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“Yeah, me neither.”
I pull my T-shirt down and step out of his reach, my car key extended between my fingers in case he tries to manhandle me again.
“What do you want, Cash? I have to get ready for work. Because—unlike you—I have an honest job.”
“If you call whoring yourself out for tips honest, sure.” He runs a hand through his dark, greasy hair, tries to act cool.
“I’m a waitress, not a stripper.”
“Same diff.”
I roll my eyes and back away, heading toward the stairs. Half-tempted to make a run for it but scared he’ll grab my ankles and pull me down.
“I saw Jags yesterday. Word around town is you’re hot for the prince.”
The juvenile nickname my brothers have for King irks me, crawling under my skin and making me queasy.
“Who are you talking about?” I tip my head to the side and pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You know who I’m talking about, Juliet. Jags asked me to deliver a message.”
I stare at Cash. How the hell did Jagger find out what happened between me and King already?
“He says stay away from him. Or else.” Cash makes a fist, cracking his knuckles, the sound echoing around the lot.
I make a pshaw sound and try not to dwell on the implied threat.
“Okay, sure. Whatever.” I shrug before turning and sprinting up the stairs as fast as my legs will carry me. I twist the key in the door lock, slamming it shut hard behind me—turning first the lock, then the dead bolt before leaning back against the wall in my dark apartment.
I stand still for one minute, then another, waiting for my pulse to return to a reasonable number of beats per minute.
My brothers are such assholes, every single one of them. Thank god I’m getting out of town with King. I know I’ll be safe with him.
The Tipsy Taco lot is pretty empty, since I’m covering the early lunch shift. Not too many people stop in for tacos before noon, even in a beach town. The tips suck at lunch, making this the least desirable shift. Could work in my favor, since I have several dinner shifts in a row I need to get covered.
Shoving through the door, I wave to my friend Sabby—short for Sabrina, the given name she hates—standing behind the bar. She’s counting liquor bottles, taking inventory before our next five-dollar-margarita night.
“Hey, babe. What’s good?” She reaches up, tightening her high, dark ponytail, the tips dyed a bright blue. Extremely bold hairstyle for this sleepy beach town. She probably had to color it herself at home.
“Not much.” I slide behind the bar, grabbing the shift calendar we keep there for handy reference. “Listen?—”
“Uh-oh. I hear an ask coming ...” Sabby chomps hard on her bubblegum.
“Could you cover my shift tomorrow? And the next two days too?” I clasp my hands together, pleading.
Sabby peers over my arm at the schedule. “I don’t know, I kinda have plans.”
“‘Kinda’ doesn’t sound too solid.”
“Whatcha gonna do for me?” Smack, smack, blow. A bright-pink bubble breaks through her full, puffy lips, almost entirely covering her face.
“I’ll spot you next time. Promise.”
“Fine.” She flutters her long, dark eyelashes. “I’ll take all your shifts. I could use the money anyway. I’m trying to go to Cancun for spring break.”
“Can’t get enough margaritas here?” I tease, popping her hip with mine.
“Exactly. Thought maybe I could pick up a few tips from the locals, bring the recipes back with me to Seaglass Beach.”
