Page 7 of Deviant
“Or you can ask me for money, and I’ll give it to you. So, October, would you like me to put money in your account so you can pay your bills?” My prideful girl shoots glaring daggers from her eyes at me.
“Absolutely the hell not. Fine. I’ll do it tomorrow,” she huffs out as she rolls her eyes. Any fucking more eye-rolling, and they are going to end up stuck in the back of her damn head.
“Good girl. How’s your savings look? Do you have six months’ wages like I told you to do? Can you make your rent for that many months? If not, let me know and we’ll work together to get you a plan into place.” I’m trying like hell not to swoop in and fix all her problems. I’ve already set her off by threatening to put money in her bank. She doesn’t want that and I’m not trying to take her independence away either, even if it would be so easy to just buy her apartment at the very least.
“I have money and they gave me a month’s salary, but I plan on finding something while looking for another full-time job. I can waitress or bartend if it comes down to it. I’m not trying to tap into my savings if I don’t have to, and it’s not a bad way to supplement my income.” Bartend? I think the hell not. Bartenders are magnets for trouble.
I start gathering dishes to take back to the kitchen when I hear it. As soon as she said it, I knew what was coming next.
“I mean, Onyx always needs bartenders and shot girls. Do you think your manager would hire me?” Fucking Ian. My manager and head bartender and he would fucking hire her in a goddamn heartbeat.
“Are you on drugs? Legitimate question because I don’t know how else to explain why the hell you would think I would let you be a shot girl.” A growl slips out between my lips.
“The outfit isn’t that bad! I wear less when I go to the beach, so calm down.” She thinks it’s about the uniform they wear, but it isn’t. Well, not entirely. It’s about the stares and the inadvertent touches. It’s about constantly trying to stop myself from kicking some frat boy’s ass because that’s bad for business.
“The answer is no, October. Don’t push me on this. I’ll help you in any other way, but you aren’t working at Onyx. Don’t bring it up again.” I use my stern voice. The one that means I fucking mean it and I’ve shut down. She just looks at me, mouth set in a grim line. She doesn’t say anything else, but she also doesn’t affirm that she understands and will lay this to rest.
I choose to not continue the conversation, instead pulling the lemon bars out of the fridge from her favorite bakery.
“You didn’t?!?!” she squeals, and I breathe a little deeper because the tension is broken.
These fucking lemon bars are an hour away, and I absolutely did drive out there this afternoon to pick them up.
When you’re a father, there isn’t anything you won’t do to make your kid happy. Even an hour of traffic and another hour of waiting to get into Blissful Bites bakery.
I hate Sundays and thejust got out of churchcrowds.
I don’t even bother plating the dessert. Instead, I set the open box in front of her and watch as she snatches one up. If hearts could overtake her eyes right now as she gazed at the yellow, iced treat, they would.
Throwing an arm around her shoulders, “Are you going to share, or do we need to arm wrestle for it?”
A mock affronted look crosses her face before she says, “I’ll be my best benevolent self and offer you one square, but that’s it! Everything else is mine.”
I don’t even like lemon like that, but I eat the fucking bars because they really are that fucking good and they did their job.
“I can’t believe you went all the way to Morgan Creek for these, and it isn’t even a special occasion. Wait, did someone die?” She’s got a mouthful of lemon and is staring at me in horror.
“No one died. That’s what coffee cake is for, not lemon bars. Have I taught you nothing?” I joke, trying to ease her worries.
“We haven’t had them in a while, and I don’t know why. I woke up, and it felt like a lemon bar day was needed, so here we are. I can take them back if you want.” She growls at me, sounding like a wildcat.
“Mine. Don’t touch or I’ll bite your hand.” I wiggle my fingers in front of her face, acting like I’m going to grab the half-eaten square she’s about to put into her mouth and she latches on. Both my thumb and the dessert end up in her mouth, and we both let a moan escape us.
Shit.
I pull my thumb out from between her lips, feeling the drag of her teeth along both sides, and my body betrays me.
Not only did I moan, but I can feel myself getting hard.
An involuntary reaction, I tell myself. Willing myself to actually believe it because I can’t go there. I don’t want to. I much prefer to delude myself into thinking that she moaned because of the sweet treat and that my moan was nonexistent.
“You’re rabid. Finish your food and I’m gonna do the dishes. Go pick out whatever game you feel like playing tonight.” I turn my back and press up hard against the sink.
Smell of mothballs.
Grandma Betty.
Liver and onions.