Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy #1)(18)
Samantha finally reached the other side of the bar and sent him a cheerful smile. “I’m ready to get started. Where do you need me?” she asked, her innocent words not so innocent in Clay’s dirty mind.
On your knees in front of me…lying flat on your back with your legs wrapped tight around my waist as I slide hard and deep—
“Since Clay seems incapable of speaking at the moment, I’m Tara,” his bartender said in a wry tone, introducing herself as she waved one of the other bar waitresses over. “Let’s have Amanda give you a crash course on taking drink orders and what to expect tonight.”
Samantha didn’t even look a little bit nervous about her first night on the job. “That would be great.”
“She can help you out for the first few hours after we open,” Tara went on as she placed a small rubber mat on the service bar counter. “But at some point we’ll be slammed and you’ll have a section all to yourself and you’ll be on your own.”
“It’s a good thing I’m a quick learner.” A too-confident Samantha turned to Amanda and introduced herself, then the two of them walked away so Amanda could give her a quick lesson on drink terminology and how their order system worked.
“Is there something going on between the two of you?” Tara asked, the amusement in her voice evident as she began slicing lime wedges. “Because for a minute there, you know, while you were staring at her like a deaf-mute, you looked like you wanted to vault yourself over the bar, tackle the woman, and do all sorts of dirty things with her.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, enjoying herself immensely.
Get the f*ck out of my head, Tara. “You have quite the imagination.” He gave her a bland look.
“Deny it all you want, Saint Clay,” she said, narrowing her gaze as she pointed the knife at him to emphasize her point. “But I’ve never seen you look at another woman that way. Not even Vicky.”
Vicky, the woman he occasionally hooked up with and who had been his casual f*ck buddy for the past year. No, he’d never, ever felt this insane kind of hunger and need for Vicky as he did for Samantha, which was why she made the perfect hookup. But he wouldn’t admit his weakness for Samantha to Tara, or anyone else, for that matter.
“I thought your degree was going to be in business, not psychoanalysis,” he said in a droll tone meant to deflect her scrutiny.
The slight furrow of concern between her brows remained. “Just…be careful, Clay.”
I don’t want you to get hurt. He could see the unspoken words in her eyes, and the fact that Tara even thought that was a possibility aggravated him. There was only one woman he’d ever let get close enough to hurt him—his own mother—and the brutal devastation and anger he’d experienced after her heartless actions pretty much ensured that Clay would never give any other female that much power over him ever again.
So, no, Tara had no reason to worry about him doing something as careless and stupid as falling for Samantha, a woman he could pretty much guarantee would be gone in a few days. A week, tops. He’d bet his bar on it.
“Nothing is going on,” he said in a voice that sounded much steadier than he felt. “I’m just helping her through a tough time in her life. That’s it.”
Tara opened her mouth to respond, but before anything else could spill out, Clay held up a hand and cut her off. “This conversation is over. I’m going to see if Hank needs help in the kitchen before happy hour starts.”
Tara’s lips pursed, but when he turned around and walked away, he heard her mutter distinctly behind him, “Stubborn ass.”
Yeah, whatever. He’d been called much worse.
He went to the small kitchen in the back, where Hank was pulling huge trays of chicken wings from the oven, which he would then throw into the fryer as they were ordered. Elijah, who currently had no dishes to wash, was helping Hank prep the other items—beef sliders, chicken fingers, potato skins, and a few other appetizers.
“Everything good in here?” Clay asked.
Hank gave him his typical, jovial one-sided smile and a thumbs-up as she moved about the kitchen. “Yep, we’re good, boss.”
Clay watched the duo for a few more minutes, glad that he’d taken a chance on them both. They were good, hard workers, but then again, they’d not only needed a job, they’d really wanted the employment. For money, yes, but also to restore their dignity.
Especially Hank. He’d hired the other man a few years ago when he’d come into Kincaid’s looking for a job. Any job. At twenty-eight, he’d been a year out of the military and disabled, having lost one of his legs in an IED explosion that had taken his right eye, as well. The shrapnel had also embedded itself into the right side of his face, damaging the nerves and causing paralysis, which was why Hank was so good at that lopsided grin.
Despite all that, Hank was in amazing physical shape. He’d been fitted with a prosthetic leg, and the patch he wore over his right eye made him look like a rogue pirate, which the girls loved to tease him about. Hank had a great attitude and refused to let his losses define him as a person.
The sound of a current rock song coming out of the speakers in the main area of the bar told Clay that it was just about opening time. The digital entertainment system selected popular songs from a playlist and streamed the matching music videos onto the huge flat-screen TV on the far wall. It was a trendy, crowd-pleasing addition to the bar—something to watch, or you could join the action out on the dance floor, which usually ended up packed on ladies’ night.