For their part, they seem to steer clear of me. I’m sure they’ve realized that what happened was a mistake. Things will probably be awkward for a few days, and then we can all forget it ever happened.
When the night is nearly over, I make sure I’m not the last to leave.
Sunday and Monday nights are much the same, minus the big crowd. I fill spare time talking to Christine and Becca, and make a hasty exit each night as soon as I’m able. There are brief interactions with the men, during which they are professional and businesslike.
So why does it feel like tension is mounting?
Tuesday and Wednesday are my nights off, and the downtime provides way too much opportunity for my mind to wander.
My imagination produces a movie called “What Would Have Happened Had I Not Stopped Things,” which proceeds to play on an endless loop, adding variations as it goes, each more explicit than the last.
The universe decides to play a trick on me when I attempt to distract myself by reading. The sci-fi adventure book, featuring a strong female heroine who didn’t seem to need a partner, takes a left turn into erotic romance.
Seraphina meets a man on a distant planet whom she cannot resist (I sympathize with her) and they proceed to have sex spanning multiple pages, as if her new mission is to populate the cosmos with babies.
I consider putting the book down, but I’m too invested in the story. I tell myself I could skip ahead a few pages, but for some reason, I don’t.
Before I go back to work on Thursday, I learn that cold showers don’t work.
“How were your days off?” Becca asks when I arrive at the bar.
“Long,” I say. “What’s been happening here?”
There are holiday decorations behind the bar and around the entryway now, which serve as a reminder that Christmas is coming and I’ll probably have to attend an awkward holiday dinner at Rachel’s.
“Same old. You didn’t miss much,” she says. “Oh, except Rusty was in last night.”
“Yeah?” I wrap my short, black apron around my waist and tie it in the back.
“Yeah. He came in to say goodbye,” Becca says. “He’s on his way to Florida now.”
“Vacation?”
“Turns out he’s moving there.”
“Wow, that was fast.” Once again, I’m left wondering how much the Stone brothers paid him for the bar. They’ve definitely changed his life.
Christine takes me aside to inform me of a couple of new beers we’re now carrying. Microbrews from the nearby area. There are small signs on the tables advertising the new offerings.
I wonder how the men are coordinating the relocation of their security business while also making changes at Rusty’s. It seems like a lot.
Just as I’m speculating about that, Bronson strides by, slowing as he passes me. “Caz, we’d like to see you before you leave tonight.”
A prickle runs down my spine — and to other parts — not unlike the sensations I felt while reading about Seraphina and all of her wild, cosmic sex. I scold myself and unsuccessfully try to think of anything else while the rest of the night passes in what feels like eons.
I move slowly after closing, but despite my stalling, the time comes when I can’t avoid the men any longer. I say goodbye to Becca and Christine and head into their office.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask. Barrett is behind the desk, and Bronson is standing next to it. Lincoln’s on a laptop to the side, and Lennox is near the door, not far from where I stand. Except for a lot of cleaning, they haven’t done much in the office to better accommodate the four of them.
“Have a seat.” Bronson gestures to a chair opposite the desk. The principal’s office feeling of foreboding rises again.
“I’d rather stand,” I say.
“Suit yourself,” he says, not unkindly.
“We want to talk to you about the other night,” Barrett says.
14
Irrational urges
When I give a single nod, he gets right to the point. “Do you regret it?”
That’s a complicated question. Do I think it should never have happened? Yes. Do I wish it never happened? No. I can’t tell myself that big a lie. “No,” I say finally. “But it can’t happen again,” I quickly add.
Bronson arches a brow, and the corner of his mouth lifts the tiniest bit. “Why not?”
I frown at him. At all of them. “You’re my stepbrothers.”
Barrett leans forward, propping his chin on his fisted hand. The dark hair on his forearm distracts me momentarily. “You told us in a previous conversation that we most definitely were not. Not any longer,” Barrett reminds me.
He thinks he’s so clever. “It’s not right, and you know it,” I say.
“We know no such thing,” Bronson says.
“It felt right,” Lennox says. Moving next to me, he slowly runs the back of his forefinger from the top of my cheekbone, along my jaw and down the side of my neck. I shiver with each delicious inch of contact.