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Peppermint
Icheck the time, knowing I’m running late. I can’t believe I overslept. I’ve been busy every single day this week, but it will pay off this weekend. This weekend will be huge for me. It’ll be huge for the Royal Harlots. I can feel it.
A few months ago, I got a call about the bar I own. Well…it was never really mine and wasn’t much of a bar at the time. The place had been closed for years, ever since my husband died. It was his place, his baby. He loved that bar more than he loved me. My son kept telling me I needed to list it on the market. Get rid of it. And I finally took his advice. That was two years ago. I suppose no one wanted a rundown bar with busted windows and a desperate need for new flooring and plumbing. To say I let the place go after Ryan died would be an understatement.
So, when I got the call from Skylar Presley saying she wanted to take a look at the bar, I was ecstatic. Of course, I thought there was something seriously wrong with her for wanting such a piece of shit place, but once I met her, I got it. She didn’t see it as a lost cause. She saw it as a future for the Harlots. The Royal Harlots are an all-female MC, sister club to the Royal Bastards MC. Skylar is a member, and it didn’t take long after we signed the papers for her to ask me to join her.
Now, I really thought she was crazy for that. I’m a thirty-six-year-old single mom who couldn’t even keep a bar open on her own. I was not this badass independent woman like the other Harlots. Besides, they all brought a skill— some sort of purpose to the club. I had nothing to offer. I barely graduated high school, and know how to press a button at a factory.
That did not stop Skylar. And after weeks of nagging, I gave in. I haven’t regretted it at all. Not even once. The Harlots give me a purpose. For once in my life, I feel like I’m more than just Piper “Peppermint” Rogue.
“I know, I know, I’m late,” I say the moment I arrive at the bar.
Skylar is already there with Jake, Allie, Hunter, and Dash. The guys carry in the boxes of liquor while Skylar and Allie rearrange the bar stools. Again. We haven’t quite figured out how we want the place to look, and we open this weekend.
We wanted it to have a homey, comfortable feel, so we put brown leather sofas and loungers in a VIP room. Not sure we’ll ever have anyone who qualifies as VIP, but we figure we can use that space for the clubs.
The bar is a sanded-down oak Dash put a shiny stain on. It really stands out as unique, and I personally love it over the original one. Skylar chose antique barstools, and we decorated the place with rustic mason jar lighting, farmhouse jugs, and wagon wheel tables. The only modern room is the VIP room.
I head over to the bar and start unloading the liquor the guys are bringing in. Dash walks behind me, two boxes in his muscular arms. I glance over my shoulder at him, and he flashes me a sexy grin. Damn, when he does that, I have to remind myself I’m at least ten years his senior. Possibly more. That fact does not keep him from invading my dreams. How bad is it that I’m hot for a kid who’s only a few years older than my own?
“The place looks good,” Dash comments, standing right behind me. “Not as good as your ass in those jeans though.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes, giving him every indication that I do not reciprocate his incessant flirting. It doesn’t stop him. Thank God. His comments are fuel for my vibrator.
“How do you get in those jeans?” he asks, referring to how tight they are. He leans in, his lips brushing against my cheek. “And how do I?”
I laugh, unable to help myself. “These jeans are older than you are, sweetheart.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly how to turn them inside out.”
He’s serious. Dead fucking serious. And I am turned on. It’s been years — no exaggeration — since I’ve been with a man. Toys don’t talk dirty to you. Toys don’t cuddle with you afterward. Definitely something lacking for me in that department.
“Go play with someone your own age,” I encourage.
He snakes his arm around me, reaching up to wrap his hand around my neck. I take a sharp breath when he gently squeezes. It’s like no one else is in the room. No one’s paying attention to us. Even if they were, it wouldn’t matter.
“Oh, the fucking things I could do to you, Peppermint.”
The way he says my name — the nickname my first husband gave me — it’s so different coming from him. So naughty sounding. I had no idea a man could say my name that way.
He slips his hand down, subtly brushing my boobs as he steps away from me. Behaves as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t touch me that way.
That’s why I hesitate. It’s more than the age gap. It’s the fact that I know he will walk away from me. And I’ve already lost in love enough times to know that I don’t want to deal with that.
