“Dickheads. We don’t have that sauce and they know it. They were fucking with you because you’re new.” Fiona shook her head. Clearly she was not the type of woman to take crap from any man. “Give them barbecue.”
With a grin, Aarica nodded.
“Kitchen’s through that door. Destiny’s on the fryer right now. Give her your order, but waitresses set up the wing and fry baskets with sauces.”
“Got it.” She whirled into the kitchen and introduced herself to a young woman her own age manning the fryer. She gave her the order.
“Take these with you, would ya?” She pointed to the filled baskets.
“Sure thing.” She grabbed the baskets and hurried to the front. Standing at the bar, she called out, “Ranch wings with two baskets of cheese fries!”
She barely got the words past her lips when she felt a stare on her. Not any stare, but a hot, heavy stare that drilled her into the floor. She relinquished the wings to the customers who’d ordered them and slowly turned her head to see who was watching her.
She knew before she even met his gaze. Patriot.
As their eyes locked, she felt as if all the air had been sucked from the place. His attention moved over her face…her hair…and inched down her white T-shirt. A tendon in the crease of his jaw bulged.
For a moment, she expected him to turn and leave. But in two strides, he reached the bar.
“Hey, Patriot. Your usual?” Fiona called out, thankfully oblivious to the electric heat passing between them.
“I want her.” He pointed to Aarica.
Fiona’s mouth fell open. So did Aarica’s. Did he mean…?
A drink. He wants me to serve him.
Composing herself, she still sputtered when she said, “W-what can I get you?”
“Tequila and tabasco.”
Spicy. Hardcore. She couldn’t think of any drink that suited the man better. She nodded and somehow uprooted her feet from the floor to move for the tequila bottle. She felt his stare moving with her and recalled every hint of pressure from his mouth on hers.
On knees as wobbly as a new foal’s on the family farm, she managed not to stumble and drop the bottle. She grabbed a glass and poured. And poured. Not paying much attention to how much she poured, she didn’t immediately realize she’d grabbed a margarita glass rather than a shot glass.
Hoping her new boss was too busy to notice, she threw a glance over her shoulder to find Patriot’s undivided focus. For a blip in time, she watched him back, seeing everything as a movie reel. People milling behind him, laughing and talking, cheering over their team. Then the clink of glasses as Fiona amped up her speed in order to serve people faster.
Suddenly, the moment released her from its grip and Aarica set herself in motion again, grabbing the tabasco. She poured a hefty amount and then plunked it on the bar before Patriot.
His stare shifted from her at least. When he looked down at the big glass of enough alcohol to knock even a big man like him on his ass, the corner of his hard mouth tipped up. Without a word, he curled his fingers around the glass and dragged it across the bar toward him. The scraping noise of glass on wood sent echoes through her system.
“Thanks,” he drawled out in that quiet voice filled with the intensity she remembered all too well whenever she thought of him.
She couldn’t speak and only managed to nod. He stood there a heartbeat longer than any other man would to claim his drink and then she realized she’d forgotten the price of the drink. She started to open her mouth and then slammed it shut.
She couldn’t call him back, because she wanted to leap over the counter and attack him. She’d pay for his drink from her own tips rather than call his name.
A bump from behind made her look around. Fiona stood there with her head cocked and a brow hiked high on her forehead. “What was that?”
Half a dozen answers revolved through her mind, none of which she could say.
“You know that drink goes in a shot glass, right?”
She nodded agreement. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you were staring.” Amusement settled across Fiona’s pretty face. “Don’t forget next time.”
A fierce heat lit up her cheeks, and she ducked her head to hide the blush as she took several more orders and managed not to flub them up. The crowd seemed to swell and she served more wings and beer in an hour than she thought possible. When she finally got a moment to breathe, she stared out over the bar in search of Patriot.
People congregated in the main space, but finding his black leather jacket should be easy—if he hadn’t removed it. The thought of his broad, sculpted chest glistening in the sun as he stood on the roof had her mouth going dry.
A few people moved, and she spotted black leather. Then more black leather. An entire long table at the rear was filled shoulder to shoulder with bikers.
Another nudge from Fiona brought her from her daze. “Those are the Dark Falcons. My man’s the dark-haired one at the head of the table. I’m going to talk to him for a minute since we have a lull. Watch the bar, would you?”
She nodded, dizzy with excitement as she latched her gaze on to Patriot. In profile, his face took on that of a model and warrior with his straight nose and angled jaw. He spoke to someone next to him, and she studied his mannerisms intently. Then he shifted in his seat, lifting his drink to his lips, and she couldn’t believe he was still nursing her awful creation.
Fiona reached the group and slipped her arms around her man from behind. He broke away from his conversation immediately and dropped his head against her chest. She leaned over him, hair swirling, and kissed him.
When Aarica pulled her gaze from the pair, she realized with a start that Patriot stood, topping most men in the room by a good six inches.
Oh God, he’s moving this way.
At some point she’d lost all her bravado from the dark campsite where she begged him to give her release. While she thought of bumping into him over and over again since that time—and after seeing him at the Posts’—now that the moment arrived full force, she had no idea how to act around the man.
Nerves pulled her teeth down on her lip. Needing something to busy herself, she grabbed a bar cloth and began wiping the top where people vacated.
Suddenly, Patriot stood in front of her. She lifted her eyes and found his. That night flooded in, along with several haunting dreams before this.
“What are you doing here?” he asked without any warmup conversation at all. Just direct, straight to the point.
“Working.”
“I thought you worked for the Posts.”
She nodded. “I do that too.” Latching her stare onto his hard mouth proved to be a really bad idea, because her insides jittered so much she didn’t know if she could pour a drink if he asked her.
“I’ll take a beer,” he said after a moment where she forgot how to breathe. She felt as if she might have a seizure. Why did he make her so nervous? She grew up around so many boys—not only her cousins but all their friends streaming in and out of the house. She knew how to deal with teasing as well as bullies. She’d crushed on some and hated others. Why did being around Patriot bring up every single one of those moments and direct them into one sharp pang of awareness?
Moving into action, she grabbed a glass. “Draft?” she asked.