Birthday Girl(22)

“No,” he answers, shrugging. “They just realized there was some fetching eye candy at Grounders now.”

I look over at him, and he’s smiling and jerking his head toward the house and who’s inside it.

“Yeah, shut up.” I squeeze the wrench. “That’s my kid’s girl. You guys leave her alone.”

“I’m not going to do anything!” He holds up his hands in defense. “I’m married.”

“I don’t even want y’all looking,” I state, standing up straight and tossing the tool down.

Granted, I’ve been looking, but I didn’t know who she was when we first met.

I wipe my hands with the shop cloth. “You got that? Leave the kid alone.”

He just scoffs, slouching in his seat and laying his head back. “The kid, I’m sure, has dealt with lots of male attention already, working at that bar. And I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a little extra business tonight.”

He makes her sound like a prostitute. But I guess he’s right. Fending off unwanted attention has to be a skill by now, especially working at a dive like that.

I still can’t see it, though. The girl has a mouth on her, but she’s pretty innocent and sweet, too. Picturing her in that environment is impossible.

“Hi,” a female voice chirps.

I lean over and look around the hood, seeing the same young woman who was here last night. What was her name again?

“Pike, right?” she says, putting a hand on her chest. “Cam, remember? I’m Jordan’s sister.”

Dutch is staring at her, his mouth hanging open just slightly.

“I’m just here to give her a ride to work,” Cam tells me and then her eyes fall down my torso and arms. “And nice ink, man.”

Her eyes light up as she nods her approval. I notice she has some, too, down her upper arm, and a phoenix on the side of her torso. Which I can only see, because she’s wearing almost no clothes, dressed in a black mini skirt and a black tank top cut off just under her breasts.

Where the fuck is your father? Seriously…

Behind her, a new-ish white Mustang convertible sits parked at the curb, the car filled with two other women, all looking similarly dressed from what I can tell. They have big hair, and I can feel the breeze from their eyelashes when they blink all the way from here.

But then something occurs to me, and I look around the hood again. “You all work together? With Jordan?”

“No, we work at The Hook.”

Dutch makes a gargled sound, and I realize he’s choking on his beer. He coughs and laughs at the same time as he clears his throat.

Cam nods and teases, “Yeah, you know The Hook.”

He chuckles, and I swear I see him blush. “I may have been familiar with the place back in the day.”

The Hook is a strip club downtown, not far from Grounders where Jordan works.

“Jordan doesn’t work there, too, does she?” I ask. I mean, she could have two jobs, I suppose, but if I can’t picture her behind the bar at Grounders, I really don’t want the mental image of her at The Hook.

But thankfully, Cam rushes to respond. “Oh, no, but my boss did offer her a job bartending, though,” she says. “He’s been trying to wear her down for a year now. She’s shy, though.”

She says the last with a little wink, and I’m not sure what that means. Shy about what? Would she have to wear something similar to the dancers to work behind the bar there?

Yeah, no. Picturing her at The Hook, dealing with the guys who come in wanting one thing will stress me out. Does Cole know about the job offer? I can’t imagine he’d want her working there.

I don’t have time to think about it more, though, because Jordan comes down the front porch and walks across the lawn to her sister.

“Stop talking about me,” she warns her, clutching the strap of her bag over her chest, but Cam just shoots her a playful look.

Jordan responds with an eye roll, but I barely notice it. My heart is pounding painfully, taking in her attire.

I look away.

For some reason, the judgement I dealt Cam for her clothes doesn’t transfer to Jordan, even though she’s a few years younger. Dressed in dark blue jeans shorts, low on the hip and high on the thigh, they’re not cut off but rolled up, and her loose, black T-shirt shows off her stomach and hangs off one shoulder. Her hair hangs down her back in big, loose curls, and her eyes are rimmed in dark liner and dark eye shadow, making the midnight blue in her eyes pop like a stream of moonligt on a night sea.

I wonder if she’s wearing her Chucks again, but that would mean getting past her legs, and I’m having a hard time doing that, so I keep my gaze averted and continue working on the car.

Guilt rips through me. She’s Cole’s. He kisses her. He holds her. He makes her smile. It’s not my place to have any opinions about her, especially territorial ones like where she bartends or how she dresses. I just still keep feeling like I did in the theater. She’s a young woman I met and had fun talking to, and no one else had anything to do with it. Part of me keeps feeling like I knew her first, even though I know I didn’t.

“I have a double shift today,” she says, and I guess she’s talking to me, “so I’ll get off late, but I have my key.”

I nod and refit the cap, not looking at anyone.