for failure. “I’m her family.”

  “She doesn’t know you from Adam.”

  Hell, sometimes I don’t think I know me from Adam. “But she will.”

  “Look man, I get it.” Exasperated, he shakes his giant head. “You’ve been planning this for a long time, but you guys aren’t kids anymore. A lot has changed. You’ve got a lot to lose. How do you know she’s even someone you can trust in your life?”

  “It’s not my trust that’s the concern. It’s hers in me.”

  Four

  Gemma

  “Is he hot?”

  I roll my eyes at Craig, one of three bartenders on duty tonight and one of my closest friends and roommates, as I efficiently replace empty beer bottles on the tray with fresh ones. “What difference does it make? He’s an ass.”

  Slender shoulders shift in a half-hearted shrug. “So what? He can be an ass as long as that said anatomy looks good. I’d cut him some slack.”

  Figures. “Well, I didn’t notice his ass.” Okay, maybe a little, but I’m not going to tell the manwhore that and add fuel to his already raging libido. “I was too busy trying to talk him out of firing my dad.”

  Fast, practiced tugs on tabs have Craig filling up glass after glass of foaming brown brews. “How’s he doing, anyway?”

  I only shake my head, not wanting to get into the depressing details right now as I heft up the platter and zigzag my way between bustling tables and booming, rowdy laughter. When I went over yesterday afternoon after my meeting with Brad Hawkes, dad was sprawled on his bed still dressed in the same tattered jeans and frayed t-shirt he had on the night before. One sneaker was hooked stubbornly to a foot, while the other was MIA and possibly burrowed among the piles of dirty, rancid clothes strewn all over the bedroom floor. From experience, I knew he’d be sleeping like the dead for hours.

  “Three houses and a Fantastic Rumba,” I announce as I deftly unload the drinks onto the table made up of four young professionals. The men are still in their shirt and tie, and the one woman is in a nice and tasteful dress. “And your hot wings and garlic fries will be here shortly.”

  One of the men grins and winks at me, but in this job, that’s considered part of the regular day.

  “What time you get off, sweetheart?” He looks to be in his mid to late twenties. Fair hair, fair skin. Attractive in a harmless, guy next door kind of way. And just looking to mess around. “’Cause my friend here thinks you’re cute.” The friend in question nearly spits out the beer he just gulped.

  I only smile. “There’s a time when I should get off?” I ask with cavalier lightheartedness. Let’s face it, the more friendly the banter with the guests, the bigger the tips they leave behind. “I believe a woman should get off every time.”

  A palm slaps with quite the theatrical flourish on his chest just over his heart. “The woman of my dreams.”

  “You say that now, but wait until the bill comes.”

  I leave them chuckling to swing by another table to take yet another order. It’s Friday evening, and being in a strategic location between a university and Downtown, Conyers Bar and Grill is hectic and hopping. It’s not yet seven, but there’s already a bustling crowd out front waiting for available seating.

  My shift started at four and already my feet are throbbing in my old, threadbare walking shoes. Luckily the place is casual with the uniform being a white, short-sleeve button blouse and black, thigh-length skirt for the female staff and black pants for the male. The servers also get to wear a red lap apron with large pockets so we can store things like pens for easy and convenient access.

  “Hey, Gem,” Craig calls to me as I near the bar once again. “I forgot to tell you earlier. I’m meeting up with this guy I met online after work, so don’t wait up for me tonight.”

  Craig, Jamie, and I share an apartment not too far from here. Living with two men who have a very lively love life, I’m often home by myself on weekends. “Is this the same guy you had drinks with the other night?”

  He scoffs, his sparkly brown eyes dancing with mischief. “Had him.” Perfectly sculpted mouth shoots up in a crooked grin. “Moved on.”

  “You are bad, Craig King. You better be careful or your penis is going to fall off.”

  “Don’t be jealous, buttercup. You’d get some action too if you stop being a prude.”

  “I am not a prude. I’m just… selective.”

  He swipes at my ponytail as I turn to load up more drinks. “With that gorgeous dark hair, that creamy, flawless skin, and those huge hazel eyes, you might notice every straight man drooling from a mile away if only you paid more attention.”

  “Not interested in drooling men,” I quip over my shoulder before walking off to deliver the brimming beverages.

  Once that’s done, I head over to the newly situated patron at the corner booth. We don’t get many loners on weekends, but once in a while we’d get someone in for a quick drink on a Friday night before heading home from a long day at work. Snatching up a cocktail napkin from my handy apron pocket, I place it on the table before presenting the customer with my ready smile.

  “Hi, I’m Gemma, and I’ll be your…” My brain instantly freezes at the sight of the familiar green eyes even as my shocked heart gallops like a racehorse off the gate.

  “Hello, Gemma.”

  What’s he doing here?

  How does he know I work here?

  Did I mention it during our brief encounter?

  Has he changed his mind about my dad?

  But no, that can’t be it. A phone call to my father would have sufficed.

  When I only stare at him, stunned and slacked jaw, he slants me a tentative but reassuring smile and nudges at the menu on the table before him. “I’ve been seeing a lot of hot wings and calamari around here. Are they any good?”

  Snubbing his ridiculous attempt at small talk, I demand my own question. “What are you doing here?”

  He feigns puzzlement. “For the food, naturally. And…” Deliberately he looks about him, taking in the boisterous crowd, the mounted televisions with some muted baseball game, and the inescapable blares of hard rock ricocheting from the ceiling speakers before
meeting my narrowed gaze again. “The festive atmosphere.”

  Yeah, right. He must think I’m an idiot. One look at him and anyone can see he doesn’t belong here. Conyers is a nice place, sure, but it’s no fancy, four-star restaurant that requires a tie just to breathe in the aroma.

  I mean, look at this place. Then look at him.

  Conyers is favored by college students and young professionals just starting out on their career, not for someone whose fancy gadget watch cost more than the owner’s car.

  Sure, he tried. Instead of some elegant, tailored outfit he’s in dark slacks and a light blue button shirt. Just because he’s not wearing a tie and the collar was left open doesn’t mean he’s not screaming shining success slumming it.

  And his hair. My God.

  It looks free and natural, soft to the touch.

  Angrily shaking off the vivid image of me running my fingers through it, I glare at him. “What do you want?”

  “Since you’re being so secretive about your menu suggestions, I’ll start with a glass of white.”

  “You want wine?” No one comes here for that. It’d be like going to the local diner for a filet mignon. “You so did not come here for wine,” I accuse bitterly.

  A dark eyebrow climbs up. “Oh? Then what did I come here for?”

  I don’t hesitate. “To annoy me.”

  Holding my gaze, he leans back in his seat and folds his arms low over his chest. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I went to your office, your place of work, and now you’re doing the same to me.”

  “Don’t be paranoid, Gemma. It doesn’t suit you.”

  What the hell does he know about what suits me? “Really? So you’re going to deny you knew I work here?”

  He seems to consider the answer for a beat. “No, I won’t deny that.”

  “And that detail,” I enunciate and lower my head until I’m nearly in his face while raging guitar strings shriek around us, “had nothing to do with the fact you’re here now?”

  Again he weights his response, then, “Won’t deny that either.”

  “So I’ll ask one more time: What are you doing here?”

  “To eat.”

  Ah! I want to scream at this guy. “Fine. I’ll get someone that can help you.” Not caring about his response, I spin around and signal Angie, another server, aside. “Would you do me a favor?”

  Big eyes blink in question. “What’s up?”

  “You see that guy at twenty-eight?” I wait until she discreetly peeks around me, her brown gaze lighting up at the sight of his gorgeous profile. “He was my dad’s boss, and I really would rather not have to deal with him if I don’t have to. Would you mind if we switch a table?” As a deal breaker, I add, “He’s loaded, so he’ll probably give you a big tip.”

  “I can tell.” The freckles on her nose are practically dancing with excitement. “Sure, Gem. No problem. Have you taken his order yet?”

  “Just a glass of white wine, otherwise he’s all yours.”

  Gleefully Angie bounces off to her newly acquired table, leaving a trail with her salivation. She beams at him as she recites the intro spiel. Only a few words are exchanged before he shoots me a look from across the expanse of the animated restaurant. I’m too far away to interpret what that look is trying to convey, but I’m guessing it’s not anything pleasant. Oh well. Tough.

  On the way back to the bar while my head fumes over the nerve of some rich, entitled jackass, I manage to note a request for ranch dressing, refill two iced teas and water, and present the bill to a family of five.

  Mentally shaking my head at the whole dumbfounding turn of events, I spot Craig by the bar sink as he absently swipes his fingers on a towel draped over a lean shoulder. “You won’t believe who’s here. The ass. As in A-S-S, all caps. All that talk about him must’ve conjured him up from the hole he crawls into at night.”

  I imagine I had that same look on my face as the one currently on Craig when I first saw the jerk.

  “No way.” Craig scans my features, probably waiting for the punchline. “You mean the guy that fired your dad?”

  “The one and only.”

  Yup, the same incredulous question in his eyes, too. “What’s he doing here?”

  I throw up my hands. “That was what I wanted to know. He said he’s here for the food and festive atmosphere. Like I believe that. I think he’s here to give me a hard time.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “Twenty-eight.” I groan with distress when Craig’s head instantly swivels toward the table without hesitation. “Uh, can you be more obvious?” I chide with heat even if I should be used to his unabashed indiscretion by now.

  His eyes widen in alarm before he swiftly dips his head and mutters under his breath, “Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  With expansive, exaggerated gestures, he begins briskly rubbing at the bar with a rag. “If it’s the guy in the killer blue shirt and rocking pants, he just got up… and he’s coming this way.”

  “What?”

  “Yup, approaching at five o’clock.”

  Panic. In the split second it takes me to process Craig’s warning that’s what vigorously races through my heating veins. I don’t know why and don’t plan on wasting precious time psychoanalyzing it. I whip around with the sole intent to get and get fast, but before I even have a chance to dash aside a large, warm hand lands on my shoulder, effectively anchoring me in place.

  “Miss Warton.”

  Something like boiling anticipation bubbles inside me.

  I’m standing there still facing Craig, and I can see my roommate watching us with avid and shameless fascination. The jackass is behind me, waiting for me to turn around, but my muscles are frozen, refusing to function properly in the face of this unexpected threat. Or thrill.

  Except where his skin drapes over the white cotton shirt, completely encircling my entire right shoulder. There, the muscles tinkle. Slowly, as though my limbs would crack and shatter, I turn my body until I’m facing a pair of amused, spring eyes. When the awkward silence stretches between us, which is absurd considering we’re surrounded by blistering music and rowdy conversations and laughter, his hand falls to his side.

  Out of the corner of my eye I catch one of the bursting customers down the counter waving his hand avidly to try to get Craig’s attention, but I don’t have to look to know my friend’s focus is riveted to the diverting scene before him. All he’s missing is a bag of popcorn.

  Seriously, subtlety is a lost art.

  With my best bland expression I reserve for difficult customers, I nod in the general direction of table twenty-eight. “Whatever it is you need, Mr. Hawkes, Angie, your server, will be assisting you.”

  “And what table do I need to be to have you as my server?”

  That contemptible question has my teeth grinding. Before I can stop myself, I’m coldly looking up into that gorgeous but strangely aloof face. “What, it’s not enough you fired my dad? You want to make it a point to make things difficult for me so you can get me fired, as well?”

  If possible, that beautiful, distant face becomes even more removed. “Is that hostility on the menu, or is that just today’s special?”

  A snicker escapes from Craig’s lips before it’s quickly – and smartly – smothered.

  Unbelievable. Is the mighty Mr. Hawkes actually making a joke of this? “It’s made fresh daily for jackasses.” I shoot a quick glare over my shoulder at the quiet ouch coming from behind the bar. “Beat it, King,” I tell Craig with a jerk of my head, twisting back around to confront my nemesis only to find Manny, the restaurant manager, hurrying over.

  “Gemma, twenty-five needs you, and nineteen wants the check.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. “I’m on it.”

  As I’m striding back to the real world and leaving a stone-face CEO behind, I hear Manny asks in his appeasing, kiss-ass voice, “Sir, do you need assistance?” I don’t wait around to listen to what Hawkes has
to say. If he’s going to get me fired, he’ll find a way to do it. Of that I have no doubt. Though I only officially met him yesterday, it’s obvious the man is unwavering, ruthless, and fixedly goes after what he wants. If he’s decided to target me, my days at Conyers are numbered. Why he would take the time to do that, I can’t figure out. Surely the man has better things to do than pick on someone so far down his threat radar as to be nonexistent.

  In record time I have table nineteen checked and twenty-five’s order, got thirty-four - Angie’s table that I adopted - squared away, and promised to bring another round of house tap to the group of annoyingly flighty professionals who boasted to me to keep them coming until they pass out or until I leave with them.

  I’m at the pickup counter retrieving the order for twenty-seven when Manny slides up next to me with his staid game face on, distractedly brushing a hand down his neatly trimmed goatee. One glance at the humorless mud brown eyes has me taking a deep, bracing breath.

  Hello, unemployment.

  “Gemma, a customer is specifically asking for your services.”

  Wordlessly I begin loading the large aluminum tray.

  “Table twenty-eight.”

  Mozzarella sticks. Barbecue wings.

  “I assured him that wasn’t a problem, since that’s your table anyway, and that you’d be with him shortly.”

  Nachos, loaded. Club sandwich.

  “Then he did the strangest thing.”

  My busy fingers falter over the plastic bin of chili cheese fries.

  “He slipped me this,” Manny flashes a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill between two fingers, “and told me to make sure that’s the case.”

  Bitterly pressing my lips together, I order myself not to say anything. The man has money. Clearly he has no qualms about throwing it around just to show he can.

  “Gemma, why would a customer slip me a Franklin just to have you as a server?”

  Feigning disinterest, I boost up the laden tray, but Manny only keeps step with me as I wound my way about with the heavy load. Why can’t they all just leave me alone? “I don’t know, Manny. That’s something you’d have to ask him.”