Fit for Love (A Stand By Me Novel Book 3)

C
opyright Warning

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

A
dult Novels

Chasing Luck (A Serendipity Novel, #1)

Tempting Fate (A Serendipity Novel, #2)

Seducing Fortune (A Serendipity Novel, #3)

Serendipity Boxed Set (Books 1-3)

The Beauty of Lies (A Stand By Me Novel #1)

The Fiction of Forever (A Stand By Me Novel #2)

Fit for Love (A Stand By Me Novel #3)

And Then He Kissed Her: A Contemporary Romance Boxed Set
(Sweet Romance)

* * *

Y
oung Adult Novels

The Waiting Booth (Whispering Woods #1)

Whisper of Memory (Whispering Woods #2)

Watcher of Worlds (Whispering Woods #3)

The Waiting Booth Boxed Set (Books 1-3)

Wild at Heart II (An Anthology)

Lore: Tales of Myth and Legend Retold (An Anthology)

* * *

F
or release news
, subscribe at
http://www.brindaberry.com/mailing-list.html

Website:
www.brindaberry.com

T
o my critique partner
, Abbie Roads.

Thanks for being so honest, so funny, and so talented.

No biting lips in this one.

N
ew Year’s Eve

Aiden

E
very New Year’s Eve
, the crowd at Dastardly Bastard’s surpasses all others. Couples. Singles. Drunks. Weirdos.

Weirdos who shout innuendos at bartenders.

I shake my head and smile at an obnoxious female customer who fits firmly into the weirdo category.

“I’m double-jointed,” the customer yells above the music. She tosses her hair and bats her eyelashes at me. “You can bend me any way you like. You know, like one of those people in a freak show. I am
that
flexible. Want to take me for a test drive later?”

“Thanks, but I can’t test drive customers.”

A stunning redhead slides onto the bar stool next to the Incredible Bending Woman and I gratefully divert my attention to her. “What’ll you have?” I ask.

I’m not easily impressed by a pretty face. I’ve met some of the most beautiful girls in Nashville. I serve them all with an equal dash of courtesy and conversation. But my newest customer isn’t dressed like most of the women here tonight, all set to party-like-it’s-1999 with their slinky dresses and glittery jewelry.

“What?” She leans in and I enjoy a closer view of incredible hazel eyes that tip catlike at the corners, framed with dark lashes. She has one of those Cupid’s bow mouths, perfectly defined and a creamy complexion with a smattering of light freckles across her nose.

“Drink? Can I get you something?” I ask with more volume so she can hear over the music.
My phone number? A one-way ticket into my life?

She shakes her head, glances toward the platform stage at the west end of the bar, and then back to me. “No thanks.”

I nod and stare a little too long. Then I move even closer and lean across with my forearm resting on the bar. I bet a dozen guys have already hit on her tonight. “I’m Aiden. Let me know if you change your mind. You know…if you want water or anything. I’m your man.”

I’m your man? I’m an idiot is more like it.
I haven’t been this tongue-tied since I was in middle school and discovered girls for the first time.

“Hey handsome,” the lady to her right shouts at me. “Give me some cherries and I’ll show you what I can do. My tongue has been called a secret weapon, an instrument to bring men to their knees. You have no idea what you’re missing.”

I ignore her and pull a fresh container of sliced limes from the fridge underneath the bar. Glancing up, I smile at the redhead’s expression as she gives the woman next to her a look of incredulity. When she looks back to me, her fantastic cat-eyes crinkle at the corners and her lips part into a you-gotta-be-kidding smile.

I take a step away to serve the next customer who orders a beer.

“Hey,” says the Incredible Bending Woman to the redhead. “Are you making eyes at the bartender?”

I hurriedly shove the beer tap down and glance at them. Do they realize I can hear this conversation?

The redhead wrinkles her brow. “Me?” She even looks around to be sure.

The Incredible Bending Woman sneers. “I know you think he’s hot. Can you deny it?”

Red actually blushes, her cheeks coloring to a beautiful rose shade. Yes, I’m not the only one feeling the chemistry.

“Don’t act innocent,” Incredible Bending Woman says with a definite sneer. “I know your type. Boyfriend stealing whore. He can’t handle a real woman anyway.”

Uh oh. This conversation is taking a turn for the worse.

Red pins her with a stare and straightens. “I’m pretty sure he’s sick of chicks who sexually harass him on the job. And what did you call me? I dare you to say that again.”

Fuck. I’m on the wrong side of the bar to stop Red from doing serious damage to the crazy lady.

“Ladies…” I really don’t know how to head this train off. “I think—”

“Forget it,” the Incredible Bending Woman interrupts and hops from her stool. “You just lost your tip,” she says and stomps off in a huff.

“Drink’s on the house,” I say to the redhead. “What did you say your name is?”

“It’s Mak.”

“That’s different.” A woman has never turned me on in less time. Damn.

“Short for Makenna,” she says.

Harper, a waitress, leans over the bar and shouts above the noise. “I need a Captain and Coke, Vodka Red Bull, four draft Buds, and a stun gun for that table near the stage.”

I grab chilled mugs for the beer. Harper’s a wisp of a girl. Also, she dates my buddy, which puts her in the category of family. I watch out for her when I work. “Need me to do anything?”

“No. It’s OK so far,” she says, then turns toward Makenna. “Mak, your band goes on in ten.”

She belongs to one of tonight’s bands?

Makenna rises from her seat and gives me a smile. “Stay safe. I won’t be around to protect your honor.” Then she walks down a few feet to the stage end of the bar.

Harper taps me. “Earth to Aiden. Drinks?”

I fill the mugs, grab two glasses for the mixed drinks, and slide my gaze back to Makenna. “You know her?” I ask Harper.

“Not really. Met her earlier when she asked me about the band rotation,” Harper answers. She grabs the tray and balances it on one hand. “Cute, huh?”

There’s no time to ask more before Harper heads off with her order.

I make sure to keep Makenna in view. She bobs her head to the beat of the band on stage. I make a point to serve drinks closer to her, but she never even glances my way.

The lead singer of Horny Dawg orders us to look to our right and left in order to find the nearest available lips. I stride to the end of the bar and the only lips I’ve noticed.

The singer leans into the mic. “Wish somebody luck, my friends. If you don’t kiss somebody, your year’s fucked! Three. Twooooo.” He points to the crowd with his tumbler of whiskey.

This is my chance. I step through the end of the bar and stand beside her. “Hi Makenna,” I say. “Want to help a guy out with a kiss? I need all the luck I can get.”

Her lips part like she’s sucking in a breath and her eyes widen in surprise.

Placing my finger under her chin, I tilt her head up. She has plenty of time to back up or even kick me in the balls. But she does neither, only watches me as if the world has come to a screeching halt.

She’s a deer caught in the headlights. Her wariness tells me she’s not as confident when she’s not in control.

“One,” the singer yells and party horns sound.

I lean down and touch her lips with mine. A gentle kiss. A tribute to a beautiful woman. I swear she trembles at the touch.

Her soft lips part. She slightly tilts her head. Her fingers graze my biceps as she leans forward.

She smells of sugary lemons.

Then, some jackass bumps into us and we separate. I reach out instinctively to steady her, accidentally brushing one breast. A thrill of hot need crashes through me at the simple touch.

She shoots me a look. She thinks I was trying to cop a feel, but then her eyebrows lower as if she decides she’s wrong.

“Happy New Year,” I say. I want to talk more, but a voice yells my name.

“Aiden?” Dane calls to me from a couple of feet away. I barely hear him over the noise. “Need a little help here.”

Makenna backs away and turns, making her way to the stage for the setup of her band.

The moment is over and I’m back on the clock. I’ll make sure I talk to her when her set ends onstage.

Returning to my post behind the bar, I serve a few more customers before I have time to look over the sea of heads and find her onstage. She sits on a stool with her acoustic guitar on her lap. The mic comes to her forehead, so she twists the mic stand and lowers it.

“Hope you guys know this one. I wrote it for a friend of mine and he sings it better than I do.” She strums several bars and hums into the microphone. Then, she begins singing:

The crowd loves her. Several customers sing along. I’ve heard the song somewhere before, although I can’t tell you the singer. I mix drinks and fill orders, all while surreptitiously keeping an eye on Makenna as she goes through a set list of some cover songs from popular hits and then some that I guess are originals.

I turn and toss daiquiri ingredients in the blender when she stops singing. The bass guitarist and drummer continue for a few brief seconds, then let the song die. There’s a crashing twang from the acoustic guitar. I spin around. The drinks can wait.

Makenna stands on the raised platform stage with her hand on a guy’s chest. A very drunk customer who has decided to join her on stage and get up close and personal.

“How about a dance, baby.” The guy slurs the words into the mic stand.

The drunk struggles to take her hand and pull her in for a spin and she shoves him. He falls on his ass and knocks over her stool, his head banging onto the drum set. Then he bounces back up as if he’s made of rubber, completely unaffected. Drunks rarely feel their injuries.

The bassist at Makenna’s right lifts the guitar strap over his head and sets his instrument in the corner. Then he promptly puts his fist in the drunk guy’s face. Two more guys jump on stage.

Suddenly, it’s a free-for-all. Tonight, too many of the partiers have frequent flyer miles at the drunk tank.

I grab the baseball bat stored underneath the bar for such occasions, then bolt toward the stage.
Come on, Makenna. Now’s not the time to be brave. I’ve got this.

The crowd around the bar of Dastardly Bastard’s parts to let me through. They want drinks and realize they’ll get them as soon as the drama near the stage ends.

“Aiden, you need me?”

I don’t see who asks, but I ignore the offer. The last thing I need is more customers jumping into the fight. I shove my way through the throng of gawkers who no longer sit at their tables but do nothing to stop the fight. Four guys, way too drunk to know what they are fighting about, exchange punches on the stage.

The nearest one staggers out of the way and falls over a chair when I smack the wooden bat into the palm of my hand. The guy literally passes out in the middle of the fight.

Dane materializes. He grabs two drunks by the back of their T-shirts and escorts them out like errant schoolboys.

Three down, one to go. I step on the platform stage to grab the remaining guy, the one who started everything in the first place.

He wobbles away from me, unable to keep his balance.

At that instant, Makenna throws a punch like a man—hard, fast, and loaded. Between the seconds of seeing her fist coming straight for my face and then attempting to get the hell out of the way, I am impressed. The second of hesitation costs me.

The moment her fist connects with the corner of my eye, I grimace and bob back to avoid any other errant punches. I know she meant to hit the other guy, but these things happen. The glancing punch forces my eyes to water, and adrenaline spikes my system.

“Ouch!” she yells and cradles her fist in the opposite hand, rubbing along the tops of the knuckles. “I’m so sorry.”

Dane returns with a bouncer and a cop. The crowd near the stage melts away as the cop cuffs the main culprit.

The drunk guy’s friends—an entire frat house of them seated at tables near the stage—disappear, none willing to join him for an overnight stay in county.

Makenna stands near the speaker setup at the rear of the platform stage and pushes forward until she’s a few feet from me. Her green eyes grow troubled, and she reaches out to touch the corner of my eye. Her jewelry winks in the light before her hand drops. “I am so sorry. You’re bleeding.”

I absently rub a knuckle across the corner of my eye. She must’ve caught me with a ring or something when she hit me.

“I’m fine.” The corner of my mouth tips. The girl can throw a punch.

Dane returns and starts a CD playing on the sound system. “You OK? Want to take a break? The next band comes on in fifteen,” he says to Makenna. Bands rotate on the hour tonight.

“Yeah. Let’s call it a set. Oh no. You’re getting blood on your shirt. Let me help.” She grabs my hand and tugs.

I hate for her to think I can’t take a little cut. It’s a macho guy thing, I know. She weaves her way through the thinning crowd toward the restrooms and office. I allow her to lead me along only because it’s a chance to talk to her.

“I am so sorry,” she says over her shoulder.

“I’m fine. It’s a little cut. I’ve had worse.”

“We still need to clean it.”

“I’m fine. It’s a scratch.” I give her hand a light squeeze. “You barely connected.”

“Do you always argue with women?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

We turn the corner and she keeps her hand in mine. Stopping at the men’s room, she knocks once, then flings the door open. So much for propriety.

Once inside the bathroom, she drags me near the sink and underneath a row of lights. “It’s swelling. Stay. I’ll go find a first-aid kit.”

“I don’t need a bandage.” I lean to examine my face in the mirror. OK. She’s right. The angry skin around my eye appears to be swelling shut.

The small bathroom houses a double sink and row of three stalls. I lean against the vanity and wet a paper towel to dab at my puffy eye.

The door pops open again. Makenna enters, holding a white plastic box. “Quit. You probably have all kinds of germs on your hands.”

I sigh and fold my arms over my chest. “I am germ free,” I say, looking into her beautiful green eyes. “But I’ll let you nurse my eye if you give me your number.”

“Listen here…what did you say your name is?” She affects a scolding tone, but it doesn’t work. Her talking voice and singing voice match—both sultry and inviting.

“Aiden. Aiden Alesini.” I attempt to sound nonchalant even though it stings that she doesn’t remember my name from earlier at the bar.

“Well, Aiden Alesini.” She repeats it with a sweet, alluring lilt. “You shouldn’t underestimate open wounds. Thank god I didn’t cut your eyeball.” She shudders, places the first-aid kit on the counter, and washes her hands. Then she flips open the box lid. Picking out a packet, she withdraws a tiny towelette and dabs at the cut.