Page 38 of The Golden Boys
Dusty shoots West an incredulous look and waves off the concern. “Nah, my niece here will take good care of you. Ain’t that right, Blue-Jay?” He nudges me forward playfully, but I’m standing awkwardly and lose my footing. Stumbling very ungracefully, I nearly face-plant right in the center of West’s chest.
Blazing heat radiates from his palms when he catches me by my waist, sending a wave of warmth right through the fabric of my uniform. His hands slip lower, toward my hips, but I quickly reestablish the necessary distance between us.
My stare tangles with his and I smooth both hands down the powder-blue monstrosity Uncle Dusty insists all the waitresses wear.
“We’ll get you boys fed in no time. Sound good?” he promises.
“Yes, sir,” West replies, sounding a bit less focused than before.
Dusty leaves us and, ugh! Talk about a punch to the gut! He just practically ate from the palm of my nemesis.
There’s more of that weird energy reverberating between West and me, potent enough that it recharges my frustration.
“Just … go sit,” I hiss, realizing this is about to happen whether I like it or not. I move to brush past him, but halt when his fingers encircle my arm.
Peering up, the deep crease at the center of his brow makes it clear he didn’t appreciate my sharp tone. In fact, it seems to have refueled his rage.
“Don’t provoke me, Southside,” he growls. “You haven’t seen me off my leash yet.” The freakishly deep tone of his voice radiates down to my bones.
I have his undivided attention and take full advantage of it by leaning into him. His gaze slips down to my lips when they part to speak.
“Careful, KingMidas,” I warn. “In the wrong hands, a leash can quickly become a noose.”
I feel his eyes glued to me when I leave him behind, slipping the notepad from my pocket.
“Can I start everyone off with drinks?” I ask, approaching the first booth.
In my peripheral, I am more than aware of West when he eases into a seat at the table with Dane and Sterling. Mostly, I ignore him and write down the order that’s spoken, before moving on to the next table.
It isn’t until I get tohisthat I’m unable to pretend he doesn’t exist.
I don’t fight the scowl that overtakes my expression. “Drinks?” I ask flatly.
The brothers keep it simple with sodas, but not West. KingDick decides to be difficult.
“I’ll take a float. Half root beer, half ginger ale.”
I roll my eyes but keep my thoughts to myself. Instead, I head to the drink fountain and get started. I fill the order by table and then make the deliveries, but when I get to West’s, I make it extra special. Just for him.
Glancing around to make sure there aren’t any witnesses, I suck my finger and then use it to stir his float. He’ll never know, but it makes me feel a whole lot better about having to put up with him tonight.
As much as I want to smile setting the glass down in front of him, I refrain, knowing he’ll sense something is up if I let it slip. Dane and Sterling actually thank me when I hand them theirs. The polite reaction earns both swift rebuke from West, in the form of a sharp, daggerlike look.
Only now does he glance down at the tall glass I placed on the table, and then he peers up at me.
“You did something to it, didn’t you?” His voice is low and steady, but suspicious.
Pretending this is all an overreaction on his part, I prop the tray against my hip and feign innocence.
“What are you talking about? I made it just like you said to.”
His stare is hard and unrelenting, but I don’t fold. Not even when he stands and steps so close his solid chest and torso press against my shoulder.
“Make … another one,” he demands quietly. “And this time, I’ll watch.”
For some reason, I’m insulted. Despite being one-hundred-percent guilty.
“Paranoid much?” I ask with a grin.