“Spark plugs, I think.”

“I guess I could start giving her a ride, since we’ll be working the same shift for a while.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that wouldn’t make her feel worse or anything,” I said sarcastically.

“What?  I can be nice.”

“You can be, but you haven’t been.  That would be like rubbing salt in a wound if you offered her a ride to work because her car’s a junker and she can’t afford anything else right now.  Especially after the way you’ve treated her.”

I had to grit my teeth.  Just thinking of Taryn mistreating Olivia was enough to make me see red.  But I couldn’t let her see that.  So, I hid it all behind the mask that my face has become.

“Are you kidding me?  I bought her a shot last night and offered to take her out after work.  What else do you want me to do?  Donate my blood to help her pay for a car?”

“Don’t be a smart ass.  I didn’t ask you to be her best friend.  That’s on you.  I’m just telling you not to give her so much shit.  She’s having it rough.”

Taryn smiled in that vampy way she has, a way that used to end up with us getting naked somewhere, but now does absolutely nothing for me.  I hoped she saw that, but her next action assured me she didn’t.

“Anything for you, boss.”  She leaned in toward me as she spoke. Not enough to rub up against me, but enough that her ample chest was just brushing mine.

“Now that’s the attitude I like for my employees to have,” I said nonchalantly, turning to head back into the bar.

I purposely didn’t glance at Olivia on my way back in.  I didn’t want her to think I’d betrayed our secret.  Well, it’s not really our secret; I don’t care who knows.  It’s more her secret.

Now, as I glance out at the bar, I see Taryn smiling and tending her customers.  I haven’t seen her antagonizing Olivia at all.  Of course, I haven’t really seen her pay much attention to her either way.  I’d much prefer her to just ignore Olivia.  That would be best all the way around.

I’m sitting down at my desk when my phone bleeps, the notification of an incoming text message.

Is this the number for help wanted in the twin cities?

My pulse picks up.  It’s a response to the ad.

Yes.

My reply is short. I don’t really know what else to say.

You’re lucky I’m in town. I’ll be there in 3 hours.

My first thought is to wonder how a perfect stranger would know where to find me.  The only thing listed in the online ad other than my phone number was the short two-sentence blurb my father had me post.

Urgent help wanted in the Twin Cities.  Stop.

It says nothing of my location.  Maybe the area code of my phone could be used to get a general location, but nothing specific enough to actually find me.

Unless there is tracing involved.

You know where I am?

The reply makes me uneasy.

Of course.

I’ve deduced that people from my father’s past have been keeping an eye on us, but it seems like the group is much larger—and hopefully a lot friendlier, in some cases—than I’d originally suspected.

Of course, I have a thousand questions, things like who the hell are you, how are you associated with my father and why have you been watching me.  I’m torn between asking now or waiting.  In the end, I figure it’s best to wait.  Dad had me reach out to them.  I have to trust that he knows what he’s doing. I know he’d never get me hurt if he could help it.  Still, the whole thing makes me nervous.

Putting that out of my mind, I think about how grateful I am for technology.  The online ad alerted somebody.  Fast.  Somebody my father thinks can help.  And, judging by the short, gruff text, he’s probably not the type of person most people would call a “pleasant” association.  But, that’s the nature of the business my father was in.  I’ve known it for a long time. I just never expected it to have such a profound and intimate impact on my life.

Pulling out the books for the club, I work on some accounting, hoping that will help me get through the next three hours.  I can’t really go out and mingle in the club—I can’t keep my eyes off Olivia— so that leaves me stuck back here.  Waiting.

Just over an hour later, something that’s been niggling at the back of my mind rushes to the front.  It’s got its unpleasant aspects, which is probably why I haven’t given it my full attention before now.  It makes it seem like I don’t trust my father.  Which I do.  But I guess I don’t trust anyone one hundred percent, especially not with Olivia’s safety hanging in the balance.

I pick up my phone and dial the one person I feel like I can trust with anything and would do whatever he could to help me out in a pinch. In the absence of my real brother, he’s stepped in to fill the void.  He’s the closest thing to family I have on the outside.

“Damn you’re needy!” comes the familiar voice of Gavin Gibson, my part-time bar manager and friend.  His words still carry a little bit of a lilt from his childhood in Australia.

“This isn’t about work, Gav.  It’s something else. I need your help.”

There’s a pause. When Gavin speaks again, all teasing is gone from his voice.

“Anything. You know that.”

“Can you come to the club for a couple hours?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says uncertainly.  “Just let me take care of a couple things and I’ll be right over.  Give me forty-five minutes?”

“Sure.  See you then.”

After I hang up, I realize this was a good decision.  I feel better about the situation already.  I need my own people, people I can trust, people I know.  Going into this alone would be crazy and irresponsible, even though my father’s directing the traffic.  Still, I need to cover all my bases.  And Gavin can be the ace up my sleeve.

CHAPTER NINE

Olivia

Plastering on a smile, I’m fighting to keep my disposition light for my customers. I hear what sounds like a battle cry from the other end of the bar and I glance down to see Taryn happily celebrating…something.  When she turns to change the music, I know by the first few notes what’s going on.  Someone is getting a body shot.

Most of the crowd is familiar enough with Dual to know what the song means and what a body shot is, so they quickly scramble to Taryn’s end of the bar to watch the entertainment.  I think the only more effective way to clear out space in the room would be to start screaming, “Fight!” and point toward the door.  The place would empty in four seconds flat.

The girl who will be receiving the body shot looks like the type that volunteers for them.  A lot.  I would be willing to bet she is made of eighty percent recyclable materials and that her clothes belong to her much smaller sister.  The mass of white-blond hair atop her head completes the picture of a bimbo.

She wiggles and jiggles before she lies back onto the bar.  I find it amusing that no one has to adjust her clothing at all for the shot.  An ample amount of her stomach is already exposed by her outfit.