Chapter 3

Haylee

“I have to work today, Haylee.”

Ah, douche bag Brad has to work, and my heart pumps piss for him. Not that I lack empathy. Not at all. I feel sorry for plenty of losers. Thirty-year old men wearing Luke Skywalker costumes as they beat off in their mom’s basements. That high school girl with coke bottle glasses and her battered copy of Tolstoy clutched to her chest so faded you can’t make out the title. Even that homeless guy on the corner of Tropicana and Tee Pee who makes more money than most people put together but doesn’t have to file a W-2.

I nod, slapping his stack of hotcakes with extra butter down in front of him with a resounding thud that doesn’t even cause him to flinch.

“Hmm…that sucks, Brad. I won’t be able to show you that new triple fudge caramel extra shot macchiato I just invented. While standing on my head.”

He shot me a goofy grin. “Really? I could skip work for that.”

Never. Getting. Laid.

“Hayleeberry-pie, you’re needed in the kitchen, darlin,” my co-worker and bestie, Dixie Pendergrass, calls from behind the counter of the server station.

Dixie’s from Mobile, Alabama and she’s as redneck as moonshine and NASCAR, but she’s also been blessed with a heart of gold. Fifteen years ago, she drove into Vegas on the fumes coming from her rusted Chevy Vega that I’d call a rattletrap, but she refers to as a classic. My friend will do anything for anyone, no questions asked. There are so many times she’s helped me out with Atlee that I’ve lost count. All I know is that I owe her so many solids, I’ll go to my grave owing her so big I’d need to use all of my nine lives to pay her back.

She’s got one hand on an ample and saucy hip and the other on that little silver bell that we sometimes use when we need to communicate there’s an order up under the lights. And boy, do I need a little saving. Brad’s in here every single evening before heading off to work the graveyard shift at a local factory, hitting on me. He’s handsy and annoying, kind of like a buzzing fly. After hitting the bell so many times it sounds like a cross between the Tibetan Healing Bells and Beethoven’s Fifth, Dixie starts waving at me. Her middle age bat wings flap so hard they could take out a small child.

“Gotta go, Brad. Have a nice day at work. See ya.”

I hightail it back behind the counter to where Dixie clucks her tongue and shakes her auburn hair. Usually, it’s a frizzy mass of waves, but for work, she ties it back in a mess of hair bands and bobby pins. Her name tag is askew, in danger of falling off her bright gold polyester shirt. According to Vegas Magazine, the highly successful and rich Nixon Caldwell is a fan of all things that glitter being gold. Yeah, my baby daddy’s brother’s casino looks like it’s emulating Fort Knox, that’s for sure. But I kind of like it, so don’t judge.

Before I can recover from all things Brad, a wavering, wobbling man careens toward me, arms outstretched. He reeks like gin and bad decisions. Since he’s not stable, his attempt to grab my arm fails, and he puts the full force of his massive body straight into the center of the stack of dirty dishes I’m carrying. I try in vain to hang on but lose my grip over ketchup and mustard. Can’t people keep their condiments on the damn plate?

The entire restaurant comes to a hushed standstill as the cacophony of sounds ratchet up to unacceptable levels. Plates breaking, silverware pinging the floor, my pride shattering into a million pieces. And this one isn’t even my fault. I glance around, searching for my manager, but Ginny’s AWOL, working on paperwork in the back office. Before I can bend down to clean up the mess, the huge guy starts getting fresh and begins insulting me, asking me to perform some graphic sex acts on him. I’d like to tell him to whip it out so I can bite it so hard I draw blood, but my mouth’s so dry nothing comes out. A woman from behind me gasps so loud she starts choking. She daps at her eyes with her cloth napkin, a grimace on her face. I’m not sure if I should run to get help or suck it up and just get it cleaned up as fast as I can.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Saved.

By a gigantic, stern, hulk of a man better known as Troy Cass, Nixon Caldwell’s head of security. More like head of all things needed and never anything else. He’s more like a henchman or a right-hand man. At this point, I don’t care if he fluffs Caldwell’s cock or buys his Preparation H. I hate having all eyes on me, and more than a hundred pairs have been staring for at least a minute. All I want is for things to return to normal in this damn restaurant, go about my business, and end my shift in peace.

Troy wrests the man away from me and shoves him toward the door. But even after they’ve gone, I still feel someone staring into my back, their hot gaze boring a hole. It feels hot across my entire spine, and I wonder if I forgot their second beer or their side of ranch. Before I can turn to look, a sliver of glass pricks the end of my finger, but I don’t really even feel it as the adrenaline pulses through me. The sensation makes me feel alive. Human. I stare at the tiny droplet of blood that’s pooled there.

“Ouch,” I say a few seconds later, shaking my arm at the elbow before popping it into my mouth.

“You’re hurt. Let me see that,” the stranger says, his voice low and steady. Something in the way he talks makes me want to hand my finger over for inspection. Maybe even my whole body. It’s like I can trust him. Like I already know him. “I don’t think it needs to be amputated.”

Everybody’s a fucking comedian in this casino. If I had a dollar for every time a drunk gambler cracked a pathetic joke, I’d be on a beach in the Caribbean with a mojito in one hand and the tanned to perfection pool boy in the other. But in this case, I humor him because his tone flows over me like melted butter and I just want him to keep talking.

Please keep talking.

I mumble some words and allow my eyes to flutter closed, imagining what he looks like. Hoping against hope that he’s not a fanny-pack wearing tourist from the Bronx. Steeling myself for disappointment, I open them and glance over my shoulder.

“Ford?”

“Haylee?”

I snatch my hand away from him, molten hot volcanic chemistry between us be damned. I chide myself for even turning around, but I just had to get a look at the sexy-voiced stranger. Well, maybe I’ll remember this stupidity for next time. The man I thought I’d never see again. The man I never wanted to see again is crouched down in front of me. Close enough to drink in with my eyes. Close enough to touch. No fucking way. He lost that privilege years ago when he left me pregnant and alone.

“Go away, Ford,” I murmur, standing and turning away from him. This is the last place for us to open the book of ancient history and study it.

“I’m not going anywhere. Haylee, when is your shift over?” he demands, as if he has any right to know that information. Just moments ago, my body had been firing on all cylinders, quaking with lust for some chance meeting. But now…I’m seething with rage for someone that isn’t random at all. He’s the father of the most important thing in my life. And he’s not allowed inside my inner circle. He’s not allowed to even be speaking to me.

“I said, go away!” My voice gains mountains of strength, dripping censure, anger, and something else. Something like disappointment. In him. In myself. Mostly in the tragic circumstances that tore us apart. I wonder if we ever even had a chance. If he’d stayed, I wonder if we’d be married now and settled into domestic life like any old suburban family. I’d be driving Atlee to soccer practice. Ford would be building her a treehouse that she would pretend was Wonder Woman’s plane. Her first broken bone would come from climbing up the rope ladder. I shake my head, pissed as hell at myself for even allowing my mind to go there. I close the door firmly in the face of this ghost from the past by shaking him off and turning my back on him.

“Darlin’, are you all-righty Aphrodite?” Dixie’s calm voice slices through the drama and flying emotions. “I heard there was a ‘lil ole calamity out here in the front of the house.”

When I see her concerned face, all I want to do is throw myself into her strong arms and bury my nose into her pillowy bosom. I lost my mom, Marian, to breast cancer years back and my dad, George, to a heart attack. Dixie’s the closest thing to a parent that I have outside of Mrs. C. Tears prick the back of my eyes due to embarrassment and Ford Caldwell. I will them to stay hidden in my eyelids.

I will not allow this fucking asshole to see me cry. He doesn’t deserve the privilege.

“Umm…”

Now, I can’t even respond to Dixie’s concern, so my irritation climbs. If I say more than the single syllable, I’m going to lose my shit right here in the middle of the restaurant. And I need this job. Atlee and I are barely making it now. I can’t be unemployed because he decided to waltz into Manzo during my shift. I won’t.

Dixie seems to sense imminent emotional disaster, so she drapes her arm around my shoulders and leads me away from Ford. I hear footsteps behind us, and I can almost feel his breath caging me in and licking the back of my neck like a stalking dragon. Is he going to follow me right back into the kitchen? Then I realize the truth of the situation. He’s Nixon’s brother, and that means he can probably go anywhere in this damn casino he wants to without anyone even batting an eyelash. Who’s going to risk Nixon or Troy’s wrath to stay him?

“Are you followin’ us, darlin’?” Dixie asks the person I’m assuming is Ford. Because I’m not turning around to look at him. I’m not fucking doing it because he has some kind of Jedi tactics he uses to make women fall madly in love with him like puddles at his feet. They believe him, love him until he walks away without a backward glance.

Been there. Done that. Bought the pregnancy test to prove it.

“I’m a friend of Haylee’s,” he has the audacity to say. “She’s not okay. I can tell. I think she should be allowed to leave her shift. I’ll make sure she gets home.”

My mind races with flashes of brilliant light, featuring Ford driving me home in a casino limo and Atlee running outside to greet us.

“No!” I scream, finally turning on him like a vicious bitch that I don’t even recognize.

To my surprise, all I’m met with is tender concern. He’s not mad. He’s not stalking me. He’s almost like my kind older brother, slaying my enemies and leading me back to safety with a blanket over my head.

Dixie’s eyes light with understanding, and in that moment, I know she’s figured out Ford’s identity. It doesn’t surprise me. He’s been the subject of many late night sobfests with me in the ugly cry and Dixie’s arms wrapped around me. She’s also seen the old photo album of me and Ford at every school function from freshman year to graduation. And he really hasn’t changed that much.

He’s a little rougher around the edges, a little more devil may care than his clean-cut high school style. His dark black hair is spiky and tousled on the top, but his blue eyes look me up and down over the rims of his square glasses. He’s a hot nerd if I ever saw one. And what’s underneath his jacket? Don’t even get me started. He’s probably even more chiseled since he’s grown into his man’s body.

“Can we at least agree she needs a break? Maybe a cup of coffee or a glass of water? And most certainly a Band-Aid and Neosporin for that cut.”