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It’s the look my father had right before he left me for the last time.
Why don’t I want the club involved in my life or Brandon’s? Because Brandon doesn’t need people who promise they’re going to stick around to take care of him but then abandon him the moment their cell pings. My brother deserves better than that. I deserve better now, and I deserved better when Dad was alive.
“Gotta go?” The bitterness drips in the singsong sway of my voice.
The black gaze Eli shoots me is his confirmation. “This conversation isn’t over.”
Yes, it is. “I’ve got to take care of my brother while you guys go off and play.”
I walk away from Eli because someone in Brandon’s life has to be responsible. Someone has to be the grown-up, and considering the other people in Brandon’s life are determined to stay irresponsible, the burden falls to me.
CHEVY
DAMN IF I understand why girls like getting flowers, but their faces light up, their lips will tilt upward and their eyes will glow as if you handed them the world. Hell, maybe it’s only the girls I’ve been around who react this way. Maybe their lives are so messed up that the idea of any guy offering them anything without expectation of payment blows their mind.
It’s sad, but it’s true, and I don’t mind being the person who can bring them one second of happiness.
Shamrock’s newest employee accepts the two daisies I “magically” made appear. I stole them—two tables down from a bouquet an army boy’s holding. Guess he plans on giving it to one of the cocktail waitresses. He didn’t notice I swiped the flowers and neither did anyone else. Fast hands, a distraction, and the world belongs to me.
“Thank you.” She glances away and my heart drops for her. She’s pretty. Early twenties. Could do well working here at the bar, but with that attitude, she won’t make it through the night. There’s no room for modesty or shyness or emotion in order to make money at this joint.
“Pretty girl like you,” I say with a wink, “will knock ’em dead.”
“Do you work here?” she asks.
The bar’s manager and Mom’s best friend smacks me on the back of the head before I can answer no. “Stop flirting with my girls.” Brandy gestures at me while looking at the new girl. “Watch out for him, he thinks he can con anyone into loving him.”
“You love me,” I say.
“And I regret it most days.” But she says it with a smile. Brandy then offers her hand to her newest employee. “Come on, let me show you where the real magic happens.”
“My magic’s real,” I call out, and Brandy’s only response is a loud laugh. I can’t help but chuckle with her because she’s going to be pissed in a few minutes when she realizes I lifted her watch...again.
The new girl waves as she glances at me over her shoulder. I nod in response. The twenty in my pocket says she won’t be here when I pick Mom up later. Being a waitress here requires an iron shell.
With a thud, Mom props her overly large purse on the bar, slides off my leather jacket and hands it to me, revealing her low-cut tank and what she refers to as her jeans-that-make-her-money. She asked me to dr
op her off early, since the other bartender called in sick.
I usually drive Mom in her car as she hates motorcycles, but her already pieced-together Ford from the 1980s died again this morning, and I haven’t had time to figure out what broke.
Mom sighs heavily when I slide Brandy’s watch to her. “Will you please stop stealing from people?”
“It’s not stealing if I give it back.” I grin, then grin wider when Mom’s lips twitch. Everyone’s born with a gift. My gift is fast hands. Too bad my only career options with it are street magician or thug pickpocket. Some days, my feet are as fast as my hands and that’s what makes me one hell of a football player.
“Tonight should be a moneymaker.” Mom uses her phone to check her makeup.
I case the dimly lit place that’s occasionally brightened by the beams of colored lights bouncing off the dance floor and the stage where the DJ mixes music. Being near the army base is great for business, but can bring in a mix of a crowd.
Because it’s too damn cliché, the place crawls with army boys. Most of them too loud, too cocky and too lonely. A gang of boys with frat symbols on their T-shirts take up three tables near the stage. Odds are they’re under twenty-one, so that’s why they drove the forty-five minutes from their school.
The bouncers don’t give a rip who’s here as long as they pay to get in and pay for their beer. All those guys watch the girls on the dance floor. Most of them like starved wolves in search of raw meat.
Friday and Saturday nights make me nervous, so I offer to drive Mom, and when she doesn’t accept, I don’t give her a choice. There’s a lot of psychotic bastards in the world and most of them seem to gravitate to bars late at night in search of those who drank too much and are easy prey.
“Why do you do it?” Mom leans in so she can hear my answer over the pounding music. It’s nearing ten, about an hour before this place will be wall-to-wall shaking and shimmying bodies. “Why do you always give the girls around here flowers?”
Because they often walk out of here with a vacant expression and hollow eyes. Exhausted from being on their feet and having to pretend they’re someone’s fantasy so they can make more money from tips. “Question should be, why don’t more guys do it?”
