Fire and Ice: Book One: Burned (The Fire and Ice Series 1) (2 page)

Hailey

I was literally
stunned at what had just flown out of this jerk's mouth. He had met me not
thirty seconds ago, and was already the biggest prick I'd ever encountered.
Great. And I was going to have to
work
with
him? With
him?
I wasn't sure if I could do
this. I didn't need some self-centered asshole jumping down my throat every
night.
It's only a few hours a day. You need the
money, and so does Mom. Suck it up Buttercup.
Damnit! I was just going
have to eat shit, and get over his controlling attitude. My mom was more
important than some self-righteous ignoramus with a chip on his shoulder.

The guy who
helped me, Jordan...Carson I think he said his name was, broke into my
thoughts. "Don't mind him...he's..."

"A
dick?" I cut to the quick and concluded.

Jordan
scratched the back of his neck, I'm sure due to feeling uncomfortable about the
situation that had just taken place. He peeked up at me self-consciously, and
giving me a look of trepidation, he said, "Well, I personally wouldn't put
it that way. He's my friend...but, yeah...he can tend to rub people the wrong
way sometimes," he laughed nervously.

I frowned, not
really caring about his explanation of his 'friend', more so interested in the
jack ass's comment on my attire. "So what's his deal? I mean, what was he
talking about when he said I wasn't going to make any tips dressed like this?
What's
that
supposed to mean? That I look
trashy? Because..."

Jordan cut me
off mid-sentence, "He shouldn't have said that. You look..." His eyes
wandered to and fro, taking in the dimly lit scenery of the bar, anywhere but
me.

I was becoming
more agitated by the moment. I blurted out, "Well, out with it. No point
in hiding it from me. The least you can do is let me know what the
proper
attire is so that I can make the most money I
can. I didn't come here to make less money than I should be making, due to my
clothing choice. I'll punch out and go home and change, if it's such a big
deal," I ranted, throwing my arms up with animation. People were staring.

Jordan placed
his hand on the bar, stepping closer to me, his tall, lean frame just inches
from my own, as his clean, fresh scent wafted my way, nearly making me forget
what had been my argument. His dirty blond hair was a bit long on the top and
sides, perfect for running a girl's hands through, and his green eyes were
intently staring into mine, as if he were pleading with me to understand a
hidden code that I had not yet figured out. He finally broke the silence
between us, his deep voice coming out barely audible as he said, "The
shooter girls...they get more tips if they..." He looked away as if it
pained him to continue his explanation.

"If they
what?" I probed.

Returning his
gaze to mine, he continued, "If they wear...less." He furrowed his
brow, and clenched his jaw. He clearly didn't agree with the lack of respect
the patrons had for the women that were simply hired to served drinks,
regardless of what clothing they donned. It was a ridiculous notion, which I
could barely comprehend myself, as my jaw went slack.

Looking down at
my simple jeans, neat and plain turquoise blouse, accented by black heels, I
thought I had dressed like a lady that would be serving high end, expensive
shots to good paying customers; not having to look like a skank to gain more
tips. As far as I knew, this wasn't the same crowd as a strip club drew. For
the second time of the evening, I glanced at my own outfit, and back to Jordan,
saying, "Well, what do you suggest, then?"

He shrugged
noncommittally and said, "Doesn't matter what I think. Kellan's gonna
throw a bitch unless you wear what
he
tells
you to anyways, so you may as well get it over with," he motioned his head
to the back room.

Are you freaking kidding me? I have to wear what HE says?
Great. Just perfect. What have I signed up for?

******

Kellan

Well, I guess
it was just going to be Jordan, Miss Priss, and me tonight. Jim just called in
letting me know he has the stomach flu, and he can gladly keep that shit (no
pun intended) away from me. This is fucking awesome.
Not
. I hope Jordan can handle his own, and as I
said, Miss Priss can keep up, because I'm not a goddamn babysitter. I'll train
her ass for one hour. If she doesn't get the gist of it by then, fuck
her...she's on her own. A sly smile crept up my face. That outfit has to go.
I'll be surprised if she makes more than fifty bucks tonight. The shooter girls
don't get paid hourly; tips only. I wasn't joking when I said sink or swim.

I grabbed the
ledger to take with me out to the bar so I could take stock and make sure we
had enough liquor on supply for tonight. I'd keep the jukebox steady until 9:00
when the DJ started. Friday nights we usually had a packed house. I know I
bitch and complain about how small our town is, but we have a decent sized
local university here, and we're the only bar in town that has the room to
cater to the college kids. The older crowd usually clears out by 7:00 or 8:00
and we stop serving food at 9:00, so we're good to go when the anxious kids,
ready to party, start rolling in...well, when we're at full staff, that is.
Tonight will be a free for all; who knows what the hell is gonna go down.

Dunny...Dennis
is his real name...one of the college kids that plays on the football team,
weighing in at least 320 pounds, if I had to guess, is our bouncer. He works
the door Fridays and Saturdays, as we have local bands on Saturday nights, also
drawing in a decent sized college crowd. The rest of the week is hit and miss.
We bring in the shooter girl, or girls, depending on demand, which has been
slower right now, on the weekends and on the busier nights during the week. It
varies depending on sports seasons, whether college is in session, etc.

In all honesty,
it's Jim's call. He could hire ten of them and have them here six nights a
week...less work for me to do, as far as I'm concerned. Most of the people at
the bar order straight up shots; simple and easy. Out on the floor, the girls
pedal fancy shots, and sell the shit out them. If they didn't make them, the
whole goddamn bar would be ordering tequila shooters all night. I don't have
time to pour shots all night.

The shooter
girls have a job: help me and the other staff keep an eye on the liquor, mix
their own shots, and sell the fuck out of 'em, using whatever means it takes,
including shaking their fine little asses. Their fancy shots equal big time
money. And the shooter girls can make a shit ton in a few hours. It's easy
money; they mix as many shots as they
think
they can sell at one time. They keep fifty percent plus tips.

Here's the
catch. We don't make cheap shots like tequila or Jack. We're talking crazy shit
you've never heard of, and they take time to make. So if they don't make
enough, they've gotta take time out of the floor time they could be
selling
their shots to come in the back and
make
more shots. Not to mention, they could have a
thirsty, pissed off crowd, bitching about where the hell the shooter girl went.
So it's a gamble. It takes a minute to learn, but they learn quickly when
money's involved.

With my ledger
in hand, I strode out of the office, and nearly knocked Miss Priss on her ass
when she collided with my chest, before I caught her by her tiny waist, my
ledger spilling to the floor. I righted her, as she put her hands on my chest,
her long dark hair tickling my hands as I held her still, gauging her reaction.
I gave her a harsh stare, as if I were unaffected, while in my mind, I was
anything but. A sudden primal need of want washed over me with a tidal force. 
My senses were on full alert as her delicate floral scent washed over my way,
making me instantly hard. Her soft blue eyes had a hint of grey in them, rimmed
by thick black lashes that were now batting at me in confusion, or perhaps
deliriousness. Now this was humorous. I was
definitely
having an affect on her.

Our gazes
remained locked for what seemed like minutes, mine severe, and hers dazed, as
she clung to my shirt, digging her nails into my chest. Any doubts I had about
her being a woman flew straight out the window. I could feel her breasts
heaving up and down as her breath warmed my neck. Fuck, Miss Priss had me
breathing hard and fast, wanting every tight little inch of her tempting body
pressed against me, before she hardened her stare and shoved off of me,
spewing, "How dare you?" Ok. Was the bitch bipolar or something? She
just went from impassioned to pissy pants in three seconds flat. What the fuck?

Stunned, but
now thoroughly enraged, I was ready to put Miss Priss in her place. "Look,
honey
, I don't know who you think you're
fuckin' with here, but around this place, it's my way or the highway, got it?
Now you got a problem, put it in the suggestion box, and I'll take a look at
it," I said sardonically.

She looked over
my shoulder, peeking behind me before questioning, "Where's the
suggestion
box?"

I smirked.
"You're lookin' at him."

She rolled her
eyes before placing her hand on her perfectly curved hip, tipping her head to
the side and cocking a brow. Clearly not amused, she responded, "What do
you do with the suggestions?"

"I wipe my
ass with them. Now, the clock's ticking on your training hour; you wanna learn
how to do this shit, or make it up as you go?" I bit out, brushing past
her as she followed behind me, hot on my heels, trying to keep up with my long
gait. I didn't waste time around here. I didn't have time to waste. Hell, this
hour would set me behind two today, as it was. I didn't look back to see if she
was keeping up, or bother to check if she was comprehending what I was telling
her. I rattled off her instructions, sweeping through the bar area, and into
the back, pulling out the supplies she'd need in record time. By the time I was
done, I had twenty minutes to spare, we were both sweating, and damn if she
didn't look hot with that sheen of sweat gracing her neck and chest; and I
either needed a cold glass of water or a cold shower.

******

Hailey

My head was
spinning, and not just from Kellan's speed method of teaching me how to operate
on my own. My run in with him earlier had sent chills coursing through my body.
For the second time in one day, I was met with a pair of eyes I could find
myself lost in. When he'd touched me, a searing spark had inexplicably shot
through my entire body. Looking at Kellan was like looking at a piece of art.
His dark, almost black hair, was cut short at the neck and sides, and a bit
messy on top, as if he'd just run his hands through it after showering. His
face was beautifully handsome, with dark brooding eyes, and a chiseled jaw, he
was all male. He had the 'bad boy' look down to a science. In simple blue
jeans, ripped in a few spots, that hung from his lean, muscular hips, and a
plain white t-shirt that hugged his upper body, I could feel the heat radiating
off of his muscled arms, cut, corded, and well defined; each covered in varying
works of tattoo designs. Kellan was like a mosaic of notions and ideals, a tapestry
of fine detail, etched into his being through ink.

Working at
Jimbo's would be no easy task, by any means. I would be constantly surrounded
by testosterone-fueled energy, spiking my own hormones, I'm certain. One thing
was for sure, the way Kellan looked at me back there, practically the
only
time he had looked at me, it was as if he
speared me with his scorching gaze, right through me into my inner thoughts. I
sure as hell hope he wasn't a mind reader, because at that moment, I wanted
nothing more than to be right where I was, in his arms. No. That's not true...I
wanted more, it wasn't enough. I wanted more of him, his essence...it was
intoxicating; and I knew I had to push myself away before I made a fool out of
myself. If I make it through this night without my panties going up in flames,
I'll be shocked.

******

Kellan

Dunny was
getting set up and Miss Priss looked frazzled trying to prepare her shots in
the back while I stalked past her to take a quick smoke break before the crowd
started filing in. I did manage to get a nice peek at her tight little ass as I
walked by, though. Yeah, I wouldn't mind hittin' that; if she weren't such an
uptight...

"Hey,
Kellan...wait up, man!" Jordan interrupted my nasty inner tirade.
"I'll come out with ya. I need some fresh air." Maybe he had his own
brush with the Princess. Jealousy tugged at my brain at the thought; I'd never
been jealous of another man in my life. My equilibrium was spinning out of
control and no chick was going to dominate my life. Jordan or any other guy out
there, for that matter, could fucking have her; I swatted the little green
monster that had reared it's ugly head back down where it belonged, which was
nowhere near me.

I kept walking
and held the heavy steel door open for Jordan to follow after me, propping it
open with a heavy sand filled coffee can I used to dispose of my butts. I don't
know why I bothered. Everybody else that wandered back here, or stood out front
threw their cigarettes wherever they damn well pleased. I ended up sweeping the
sidewalk, laden with garbage, every day and picking up everybody else's
discarded waste each afternoon, just so it looked decent around here. Jesus,
doesn't anybody have any respect anymore? Fuck...who am I kidding? I'm the most
disrespectful person I know, but I'm not a goddamn slob.