Rescue Me. Kira Sinclair
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that was brewing.” Wyatt tipped his chin in the direction of the bar. The song had flipped over to something about a girl and a tractor. Her team had melted into the crowd, back at it, serving the customers.
Everyone except Kayla. She was sitting on the bar, her tiny shorts riding up and flashing the curve of her ass. She tossed her long mane of red curls and laughed, the throaty sound carrying across the bar.
One of the guys tried to run his hand up the outside of her thigh. Before he could get far, Kayla smacked his hand and let out another peal of laughter like it was a joke.
“Stay close to her,” Tucker said, shaking her head.
A self-defense instructor and rape victim advocate by day, Kayla could take care of herself. But that didn’t mean Tucker was willing to leave her without backup if she needed it.
“You got it, boss.”
“And keep your eyes on your job, not on my dancer.” She smacked his arm, offering a glare they both knew was fake because she couldn’t quite keep her lips from twitching into a smile. Besides she didn’t really mean it. He and Michelle were good for each other.
Wyatt tossed her a grin of his own and wandered closer to Kayla. She glanced up, gave him a little nod and half smile of appreciation before returning her attention to the guys crowding around her.
On a bright note, Kayla should get an amazing tip. The money would definitely come in handy when she had to pay her tuition next semester. It wouldn’t be long before she had her master’s in psychology.
Tucker didn’t suffer any fools. She only hired people who had intelligence and drive. Ambition was a prerequisite. She wanted her business to be a stepping stone to more for everyone who walked through the doors—just like it was quickly becoming the kernel of her own dream come to life.
Growing up, she didn’t anticipate her calling in life would be to own a bar. But her entire outlook changed when she took a bartending gig at a little dive outside her college campus. At first, she was just looking for something that didn’t require a lot of effort and brought home enough to pay her tuition.
But in no time, she’d fallen in love with the life, her coworkers and customers. There was something about the camaraderie that fed her soul just as much as the classes she crammed for each day. And when her aunt left her a decent inheritance, Tucker had decided to combine it with her newly minted MBA and open her own business.
Months of pouring over plans, market research, studying the industry to determine what she could offer that other bars couldn’t...it hadn’t been easy, but it was absolutely worth it. Almost a year later, she was well on her way to success.
Shoving away from the column she’d been leaning against, Tucker headed for the women’s restroom to do a quick check. Pushing open the custom door made from reclaimed wood, she scooted past the line of waiting women with a smile and a murmured, “Excuse me.”
Everyone seemed happy, which is what she always liked to see. A couple of women were crowded around the long mirror, gossiping about a guy and reapplying gloss.
Grabbing a stack of heavy paper towels stamped with the Kentucky Rose logo, she refilled the first dispenser on the far side of the trough sink.
“Those napkin thingies are adorable,” one of the women said. “That’s what I love about this place. It’s the little touches.”
“Like the armadillo!” someone else exclaimed from behind the stall door.
“Thanks,” Tucker said, flashing an appreciative smile. “This is my home and I want it to feel that way for everyone.”
“Nicest bar I’ve ever been to,” someone else said, before slipping out the door.
“Not pretentious or seedy. Welcoming.”
That was exactly what she’d been going for with each and every detail she’d layered into her bar. Tucker turned to fill the dispenser at the opposite end of the counter, but stopped when something caught her eye. Someone had dropped trash along the back of the sinks.
It shouldn’t bother her, but it did. She realized she ran a bar and that most people didn’t treat it like their own place, but what kind of prick just left garbage on the counter when there was a can not three steps away?
Fishing between the wall and the towel tray, Tucker snagged a corner of whatever it was and tugged—but got a hell of a lot more than she’d expected.
It wasn’t just some cellophane from a new tube of lip gloss or even a condom wrapper. There, in her hand, sat a small bag of white crystals.
Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised—again, it was a bar, after all—but she was. Tucker had a strict rule and everyone who worked for her knew it. No drugs—using or selling—by staff or customers. Anyone suspected of being high was shown the door.
Tucker stared at the baggie in her hand. Small enough that none of the women around her even appeared to have noticed. What the hell was she supposed to do with it?
“Tucker? You in there?” Wyatt yelled through the partially opened door. “We’ve got a problem.”
Crap. Tucker stuffed the bag into her pocket. One problem at a time.
FINN WAITED FOR about twenty minutes, watching the people come and go from the shadows surrounding his Jeep. Enough time that Tucker would assume he’d left, hopefully get busy with something else and not notice when he and Duchess slipped back inside.
He wasn’t anywhere near finished with the Kentucky Rose—or its feisty owner.
Waiting until a rowdy group of college guys crowded the front door, he melded seamlessly with the group. The guys pushed at each other, laughing and generally making asses of themselves, never even noticing he was amongst them. Idiots.
Blending into the shadows on the outskirts of the room, Finn found a booth that was unoccupied—probably because it was far away from the dance floor, bull and bar. Still, it worked perfectly for his purposes.
Duchess, her paws barely making a sound, curled up beneath the sticky, gouged surface of the table. Her head rested on his feet. To anyone who might spot her, which was unlikely in this crowd, they’d probably think she was napping. But Finn knew she was actually paying more attention to what was going on than half the people in the place.
He’d barely settled before a waitress swept over to his table. “What can I get you tonight?”
He ordered another beer. Maybe he’d actually get to drink this one. Several minutes later, the waitress plopped a frosty glass onto the table in front of him, apparently oblivious to the dog not three feet away.
Good. If he was lucky no one else would notice her, either.
Grasping the cold glass in his hand, Finn settled back into the corner of the booth, propping his legs up across the seat. The beer was good; he’d give Tucker that. A nice selection from a local microbrewery.
Finn watched, taking in the patrons and the staff. Looking for anything that stuck out to him as strange.
It didn’t take long for Tucker to surface again. He watched her move efficiently through the crowd, stopping to encourage some women who were obviously out for a night without kids and husbands to indulge by taking a turn on the mechanical bull. They went from reluctant to whooping and hollering, huge smiles on their faces.
At another table, she nudged a group into purchasing more drinks. At the next, where an inebriated group of professionals had obviously overindulged, she pushed food and glasses of water, instead. She expertly maneuvered each of her customers into having a good time, and the most impressive part was, they had no idea it was happening.
But Finn noticed. Because paying attention was part of his job.
He tried not to let her distract him,