Chapter 1
Lacey AKA The Bartender
"Great. We have another new person," a familiar, feminine voice snapped behind me.
The biting, sarcastic tone showed that the news was, in fact, not great. I was just as surprised. I’d been on shift for an hour and hadn’t met any new employees. My head turned left and right, looking for the noob. Nope. Didn't see anyone.
"Yo, crop top, I'm talking about you!"
I looked down at my brand-new crop top covered in sky blue sequins. I didn't stop organizing the bar for tonight, but I glanced over my shoulder at the snooty voice. I instantly recognized my friend and co-worker. She rarely spoke to me in that tone.
"Sure you're talking about me? I've been here longer than you," I shot back with a wink.
"Holy shit, babe! I didn't recognize you with that hair. Is it a wig?"
I smirked and shook my head. My newly shortened hair swayed nicely. My new bob was only half the reason my head was headache free. My glossy, dark brown strands felt free and light now. One more burden gone.
"Twelve inches chopped. This is all me."
"New hair--which is stunning, by the way--and new wardrobe." Elisa's eyebrows lifted as she pointedly looked at my chest. "And uh, those look new too."
I laughed and slid a container of limes toward her. "Are you going to help me or just watch?"
"That depends," Elisa responded, though she started to chip in, "Are you going to answer my question or not?" She gave another serious look at my chest.
My cleavage was impressive tonight, if I said so myself.
I rolled my eyes with a flattered smile. "No, they're not new. My double push-up bra is. I'm tired of being weighed down trying to make other people happy."
Elisa's movements slowed, and her voice turned quiet and cautious. "Does that mean . . . did you finally . . .?"
"Dump him? Yeah. I got rid of 12" of dead hair and said goodbye to 140lbs of dead weight."
Elisa's movements were ridiculously controlled, and she purposefully avoided looking in my direction.
I reached over and smacked her butt. "You can celebrate. It's fine."
Elisa's breath left her in a big, exaggerated woosh. "Thank God. I am so fuckin' happy for you. Derek was such an asshole. I tried to mind my own business--"
"You tried? All the shit you talked and demanding I leave him? That was minding your business?"
"Yeah, well, I tried harder after you snapped at me last week."
Awkward silence filled the air. My voice was apologetic when I finally responded, "I'm sorry about that. I was reaching my own conclusions about him, and it was eating me up. Your words hit too close to home, and I snapped. I'm sorry."
Elisa shrugged. "I could have gone about it more thoughtfully. I let my own stuff make me more aggressive. We're good now?"
I smiled so that my dimples showed. "We're good."
Matthew "BattleAx" Duncan AKA The Bully
I was smiling ear-to-ear. Life was good. Life was fucking great. A week ago, I reached the peak of my boxing career. I won the title championship for my weight class with an undeniably brutal KO. Until that final uppercut, the brawl had been the most exhilarating fight of my life.
I enjoyed a fierce knockout as much as the next guy, but what I really loved? What I craved? There was nothing better than a genuine back-and-forth fight when I landed some punches and took some. There was no high like having my strength and resilience tested, then coming through as a conqueror.
That is how my championship fight went. I didn’t win on a fluke or a shitty referee’s call. I didn't win by dancing away from hits and pure strategy. I brawled, making the battle close and personal. I forced my opponent to go down.
It was the same philosophy I brought to the bedroom, and yes, I had a philosophy of sex (and other things). Building my mind was as important as working my body. I didn't want a 2-minute tussle in the sheets (ok, there was a time and place for that). I wanted to weave and move, climb to the top, dominate over and over.
And after my Championship win? I wanted to celebrate for the next month, at least.
So, when one of my training buddies recommended an underground bar to blow off steam, I jumped on the idea. I wanted to let loose where I was unlikely to be recognized. I didn't want to worry about fans or jackasses. I wanted to focus on myself and having a good time with my friends.
Everything was going according to plan. The lighting was dimmer than most places but not as dark as a strip club. The food was surprisingly delicious, and the music selection kept my foot tapping. The beer was cold, and the bartender--she was spectacular.
She had the body of a Barbie and the face of an angel. It was a Friday night, and the place was packed. I could tell she took her job seriously, and I respected that. If I didn’t, I would have gone over to flirt. I’d learned from the mistakes of others. She shut down numerous guys already, always putting her duties first. I’d wait for a clear opening while my buddies and I played pool.
I had just finished my beer, and things seemed to be slowing down a little when a new guy approached her. My eyes narrowed when her body posture stiffened. She knew this guy, and she didn't like him.
I was walking in her direction before the thought was conscious. I listened to their conversation as I grew close. Her voice was angry enough that her voice carried.
"You shouldn't be here, Derek. Go home."
"No. We need to talk."
"I'm done talking. I have nothing left to say, and there's nothing you can say that I want to hear. Now leave."
She turned to walk toward another customer when Derek leaned over the bar and grabbed her arm roughly. There was a spark of fear in her dark brown eyes that wasn't just surprise. This dirtbag had put his hands on her. I would put money on it.
I snapped.
I prowled the last few steps to the bar, slammed my empty bottle on the bar top, shattering it in half. In a seamless sweep, I lifted the broken glass and effortlessly drove the jagged edges into Derek's forearm.
He screamed in shock and pain, instantly letting the bartender go. I released the bottle and wrapped my hand around his neck instead. Squeezing to the point he choked, I swore in his ear, "Bother her again, Derek, and I'll break you."
Derek shook from the adrenaline rushing through his body. He kept reaching toward the bottle as if to remove it, but he trembled and couldn't make himself touch the injury. Blood pooled around the torn flesh, and his face paled at the site.
I relinquished my hold, and the man instantly swayed and passed out, the broken beer bottle still embedded in his forearm.
I let him fall and calmly walked over h body to the bar. My bartender's brown eyes were wide in shock, so I smiled one of my boyish grins to put her at ease.
I spoke loud enough to be confident, and smooth enough to not sound like a douche. "Hey, I’m Axe. I'd like another beer and a napkin with your name and your number."
