What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3 Page 5
Or maybe bartenders were on her shit list? If so, she’d certainly picked the wrong profession.
She stopped at a table to take orders and talk with the customers.
He was right—her smile was beautiful.
* * *
That man was here. The one who’d been so cruel to the woman in the parking lot. And he was a bartender.
Earlier, on her break, Frankie’d been outside and strolled around the building in time to witness the huge and hotter-than-hell bastardo coldly crushing his lover’s heart and tossing her aside. Like she was nothing.
Like Jaxson did with me. Frankie’s mouth tightened at how similar the parking lot drama had been to Jaxson’s leaving.
How many nights had she cried herself to sleep at the memory of her husband’s—ex-husband’s—vicious words when he told her he was leaving.
“Hey, we had some good times, and hell, I know you liked the sex. You didn’t seriously think it’d last, did you? I mean, I like you—I married you, right?—but this living together isn’t working for me. It’s time to move on.”
Move on? He’d leave her? “B-but you love me, Jax. You said you did.” She moved forward…somehow. Her legs didn’t feel as if they belonged to her anymore. Taking his arm, she stared up at him.
With an irritated sound, he pried her hands off. “You’re nice. Pretty and all that. Really. I just, kinda realized I don’t love you. Yeah, you deserve someone better, right?”
He didn’t love her.
But they made love just last night. She wrapped her arms around herself, against the chill in the air. In her heart. Had he forced himself to have sex with her?
Her hands fisted. “Did you ever love me?”
He flushed, and the dark red across his chiseled cheekbones only made him more striking. When they first met, she’d wondered what he’d seen in her. After all, he was so very handsome, a man who could be…
Could be a star among male models.
Oh. She stared at him as the future she’d imagined with him shattered.
Mama had signed him on with the agency last month, saying he was family now and deserved to have a chance. Now he would walk the runway in the upcoming fashion show. He was already receiving tons of exposure.
Her lips felt numb. “You got what you wanted from me—a contract with Bocelli Agency—and now you’re dumping me.”
“Jesus, don’t get all butt-hurt. We had our fun. Now, it’s time to call it quits.” And he walked away. Out the door. Out of their marriage.
As a woman’s piercing laugh came from a table near the bar, Frankie shook her head, trying to escape the memories. Cavolo, that ugly scene in the parking lot brought everything back, as if it’d been yesterday when Jax sliced her to pieces with his words and indifference.
Just like the bartender had done with his lover.
Frankie had hoped he was a tourist. Someone she’d never have to see again. Instead, he worked here in the bar. Did that suck or what?
Taking orders for drinks, she whispered insults between tables. “Brutto pezzo di merda, bastardo”.
The bastard was definitely a piece of shit.
“Vai a farti fottere.”
Yes, he should go f-bomb himself.
She could see why his poor lover had fallen for him, because the guy was very much sex-on-a-stick. Start with that resonant, cavernous voice. Add in appearance: massive and hugely muscled. His skin was just slightly darker than her Italian heritage had given her. His mesmerizing black eyes, shaved scalp, and black goatee with a sprinkling of silver reinforced he was all man.
No one viewing him would realize he was such a jerk. Yet, five minutes after emotionally gutting a woman who loved him, he was flirting with every woman at the bar. It was typical behavior for shallow, heartless chick magnets like her ex.
Over at the other section of the bar, Felix caught her gaze. “Doing good, Frankie.”
She smiled back. The effervescent waiter was such a darling. He’d helped orient her to her job earlier.
After working for a bit, she noticed drink orders were getting filled faster. The new bartender was very efficient. And, even if she hated to admit it, his arrival had changed the mood in the place. Everyone seemed friendlier. Happier.
As she walked up to the waitstaff station, two people slid onto empty stools—a curvy blonde woman and a black-haired man who reminded her of a stunning, young Antonio Banderas.
“Good evening,” she greeted them.
“I see the roadhouse has a new server. Welcome to Rescue. How long have you been in town?” The man had a smooth, Hispanic-accented voice.
Was he flirting? No, he just seemed friendly. “This is my third day here.”
“Oh, I bet you’re the woman who rented a cabin from Dante.” When Frankie nodded, the blonde held out her hand. “I’m Audrey. I run the library—and sometimes help with waiting tables here, too.”
“Frankie.” Frankie shook her hand. “It’s good to meet you.”
Audrey motioned to the man beside her. “Caz, commonly known as Doc, runs the health clinic.”
“Chica, I’m not a doctor.” He frowned at Audrey. “How did you manage to convince Gabe you’re so sweet?”
She smiled. “Love. It’s blind.”
Laughing, Frankie turned to check on the bartenders. Still busy. She smiled at Caz and Audrey. “You have a very friendly town.”
It’d surprised her how much she enjoyed being here—and even working in a bar. Handing out drinks was much better than dealing with oh-so-entitled models, photographers, and agents.
“It is friendly, especially now. After a long Alaska winter, everyone’s happy to see new faces,” Caz said.
“I bet.” Before she could say more, the big asshole bartender slipped the drink orders from her hand and grinned at the new customers. “Where’s Gabe?”
“He’s on his way in,” Audrey said. “He was playing with paperwork and budgets.”
“Now, that’s just sad.” The bartender flipped through Frankie’s orders.
“Hey, Caz is here,” someone farther down the bar shouted, then slapped the bar top. “Song, song, song.”
“No mames, güey.” Caz lifted his hands in exasperation.
The chant spread from around the bar to everyone in the room. “Song, song, song.”
Despite the words Frankie had translated to mean something like seriously, dude, Caz shook his head in resignation and asked Audrey, “You in?”
Snickering, she shook her head no. “My throat is sore. Lillian made me help act out a book for the preschoolers.”
Frankie leaned on the bar. What in the world was going on?
With one hand, the bartender was drawing a beer, with the other, he slid a wireless microphone down the bar top. “You’re up, Doc. “Let’s have ‘Hakuna Matata’.”
Caz sighed and picked the mic up. “You owe me, ’mano. That beer better be cold.”
“Always.”
At the bartender’s dazzling smile, Frankie’s heart completely skipped a beat. Cribbio—sheesh. All that intense confident masculinity was intimidating.
She forced her gaze away and saw Caz flick the mic on…and start the bouncy tune from The Lion King.
When the bartender picked up a mic and joined in, Frankie’s mouth dropped open. The man had a gorgeous bass voice.
The two were spectacular. They sang harmony, added their own sound effects, and when they reached the chorus, the bartender waved at the room and yelled, “You bastards have had plenty to drink. Join your asses in—or I’m cutting you all off.”
Laughter ran through the room, and everyone in the place started to sing.
Mouth open, Frankie stared. It was amazing.
As she returned to serving drinks, Caz and the bartender sang another tune, and this time the customers didn’t wait to join in.
When she returned to the bar the next time, the music was still bubbling in her veins. She’d sung along, too. Everyone in the place was smiling.
Audrey grinned. “It’s fun, isn’t it?”
“Does that happen a lot? He”—Frankie motioned to the giant bartender—“he kept working as he sang and didn’t seem to think anything about it.”
“He didn’t.” Audrey took a sip of her drink. “He and his brothers grew up singing together. Even more than the rest, Bull thinks music is meant to be shared.”
“Bull? He’s called Bull?” Frankie took stock of the bartender. At least six-four with muscles piled on muscles. There was a wrestler-actor named the Rock, and Bull was like Dwayne Johnson’s bigger, deadlier brother. A lot deadlier. Despite the man’s easy smile, those dark eyes were watchful, always aware of everything and everyone in the room. His stance and his body language were always in a ready state. Yes, she’d guess he’d lived through some ugly stuff. “Bull seems like a good name for him.”
“Apparently, he had an encounter with a bull moose when he was a child—and wanted to grow into the name.”
“An encounter? Is that what we’re calling it?” A man put his arm around Audrey, kissed her cheek, and grinned at Frankie. “The moose chased Bull through the trees and would’ve stomped him good if Mako—our father—hadn’t dropped it.”
“Wait, what? He was chased by a moose as a kid?” Frankie’s eyes were probably popping out of her head.
“Viejo, you’re scaring the cheechako,” Caz chided.
“Sorry.” Audrey’s guy chuckled. “It didn’t catch him. He laughed his ass off afterward.”
“Of course he did.” Audrey rolled her eyes. “You idiots have no common sense about danger. None whatsoever.”
“So harsh, champ,” Bull said to Audrey before setting the last drink on Frankie’s tray. “It’s Frankie, right?”
She nodded, keeping her expression cool. He might be an awesome singing bartender with an interesting background, but he was also a heart-destroying bastardo.
“Are you doing all right? Any problems out there?” His dark eyes held concern. As if he’d flatten any trouble-making customers for her.
Which was lovely, but she didn’t want his concern or his attention and was tempted to tell him exactly why.
No, Frankie. She needed this job and letting loose her hot temper would be a quick way to the door. She could be polite and work with this man.
But…why did he have to be so sexy?
“No problems. Everyone has been great.” She added a reluctant, “Thank you.”
Catching the chill, he stiffened slightly, nodded, and returned to his work.
“Whoa, I didn’t know there was anyone on earth who didn’t like Bull,” Audrey clapped her hands over her mouth. “Sorry.”
“It’s—” There was no way to explain. Frankie shrugged.
Amusement in his dark blue eyes, Audrey’s guy held his hand out. “I’m Gabe MacNair, Chief of Police here—and I won’t arrest you for not liking the bartender.”
Frankie stiffened. Kit’s letter had said a Rescue cop was in the PZs. “Well, I’m glad I won’t get locked up. It’s good to meet you, Chief.” She managed to smile and shake his hand. “Now, I’d better get these drinks delivered.”
She picked up her tray and headed for her section, hearing Monty Python’s Knights chorusing, “Run away. Run away!” in her head.
After delivering the drinks, she checked her section, cleaned tables, and picked up empties. There weren’t many dirty glasses since the restaurant section had closed, and their busser had moved to the bar.
Spotting three men taking over a corner table, Frankie headed that direction.
One man was a tall, skinny ginger, complete with a long beard. One was short and slim with short brown hair and a trim beard. The third had a black buzz cut and was clean-shaven. All three wore boots, jeans, and work shirts.
As she smiled at the men, she noticed Felix had moved into her section. “Welcome to the roadhouse, gentlemen. What can I get you to drink?”
The red-bearded guy leered at her. “Are you on the menu?”
Mannaggia, did servers have to put up with such tired lines every night?
“No.” She didn’t bother to soften her reply. Lifting her brows, she waited, pen hovering over the pad.
Although the ginger scowled at her, they gave their orders without further wayward comments.
As she left, she heard them talking about women getting above themselves. How women were created to serve men.
She stopped short. Merda. Yes, shit, exactly. That was the same drivel Obadiah had used on Kit. Could those men be Patriot Zealots? Instead of treating them like creepy sexist assholes, she should’ve been polite and exchanged banter. She could have slid in a few questions and gotten a feel for them.
“Frankie, my sweet.” Resembling a California surfer boy, Felix joined her and started to lift the drink orders off her tray.
“Hey.” She slapped her hand on the pad. “What are you doing?”
“The boss doesn’t want our female waitstaff to have to deal with Patriot Zealots—PZs. They’re…hmm. Let’s just say they’re total Neanderthals.”
“Felix, that’s an insult to Neanderthals everywhere.”
Laughing, he patted her shoulder. “Exactly right. So—”
She didn’t release her grip on the drink orders. “I can handle cavemen.”
“But—”
Felix didn’t have a shy bone in his body, and his preference for the same sex was obvious. “Honey, if they’re like that with women, they’re probably just as rude to you.”
Why should he have to put up with their behavior?
He flushed. “Yeah, but I’m closer to their weight class than you are.”
Those bastardi. “I knew Alaska was a frontier, but I’m surprised the owner puts up with—”
“Eh, he doesn’t.” Felix leaned against an empty table. “I should have gone over this with you. If anyone touches you inappropriately, you can boot his ass out or tell the bartenders and they’ll handle it. We tolerate mildly rude comments. After all, the customers are drinking and hey, Alaskan, right?”
She laughed. “As far as I’ve seen, the customers in here are nicer than New Yorkers.”
“I’m so not going to vacation in New York.”
“Oh, no, no. You’d be fine. New York is all about equal opportunity rudeness. With equal amounts of nice, really.”
“Good to know.” Felix glanced back at the PZ table. “After the boss banned, oh, a half-dozen PZs, they learned to keep their hands and crude insults to themselves. But their misogynistic, bigoted behavior makes the female servers uncomfortable, and I’m okay with—”
“No, Felix. Let’s see how it goes with me waiting on them. If I’m bothered, I’ll ask you to take over.” She needed to talk with them, see if Kit was inside their compound still—and how to get her and Aric out.
“Girlfriend.” Felix shook his head reprovingly.
Frankie gave him a slow smile. “I grew up in New York, my friend, and learned my insults from cabbies and street vendors. I can hold my own.”
“Huh. In that case, they’re all yours.”
She timed her arrival at the bar so the nice bartender named Raymond would fill her orders.
Then she took the PZs their drinks. “Here you are.”
More leering looks.
She smiled cheerfully. “I hear you guys are Patriot Zealots, but I don’t know what that means.”
The red-bearded guy started, “It means we take women like you and—”
He grunted when someone kicked his leg.
The older, clean-shaven one took over. “The Prophet has directed us to return to the traditions of our forefathers. To follow the Bible and the Constitution. Our people find peace in letting go of modern ways.”
He seemed oh-so-sincere. She’d bet he did a fine job of recruiting people.
“Hmm. That sounds different. Interesting.” Don’t appear too enthusiastic, Frankie. The
crazy cultists would be suspicious otherwise. She needed to let them chase her.
Even if everything in her urged her to get Kit and Aric out now.
She took their money for the drinks—no credit cards for these boys—and handed back change. Modeling herself after a younger cousin, she assumed a pitiful, wavery smile. “After the month I’ve had, peace would be awfully nice.”
She left without waiting for their response. They’d be back. It sounded as if the PZs were frequent customers.
Stopping near the center of the room, she pulled in a breath to release her anger and frustration. Boy, did she need a drink to erase the foul taste of the fanatics.
Hang on, Kit. I’m going to find you and see that you’re safe.
One more breath, and she was able to get moving again.
As she headed for the next table of customers, she noticed the bartender—Bull—watching her with a concerned expression, as if making sure she was all right.
The realization sent a tiny blossom of warmth through her. Because, despite her brave words to Felix, right now, it felt like home was awfully far away.
Chapter Five
The truth of the matter is that you always know the right thing to do. The hard part is doing it. ~ LTG Norman Schwarzkopf, U.S. Army, Retired
* * *
The town cleaned up nice, didn’t it? With Gryff at his side, Bull strolled down Rescue’s main street. Checking on the businesses was another of the responsibilities on his plate.
When Mako had first moved to the failing town of Rescue, he’d bought up a bunch of properties to help the business owners escape. Then McNally’s Resort opened, bringing tourists back to the area. When Mako died, he left everything to Bull, Gabe, Caz, and Hawk along with orders: Revive the town.
It was why all four of them moved to Rescue. Bull opened the roadhouse; Gabe, the police station; Caz, the health clinic. Hawk had only come back last fall and was picking up jobs as a bush pilot. Since Bull had an MBA, his brothers dumped the administration of Mako’s trust and managing the properties to him.
Bull considered the street. On each side were piles of dirty snow that would take a while yet to melt.