One

Dahlia

 

It didn’t feel real.

Staring at the book-themed bar that was now mine, I sighed. It was all I could think about. It wasn’t real. It was a dumb dream that I’d wake up from if only someone would punch me in the face.

I’d always known that The Scarlet Letter would be mine. The bar was a love letter from my father to my mother, and today was the first time I’d stood in the building since my father’s death. Seventeen years since my mom’s murder had flown fast—but not as fast as the three months since my father’s passing. I’d spent the weeks since his funeral staying with family in California, but two days ago, I’d gotten a call from the manager of the bar.

Someone wants to buy your bar, she’d said. He’s offering a ton of money. You need to come and handle this.

Honestly, that was the polite version. Since the manager was my best friend, the exact words had been, “Dahlia Lloyd, that’s enough of this. That cock Damien Fox wants to buy the bar and won’t leave me alone. Get your ass back to Vegas to deal with your shit, because this is your problem, not mine. I won’t fix anymore for you. Three months is long enough.”

She wasn’t wrong. She’d been running the bar in my absence, doing all the things that weren’t in her job description because I’d been hiding from the reality of my situation.

Which was this. The Scarlet Letter, Las Vegas’ most successful non-strip club, was mine.

This building with its book-nook booths and literary influence woven into every part of it was all mine.

I knew how to run it. I knew every inch of the building. I just didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to do now.

“Well, hello, stranger.” Abby, my best friend, strolled into the bar, cutting off my woeful and self-pitying inner-monologue. Her fiery auburn hair fell loosely around her shoulders, contrasting perfectly against her scarlet-red dress.

She pulled me into the tightest hug known to man, squeezing for all her worth. Which, thanks to her love of Pilates and yoga, was a lot.

“Hey. Can’t breathe.” I wriggled to extract myself from her tight grip.

“I don’t care if you can’t breathe.” She squeezed one last time, as if to make her point, then let me go. “How dare you leave me here to deal with that insufferable man?”

I blinked at her. “I didn’t even know you were dealing with him until two days ago.”

“You should have known.”

“With all my psychic powers?”

Abby pursed her glossy lips.

“I know, I know.” I sighed. She could guilt-trip with the best of them. “I should have been here. I’m sorry, Abs. I just needed…”

“Time. I know. Four weeks from your dad’s diagnosis wasn’t enough time for you.”

Swallowing hard, I carefully set my purse down on the table nearest to me. It was one of the one-legged ones that was fixed to the floor, and its lone leg was a stack of fake books. It was one of my favorite things about the bar.

“It wasn’t,” I agreed with her. “I still don’t feel ready to be back here.”

“You’ll never be ready. You just have to do it. If we all waited until we were ready to do something, we’d do nothing but watch reruns on Netflix.”

She had a point there, too. I hated it when she was wise like this. It made it hard for me to argue with her.

“Well, I’m back now. I dropped my stuff at the house earlier, and I’m not going anywhere.” Somehow, saying the words made it feel more real. “You’re right. Three months was too long.”

And, if I was honest with myself, I was starting to get bored—and annoyed. I loved my family, but I had little tolerance for my soap-star cousin whose drama didn’t stay on the set. I knew moping around wouldn’t be something my dad wanted me to do. He’d made that abundantly clear the moment the doctor had looked at him and told him the tumors on his lung were cancerous and that treatment would only prolong his life.

“Don’t cry for me, flower,” he’d said, holding my hand. “I’ve done my bit with you, now it’s time for me to see your momma. It’s all yours now.”

I took a deep breath and swatted the memory away. Holding onto it would do nothing but make me cry. It was still too raw—four weeks wasn’t enough for anyone to find out they were losing a parent, especially not when that parent had raised you for almost your entire life.

Quite simply, I didn’t really know how to live without my father. It was a world I was attempting to navigate, and most days, I felt like a newborn giraffe trying to walk for the first time. As lame as that sounded, it was the truth. That was why coming home was so scary.

I’d never been here without the knowledge I could call him. Now, I was, and it stung. All I wanted to do was grab my purse and get the hell out of here, but I couldn’t. I’d neglected my duties long enough. It was time for me to pull up my big girl panties—but not too far, given that I was wearing a thong—and get the hell on with it.

“All right. What needs to be done?” I stepped up to the edge of the bar.

“Damien Fox needs to fuck off,” Abby said it so simply, like it was nothing more or less than a fact. And I guess, to her, it was a fact. He needed to. “He said he’d wait for your call to discuss a meeting, and that his lawyer is on standby to draw up papers for the sale of the bar. But you can’t call him before one p.m. because he’s up late with the clubs some nights.”

“Well, that’s a surefire way to get me to call you before one o’clock.” I rolled my eyes.

I didn’t know much about Damien Fox except for the fact he lived up to his surname and owned half of the strip clubs in the city. My father had crossed paths with both him and his father on occasion, but from the rumors I’d heard, I went out of my way to avoid the entire family.

Now, it seemed that wasn’t an option for me. I needed to confront the cunning, smug asshole myself.

“How do I contact him?”

“His card is in the register.” Abby cocked a thumb over her shoulder and opened a folder.

Great.

I was hoping she’d say she didn’t know.

Stepping behind the bar was strange. It’d been such a long time since I’d been there, yet at the same time, it felt right. I knew what Abby had said wasn’t wrong—waiting until I was ready to come back would have resulted in me never doing it. I might have been throwing myself in at the deep end by calling Damien Fox immediately, but the situation needed handling.

I wasn’t selling The Scarlet Letter. No matter how much money he tried to give me.

I opened the register and instantly found his card, the small, black rectangle obvious on the silver tray of the drawer. It wasn’t hard, given that the register was empty because Abby hadn’t put the cash tray in there yet. Knowing her, she’d deliberately dropped the card down the side of it so she didn’t have to look at it.

Flipping the thick, dark card between my fingers and thumb, I glanced around for the phone. No way was I using my cell—I didn’t want to invite Mr. Fox to call me on my personal time.

“Under the register,” Abby said over her shoulder.

Sure enough, when I bent down to look, I found it. Each key beeped when I typed in the number on the card. I didn’t know if this number was private, business, or to one of the clubs, so I ran the risk of not even getting through to him.

“Hi,” a man’s voice said.

“Hell—”

“You’ve reached Damien Fox. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

I was going to ignore the fact I’d just attempted a conversation with a phone recording.

The beep was long and loud, and I swallowed hard before speaking.

“Good morning, Mr. Fox. This is Dahlia Lloyd from The Scarlet Letter. Thank you for your interest in purchasing the bar, but the business is not for sale. Have a nice day.”

The second I pushed the button to end the call, Abby burst out laughing.

“What the hell was so funny about that?” I frowned, staring at the phone. I glanced up in enough time to see her turn around and look at me.

“Really?” Her lower lip trembled. “You were so nice, then so mean, then so nice again.”

“I wasn’t mean.” Was I?

“It’s the way you said it. You were all, ‘Good morning, Mr. Fox!’” she trilled her impression of me in a chirpy voice that made my skin crawl. “Then, you went, ‘The business is not for sale,’” she continued in a sharper voice before going back to the chirpy sound again. ““Have a nice day!””

Shaking my head, I put the phone back on the shelf where it belonged. “How else was I supposed to say it? I’m not a mean person, but obviously, the man doesn’t take a hint.”

“Have you ever known a man to take a hint?”

She had a good point.

“Well, no, but still. It was my first official act as the owner of the bar, and I wanted him to know I’m not a pushover.”

“Just a little soft on the inside. Like a s’more.”

I’d been called worse.

I rounded the bar and joined her at the table where she was sitting with her laptop open. “Can I help you with anything?”

She mock-gasped, pressing her hand to her chest as she looked at me. “Are you…working?”

I hit her with my best death stare.

“Kidding. Boss.” She grinned and handed me a folder. “I’ll ease you back in gently.”

“Are we using lube?” I asked, looking at the folder labeled ‘Paychecks.’ It was the one thing I’d done when I hadn’t been here—but only because the accounts were all in my name and Abby physically couldn’t sign off on anything.

“There’s been a lot of overtime this month. Your bank account will probably need it.”

It was good to be back.

Kinda.

 

***

 

Four hours sorting out my father’s office, and I didn’t feel like I was any closer to organization than I was when I’d walked through the door. I hadn’t known it before, but he’d apparently favored a ‘shove it in the folder’ method of filing papers instead of using the filing cabinets along one wall.

All but one were empty. There were five.

I couldn’t figure out how I’d never noticed it. Then again, I didn’t have time to figure it out. I was too busy sorting out and correctly filing years of paperwork.

I’m sure this method worked for him and there were copies probably filed with the lawyers and bankers and accountants and everyone else, but it didn’t for me. I needed some form of order.

And curtains. The office desperately needed new curtains, because the ones that were once dark red were so old, the color was now hinging on pink.

I sipped my iced tea and surveyed my work so far. The top of the desk was clear, and I’d already placed an order for a new desktop computer. Turning on the dinosaur that was currently atop the desk was probably going to be the most daunting task—who knew if it would even work? If it didn’t, I’d have to find some tech genius to pull off all the data, and I didn’t have time for that.

I didn’t know where to look, either. Was that the kind of thing I could ask on Facebook? Maybe Craigslist?

Ugh.

Feeling sorry for myself again wasn’t going to cut it. I needed to snap out of this and fast. I couldn’t run a business as long as I had this woe-is-me attitude. If my dad could see and hear me, he’d laugh and tell me I was made of stronger stuff than fluff and self-pity, and he was right. He always was right.

Except about filing important papers. Then he was very, very wrong.

Another cursory glance around the office had me lamenting the fact I was an only child. This would be a lot easier if I had a sibling to share this with.

Not self-pity. Just a fact.

A knock sounded at the door right as I blew out a long breath. I used the desk to pull myself up off the floor before shouting a “Come in!” to whoever was on the other side of the door.

It creaked open to reveal twenty-four-year-old Rylie Fisher. My dad had hired the young redhead two months before he’d died. She was only part-time because she was still in school studying for her Masters, but from what I knew of her, she was pretty good at her job.

“Hey, Rylie. What’s up?”

She returned the gesture and held up the phone. “Hey, Ms. Lloyd. You have a call. He’s on hold.”

A tingle ran over my skin when she said “he.” There was only one man I’d called lately, besides my uncle. “It’s Dahlia.” I smiled. “Who is it?”

“Damien Fox. Again.”

Well, shit. If even the part-time employee was saying it was him again, he must have been more persistent than Abby had given him credit for. “If you wanted to bring me a present, I recommend chocolate next time.” I grinned and took the phone from her. “Thanks. I’ll bring it out when I’m done.”

Rylie laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

I waited until the door had clicked shut behind her, dampening the noise of the music from the bar downstairs, and took the call off hold. “Dahlia Lloyd.”

“Ms. Lloyd,” came the answering voice. It was deep and smooth and very, very masculine. “Damien Fox. It’s wonderful to finally talk to you.”

I couldn’t say the feeling was mutual. So, I didn’t. “How are you, Mr. Fox?”

A light chuckle traveled down the line, and I had the feeling he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“I’m well, thank you. I’m sorry to hear about your father. How are you?”

“Better now I’m home,” I answered. “I can’t possibly imagine what you’re calling about, so why don’t we skip the rest of the pleasantries and get right to the point?”

“I received the message you left for me at some ungodly hour of the morning.”

“Ten years of Bible class ensures me that even God is up and cooking his breakfast by ten a.m. I believe Satan is the lazy one.”

Another laugh. Deep and rough. “I’d like to discuss it in person.”

“I can assure you that my stance doesn’t change regardless of how we have the conversation.”

“I like to think I can convince you.”

“You’re welcome to think so.”

“I rarely wake before midday, but as you so eloquently put it, even God is making breakfast by ten a.m. Can I assume you’ll be in The Scarlet Letter at ten tomorrow?”

Blinking, I sputtered out, “Yes.”

“I’ll see you then, Ms. Lloyd.”

I opened my mouth to tell him he most definitely will not, but the line clicked off.

It was dead. The call was over. He’d forced his way into my morning and, without waiting for me to respond, ended the call.

Understanding of why Abby hated him was quickly washing over me.

Who the hell did Damien Fox think he was?