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“Hang on.” She fishes cash from the tip jar and hands it to me.
Blinking, I stare at her. “What’s this?”
Her hands grab mine, shoving the bills into it. “A bunch of tourists went all out at brunch. Take it. I don’t want you not to have a paycheck. You’ll be working this side of the bar soon enough.”
Emotions overwhelm me as I stare down at the twenties, tens, and fives. This isn’t just how Anita is. It’s how everyone is here. Always looking out for me when I suspect it least and need it most. Everyone here cares for me. In return, I have to care for them back.
Counting it quickly, I split it right down the middle and toss half back in the jar. “Thanks,” I say, rushing out of there before I’m a blubbering puddle in the middle of the floor.
Sternly, I wipe my cheeks and make my way down the hall. I can cry when I’m at home. That’s what showers are for.
Scowling, I mutter under my breath. “Yoo-hoo ... Satan. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Where Tyler and Zac are wholesome goodness wrapped up in sunshine and smiles, Mark is the polar opposite, ready to fight, run, or fornicate at a moment’s notice. His brothers are easygoing sails on tranquil waters, while Mark is a storm. And those eyes. Shamefully, I’ve stared at them more than once.
Some men were meant to build castles while others were born to slay dragons. That’s Mark. A hot-blooded fighting machine who can’t turn it off. It’s what makes him the best. And the broodiest.
When Brian entered the Army, Mark rushed in after him, besties since their stupid blood oath in the fifth grade. Seriously, how deep did they need to cut? They both required five stitches each. But that was them. Two beautiful idiots pridefully counting every last scar.
It’s the reason why no matter how hard I try, I can’t avoid Mark. Like my brother’s shadow, he’s always around. A personal tormentor, ready and eager to strike at will.
I pop my head into the break room. A few waitresses are eating a late lunch and gossiping about customers.
Gasping, Kara looks up at me. “I thought you were off,” she says, offended at my very presence. “Tyler said you needed a personal day.” Her eyes roll to a resentful stop. “Must be nice.”
Why would Tyler tell them that? I ignore her, and not just because Kara’s an ass, but because convincing Kara that Tyler is wrong would be as fruitful as convincing Mark I should be a bartender. There’s no point. It’ll never happen. But I still need to pick up my check. “Have either of you seen Mark?”
“Oh my God,” Starr says as she whips back her pink hair. “Is MarkDanger ZoneDonovan here?”
Kara claps and squeals like a seal, while I rub my temple, praying that the migraine she just spurred up goes away. High-pitched and hopeless, she carries on. “He’s so lickable. I heard he now holds the record for the most confirmed kills.”
Confused, I stare. “How does that make him hot?”
She smirks. “You wouldn’t understand.” She scans me up and down before dismissing me with her eyes. “You’re too young.”
“I’m only a year younger than you, Kara.”
She scoops her breasts into her crossed arms, forcing cleavage that even her overstuffed push-up couldn’t tackle. “There’s a world of difference in a year.”
Perhaps to a dog.
“Trust me,” Starr says. “His brothers are princes, but Mark Donovan is a full-fledged demi-god.” She licks her spoon suggestively. “I’ve got something that sharpshooter can aim at.”
She sucks her finger, amplifying the point. I dry heave and leave the room. Only God knows where that finger’s been.
Kara calls after me. “Tell him we’re looking for him, too, okay?”
Their giggles echo wildly as I shake my head.Sure. Why not? Because maybe if I offer two semi-virginal sacrifices to your demi-God, he’ll give me that promotion I desperately need.
“Jess?” I hear Mark say. His deep, gravelly voice flows effortlessly down the hall, though I don’t see him.
As I approach his office, the door is ajar. I slide a hand on the handle, pausing as soon as I hear, “What about her?” Because Mark isn’t talking to me, he’s talkingaboutme.
The door is cracked ever so slightly, an obvious invitation to listen in. His heavy footsteps move farther away, and I nudge the door a hair, wide enough to peer inside.
Framed by the large picture window at the other end of the office, Beelzebub stands in all his glory: dark blue jeans, crisp white shirt, and chestnut-brown hair mussed to perfection. The million-mile stare he sports is fixed somewhere off in the distance as he presses the cell phone to his ear.
It’s wrong of me to stare. But I can’t not stare. I mean, it’s hardly the first time I’ve seen Mark Donovan. It’s just the first time I’ve dared to unapologetically stare at his ass.
