Loving Two Doms (Club El Diablo) (2 page)

Mentally shaking herself, she allowed boredom to seep into her voice. “Sorry, this is fascinating conversation, but I need to get your order in.” She marched away as fast as she could, trying to appear like she wasn’t running.

“Shit.” She said quietly as soon as the kitchen door swung closed behind her.

“What’s up, Jewels?” George, the ancient, gruff cook, asked.

She steadied herself and blew out a long breath. “A customer.”

“Do I need to kick some ass?” His skinny arms stopped scraping the grill, then he turned and looked out the kitchen service window that gave him a glimpse into the seating area.

“No, but I need to get him out of here ASAP. He wants the breakfast special.”

“We can refuse service to anyone and I’m happy to get rid of him for you.” He laid the spatula down and started heading to the doorway.

Jewel desperately grabbed his arm, but couldn’t help her grin. “No, please George, it wasn’t like that.” She sighed, knowing this wouldn’t be enough for the overprotective cook. “He said I was beautiful after seeing both sides of my face.” Her words came out in a rush.

George stopped his forward progress and gave her an assessing look. “I see. It bothers you to have an intelligent man come into our friendly grease pit?”

She swatted his wrinkled arm. “Stop it. This isn’t a grease pit; you’re the best cook in Houston.”

“True, but you’re changing the subject. I need to get a look at the guy who’s thrown you off your bitch.”

“I am not a bitch,” she huffed with friendly affection.

“Maybe ‘bitch’ is a little strong, but you have no problem handling the men here and kicking them to the curb when they need it. What’s so special about this one” He took a step closer to the door.

She pushed him back toward the grill. “Don’t you dare go out there. Start his order—please.” She knew he was teasing, but she couldn’t chance him causing her further embarrassment.

“Fine. I’ll take a quick look while he’s eating.”

Starla’s voice came from the front. “New customers and number eight needs a refresher.”

Jewel sat the cooled pot of coffee on the warmer and grabbed a hot one. She glanced out and saw two regulars, ones she actually enjoyed, take a seat in the booth half the floor away from number eight. Picking up two clean mugs and creamer, she looked over her shoulder at George. “Get cookin’!” she said and went back into the lion’s den.

She refused to glance at number eight, but gave a large smile to her regulars while sitting their mugs down and pouring them coffee. “Do you both want the usual?”

“You know us too well,” said the chubbier but cuter of the two.

“What would you do if we ordered something different?” said the other.

“Probably check the sky to see if it has cracks,” she tossed back.

“You know we only come in for your muffins.”

“Shh, you don’t want to hurt the cook’s feelings. Today’s blueberry.” She gave a conspiratorial wink.

“That’s what we hoped. Our favorite.”

“You say that no matter the muffin,” she said cheerfully. “Let me pour my other customer some more coffee and I’ll get your orders in, then get your warm, buttery muffins out here.”

“We love you, Jewel. Dave’s married, but I’m single.”

Dave reached across the booth and playfully nudged his friend. “Don’t listen to him; he’s three times divorced.”

“You know, Bill, I think this is the twenty-ninth proposal you’ve given me. What happens when I say yes on the thirtieth?”

“I’ll rent a bigger apartment and keep you in style.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. You’re just too high class for me. A hole-in-the-wall studio is more than I can handle.”

“Leave her alone, Bill, or she’ll stop baking.”

Bill’s eyebrows went up and down in a comic imitation of a lecher. “If she says yes, she’ll stop baking for everyone but me.”

Every day they came in they made her laugh. “That’s enough you two. I need to work.”

The two men argued good-naturedly as she walked toward table eight. Dark eyes watched her arrival.

“Refill?” She automatically reached for his mug as he nodded.

“You bake the muffins?”

Her hand shook as the hot liquid flowed into the cup. She looked up and noticed him watching. “I bake a fresh batch each morning.”

His eyes traveled from her hands to her face. “What kind are you making tomorrow?”

“Fridays are banana walnut.”

Almost too casually he asked, “What are Saturdays, or do you have the weekends off?”

“No. Half days on Sundays and all day Monday.” Dammit, she never told men her schedule.

George hit the bell to announce number eight’s order.

She looked over to the service window and then back. “Sorry, I usually offer the choice of the muffin before or after you eat. I didn’t ask, so I’ll bring it when you’re finished, if that’s okay.”

“I’m not picky when it comes to… muffins.”

There went his sex-on-a-stick voice again. No man should sound that good, and the way he said “muffin” made it sound like the most explicit sexual term in the dictionary.

She ignored his blatant flirting. “I’ll drop off this ticket and then be back with your order.” She felt his eyes on her the entire way back to the kitchen.

George waited with his hip propped against the counter. “He doesn’t look too reputable.”

“He only needs to look like he can pay his bill,” was her tart reply.

“I’m not even sure about that, though he seems to be a smart fella.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think telling me I’m beautiful after seeing the scarred side of my face is smart?”

“Has it happened before?”

“Well… no.”

“Then he must be highly intelligent.”

“I’m not taking him home, George. I’m delivering his food, working my shift, and then going home alone.”

George’s face wrinkled up even more in sympathy. “Someday, someone will come in here, sweep you off your feet, and take you far away.”

She hated his pity, but knew George loved her. “You’re such a romantic for a crotchety old man.”

“I had smooth moves back in my day. Ask Starla.”

“I just bet you did, but today breakfast is getting cold and you need to start on the next two orders.”

As if on cue, Starla called from the front again, “Hustle it, Jewels, the rush is starting.”

“That’s my call to action. You get movin’.” She picked up the order and left George to do his thing.

Resting the plate in front of number eight, she tried to avoid his eyes. “Ketchup? Salsa?”

“No, this is fine.”

She looked at the door with relief as two more people walked in, allowing her to escape his close perusal. With an inward sigh, she hustled to get the new customers taken care of. It became too busy to do more than bring number eight his muffin, add another refresher to his mug, and lay down the check. His hand landed on hers, sending an electric current straight to her pelvic region, and before she could pull away, his warm chocolate eyes paralyzed her.

Ever so slowly, his calloused fingers slid from hers. “What time do you open in the morning?”

“Five thirty.”

“Thank you.”

He could box the sound of those two words and sell them for a fortune.

“Have… have a good day.” She couldn’t run away from his silk voice and abrasive fingers fast enough, and she was past caring if he knew it.

Chapter Three

Matt

He returned to the suite feeling relief that the sub was no longer there, but neither was Stephon. Matt picked up his guitar, sank into the plush cushions of the couch, and began playing. He was no Krispin Righteous, the lead singer of their band, but he’d trained in classical music and tended to revert when troubling thoughts filled his brain. The hard rock band bunnies would think he’d grown a second head if they heard the soft romantic melody of Brahms, which was never meant for guitar, though his talented fingers somehow made it work.

He didn’t hear the door, but when his eyes opened Stephon stood, rooted to the spot, just inside the entryway. “Did something bad happen that I need to know about?”

Stephon knew Matt only played classical music when his thoughts troubled him. “No, nothing bad.”

“You didn’t stick around for a morning quickie,” Stephon chided.

“That’s more your thing, not mine,” Matt quipped.

“Yeah, but it might have put you in a better mood.”

“My mood’s fine.” Matt changed the subject. “Are we rehearsing today?”

“Our dictatorial leader says we are.”

“Well, it’s early, but I’d rather get it over with.” Matt put the guitar down.

“I’m with you, and Krispin deserves us pulling him from Angela’s bed, the lecherous pig.”

“He’s only been married six months; I think he’s supposed to be a sexaholic at this stage.”

Stephon walked closer to the couch. “I keep wondering if he chafes. I would think after five or six times a day it would be a little sore.”

Matt shook his head. “You imagining the rawness of Krispin’s junk needs to be scrubbed from my memory.”

“Hey, I was thinking about your junk getting some last night. Cheryl Lee took special care of us both. She might be worth another play scene down the road.”

“She might.” He tried to keep his depressed mood to himself, but Stephon’s hand circled his throat from behind the couch, applying firm pressure.

“What’s up, bro?” The warm breath of his friend whispered along the side of his face.

They weren’t brothers by blood, but having each other’s back in a hole in Afghanistan at the beginning of the second Gulf War made them closer than most siblings. Sharing women in ménage one-nighters also gave Stephon the right to touch him this way. Matt’s hand gripped Stephon’s wrist and applied slight pressure. “Do you ever get tired of the endless women?” The strong hold on his throat loosened, but the hand stayed where it was.

“Tired, no. Bored… sometimes.”

“Maybe that’s it. I’m just bored.”

“You want what Krispin and Angela have.” It wasn’t a question.

“Maybe.”

“Some days I want it too. But then others… I don’t want anything changing. I’m also afraid there’s no one out there that would accept our lifestyle and the feelings we have for each other.”

“If we paid a woman enough, she could accept anything.”

“Isn’t that the real problem? They want us for our money and notoriety. They accept our tag-team love so they can say they slept with Stephon Cross and Matt Mathews of Blood Rights and then become celebrities for a short while. Do they really care if it’s you or I, separate or together?” A touch of anger came into Stephon’s voice, but his hand remained loose.