Jacks: BBW Billionaire Menage Romance (Billionaire Brothers, II Book 1) (2 page)

I picked my way carefully toward the bar, avoiding the artfully placed piles of sawdust on the floor. This bar had gone through so many personality changes it was downright schizophrenic. The honky-tonk thing was recent (we had assumed it was still Asian fusion when we planned for the evening) and I could only pray it wouldn’t last long. Bits of grit and peanut shells sawed at the sole of my foot inside my shoe.

Another song started and some of the drinkers let out a simultaneous whoop, followed by the sound of bar stool legs dragging on the floor. Apparently it was a known line-dancing song, if you were the sort of person who knew that kind of thing, and a shiny-faced group of women who looked like bridal-shower-partiers lined right up and started pantomiming a hoe down to the delight of the other drinkers.

Holding the empty glasses straight out in front of me, I swerved for a vacant spot at the bar and leaned gratefully against it. I raised a finger for the bartender as the group behind me swayed back and forth all together, picking up new bar patrons to join in everywhere it went like a Swiffer pad picking up dust.

The bartender rolled up one plaid sleeve and leaned his ear toward me.

“What can I get you?” he hollered over the music.

I pushed the glasses toward him.

“A Long Island, tall, and a gin and Diet Sprite?” I hollered back, shoving myself over the bar as close as I could get.

Behind me, the line dancers trundled rhythmically from one side of the room to the other, slapping at their imaginary cowboy boots. Everyone else scattered to the perimeter and crushed me back to the bar to make room.

“Long Island tall and gin and juice?” he repeated.

“No, wait!” I objected, stepping up on rail and heaving my top half closer to him. “Gin and diet. DIET SPRITE!”

“Yeah, OK,” he said with a scowl like I was stupid or something and walked away shaking his head.

I tried to climb down from the brass boot rail below the bar but the dancers were on their way back, now waving their imaginary cowboy hats. My hooker heel slipped on the shiny metal and I tipped the wrong way, my ankle shooting out from underneath me like it had been greased. I threw out an arm to catch myself as my head dipped below bar height and everything went dark.

Something caught me just as the line dancers came up to me like an ocean wave and then receded again. I fumbled for the bar and pulled myself up, gingerly checking to make sure I hadn’t rolled my ankle or anything.

I didn’t even feel his hand until he moved it, releasing his fingers where they circled my upper arm, leaving a bright ring of awareness in my mind. Gasping, looking up, my jaw opened like a puppet as I willed myself to apologize or something.

“Brienne?” he said softly, his voice so near and familiar that I whirled in my mind, trying to place him.

I know you? I know your voice?

“Oh, I’m-- Owen?” I stammered, hearing the words as I said them. I looked into his bright blue eyes like I knew him and tried to make sense of it.

He’s too close!

“God, excuse me, I’m sorry--”

“No it’s OK, are you OK? Oh here they come again--”

Just like that, another wave crashed into me and me into him. His arms came right up under mine as I fell, sliding under my forearms and supporting me smoothly. I arched my back to avoid slamming completely into him and as I did, my nipples dragged along the front of his shirt from his belt line to his sternum, pebbling into hard stones as they went.

I mouthed an apology of some sort, I think, as his lips parted in surprise. His fingers closed possessively around the flesh behind my elbow. I pushed back, trying to find my feet under me, trying to disengage.

“Owen, hello!” I choked out politely as though none of this was happening: I wasn’t bouncing my boobs along the ridges of his abs, I couldn’t feel his fingers pulling me closer, I wasn’t blushing and sweating like a prom date. I flattened my palms against his (oh my god, rock-hard!) pecs and pushed myself back to standing.

And then,
wham
, another body fell into me from behind, forcing me fully onto Owen and knocking the breath from my lungs which came out in a porn-star-quality heaving sigh. I bit my lips together and prayed no more sounds would come out but the body behind me was crushing the air from me.

I felt a hand slide across the front of my hip and fingers digging briefly into the valley at the top of my thigh. Hot breath swept across the back of my neck and I had to command myself not to arch into it, not to just pretend for just a second to be pinned between two hard, throbbing cocks and the plank-like bodies of the men they belonged to.

Oh my god but I totally am…

Whoa…

“Mr. Jack!” I squeaked out as the crowd stopped all at once and broke out into congratulatory applause. I gasped and looked over at them but they were all staring at each other, nodding and clapping. Apparently the song was over and the line dancing had gone super well.

“Don’t call me that,” he chuckled, still far too close as he politely removed his pelvis from my belly, leaving a ghostly outline of his cock that I could clearly see in my head. He set me sturdily on my feet and paused to make sure I would remain upright.

“Owen, yes right. Sorry,” I mumbled, straightening and pushing my hair out of my face. I had a distinct feeling of vertigo, like at any second I could just tip right back onto him.

“Have you met Lyle?” he said with a shy, curious smile.

The body behind me shifted sideways, disengaging from a position that felt surprisingly natural. It was like having a puzzle piece uncoupled from my ridges.

A man pivoted to my side, pushing his dark blonde hair back with one hand and offering me the other to shake. He gave a wry smile. Not as apologetic as Owen, but not offensively douchey either. Confident, maybe.

“Lyle?” I repeated, trying to sound casual, trying to sound like I hadn’t just been pinned… no,
crushed
between their bodies. Like I hadn’t
loved
it. Like I wasn’t vibrating like a plucked string.

“Lyle Jack,” the blonde said, holding my hand as he shook it. Just a second too long? Yes, maybe.

“Oh, Jack!” I repeated, putting it all together. “Owen Jack… Lyle Jack… You’re brothers?”

“Yes,” Owen nodded patiently, a playful smile dimpling his beautiful, perfectly stubbled cheeks.

“That’s um… Wow. That’s great,” I yammered, my cleavage feeling suddenly hot and obvious. “Owen comes into the coffee shop every day or so. Where I work. That’s how, um, we know each other or whatever.”

“Oh does he?” Lyle said with a smirk, shooting Owen a look that I didn’t understand.

“Yeah,” I nodded, looking between them, trying to hear their secret communication.

Well, I guess they really are brothers. Go, psychic wonder-twin powers!

Owen crossed his arms in front of his chest, opening the collar of his thick, sumptuous shirt and exposing a furrow between his chiseled pecs. He shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Just leave now, Brienne. Back away.

Lyle dipped his head to catch my eye, his expression playful and determined.

“I didn’t get your name?” he said. My breath caught in my throat.

“Drinks, miss?” the bartender said, sliding them toward me as the music began to swell again.

Lyle’s eyes darted to the drinks and then back to Owen, who dropped a fifty dollar bill behind them.

“Oh thank you, you don’t have to do that,” I gushed.

“Are you here with someone?” Lyle asked, subtly pivoting to stay attached to my front plane. I desperately wanted him to look away or back away or something just…
away
. It was like I couldn’t get a full breath as long as he was standing there.

“Are you?” Owen asked suddenly. I looked up at him in surprise. Meeting his eyes this close was intense. Usually we had a counter full of baked goods between us. Now, he felt substantially more real.

“Well yes, I mean Melita… You know her. We’re together. I mean not together. But yes. We are here.”

Oh. My. God. I am an idiot.

“Oh, OK,” Owen said agreeably, his body shifting just slightly backward.

“Well why don’t you have a drink with us,” Lyle said, shifting slightly forward. It seemed like Lyle wasn’t as willing to back off as easily as Owen was. He smiled with one half of his mouth, exposing a row of perfect teeth and a cheek dimple that matched Owen’s.

Really? This is too much.

“You know what… Actually I should get Melita her drink,” I stammered, hoping I sounded casual and firm. “But thank you, really. For the offer I mean.”

“Anytime,” Owen nodded. Was that a sigh? It sounded like a sigh.

“Yeah,” Lyle nodded with an impish grin, “maybe I’ll have to start coming to the coffee shop too. Check it out.”

“It was nice to meet you, Lyle,” I mumbled and turned away, holding the drinks carefully in front of me.

Concentrating on not stumbling as I picked my way back to the table, I didn’t even notice Melita until I was almost on top of her. Her eyes were as wide open as they could go, the dark black irises ringed with white. Her mouth hung open and tiny drops of sweat beaded her upper lip.

“What? What is it - are you OK?” I asked urgently, checking her up and down for injuries. “Did the line dancers get you too?”

“Hoh. Lee. Shit.”

“What? Melita are you OK?”

“HOH. LEE. SHIT.” she said again.

I collapsed onto the barstool, my heart pounding in my head.

“Oh, OK, you’re hilarious, Mel.”

“I bow to you. You are my new hero.”

I slid her drink across the table and rolled my eyes. She grabbed it like she’d been waiting for weeks and sucked eagerly at the straw.

With my eyes down, I sipped at my drink as slowly as I could. My skin was all on fire, pulsing, sending out some kind of beacon. Were they still looking at me? I hoped so. I imagined I could feel their eyes on the back of my neck as I sat there nursing my drink, waiting for my heart to stop trying to leap from my chest.

“What was that like?”

I shook my head.

“Brienne, seriously! What was that like? You just got double-teamed in a public place, girl. I am… Wow. Mad respect. That’s all I can say. Mad. Respect.”

She shook her head and looked at the ceiling, palms out as though helpless in the face of this information.

For good measure, I looked up too but there was nothing there. My throat was as dry as toast and my heartbeat clanged hard in my ears.

Right? That was crazy?

I smiled tightly and said, “Hi, can I help you?” just as brightly as I could.

The lady with the expensive dye job pursed her lips at the menu.

Come on, lady,
I thought.
Coffee menus are the same everywhere.

“Ummmmmmmm,” she drawled as the steam wand roared into the steel carafe of milk to my right. Melita winced at the sound, backing away from it like that was going to help her hangover.

“I think…” the woman said vaguely. “You know, I’ll just have the-- No. Yes. I’ll just have the Cup of the Day.”

“Great!” I beamed enthusiastically. “Can I make that a large for you?”

“Oh! Ahhhhhhhhmmmmmmmm,” the lady wrinkled her nose and stared at the menu again.

Lady. It’s coffee. Get a grip,
I scolded her silently.

“Yeah, OK, a large is good,” she agreed, nodding. “With room for cream!” she added.

“Can I get you a scone with that? Today is caramel apple,” I added innocently.

Three people behind the overly made-up professional whatever-she-was groaned impatiently. Melita ducked her head behind the espresso bar and pantomimed horror and awe at me. I smiled sweetly. She had earned her hangover, and I wanted to help her enjoy every blessed minute.

“No, no. No scone for me. Carbs.”

“OK! One large Cup of the Day and no carbs. $2.02, please.”

The woman swiped her debit card, moving politely aside as the next in line took her spot.

“Hi! Can I help you?” I asked.

“Hi! Welcome to AmpedUp,” came a voice as a body edged me over. “Can I get a drink started for you?”

My mouth fell open a little bit and I looked up at Dave, Assistant Manager in Training. I kept a subservient grin plastered on my face and stepped half to the right so he could take over, ignoring Melita’s triumphantly pursed lips.

“Great!” he finished, and the small, bookish older lady moved on to the order pickup counter. Then he turned to me, his big pregnant belly nearly pushing me out of my official station. “Like that. Like we talked about, OK?”

I looked up at him and nodded politely. “Sure, Dave,” I said, smiling through my gritted teeth. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Dave hiked up his trousers under his beer gut and ambled away, and I finished the rest of the line without a hitch, even remembering my script.

When the line was gone, Melita folded her arms on the counter and sighed dramatically.

“Another morning rush, done and
done
,” she groaned. “I feel like death. Let’s quit.”

“OK,” I agreed as I filled up the metal tin with hot water.

“No, I mean it this time,” she groaned into her folded arms.

“I know you do, sweetie,” I said, dropping the stainless steel pieces into the scalding water.

I edged behind her, walking back and forth and working mechanically through the list of things that had to be cleaned every morning.

“Hey why do you let Dave get all up in your face like that?” she sighed, her voice barely audible.

I shook my head and blew my bangs off my forehead. “You know,” I said wistfully, “I am not sure why I tolerate the Wisdom Of Dave. I have these daydreams where I tell him off in a spectacular, life-changing fashion. He slinks off, sniffling into his ugly-ass tie, and I’m promoted to coffee diva of the universe. And angels sing.”

Melita rolled her head back and forth on the counter. “All right, fine…” she moaned. “I’m just saying he never does that shit to me, because he knows he would get an earful of
Melita
Wisdom.”

“You don’t look like you’re giving anybody an earful of anything. And can you remove your face from the serving counter?”

“No. It’s cold and nice and makes my head stay still.”

“Ugh, fine,” I said, wiping a big circle around her.

“He just doesn’t even know you,” she continued. “He just thinks you’re some wage slave, right.”

“Well I am some wage slave,” I reminded her as I sprayed glass cleaner on the back doors of the pastry case.

“But you don’t have to be, is the point,” she insisted. “Which I am not sure you always remember. You could be, like, anything.”

“If I wasn’t such a great girlfriend?”

She sighed, her breath puffing out her cheeks as she finally raised her head. Her eyes were all foggy with sleep.

“Yeah, right,” she nodded, lips pursed. “If you were not such a great girlfriend, you would probably be using your fancy ass college degree to be running an art gallery or some shit instead of letting Dave mansplain to you because your boyfriend owns the joint.”

“Right.”

“Speaking of which,” she said, her eyes narrowed into slits, “what happened to Mr. Wonderful last night anyway?”

I shrugged. “He fell asleep. Long day.”

“Oh really? He fell asleep.”

“Yup,” I said, ignoring her tone of voice and swiping the bleach mixture bucket. I dropped it behind the pastry case. “Why don’t you do something, hangover girl? You wanna let me do everything?”

“I thought that was how you liked it,” she said snottily, then checked herself, scowling. “Yeah sorry that was a bitch thing to say.”

“Yeah it was. I forgive you.”

Melita choked out a half-laugh and let her head fall back on her arms. I started breaking down the espresso bar for cleaning during the mid-morning lull. Banging out the coffee grounds against the side of the plastic garbage can, I dropped the empty cups into a carafe filled with disinfectant to soak.

I took some pleasure in the simple task of disassembling the machine, cleaning its parts with steam and bleach black to gleaming, and then putting it all back together.

“Love the smell of bleach,” I muttered to myself.

Dave skulked around the front of the coffee house looking for something to criticize, and I just kept my head down and worked diligently at being busy. After the espresso bar was pristine, I vacuumed the low-rise carpet in precise, parallel stripes. Melita disappeared behind the pastry case, but I wasn’t sure she hadn’t just fallen asleep back there.

After the carpet, I washed all the table tops. After that, finally… somebody came in.

The glass door opened and I smiled at the bell chiming, then jumped, my heart knocking up toward my throat. I looked up to see if Melita was behind the register, but she was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly breathless and sweating, I walked back behind the register, throwing my weight on one hip and trying to look casual.

“Hey, Owen,” I said pleasantly, then looked around to see if Dave heard me going off the script.

Owen grinned his magazine-model grin and gave me his customary squint. His blue eyes flickered over the open collar of my uniform shirt and I felt my chest expanding even as I willed my body to just cool it.

“Hey, Brienne,” he said evenly, his voice a low growl. I flashed backward, remembering that growl up close, how it blazed through my sternum like a thunderclap. “What’s good today?”

I looked around all sassy like I was new, like I was familiarizing myself with the menu. I felt my skin temperature cool when I turned away from him.

That’s good, keep yourself below dangerous levels, Bree. At least until he leaves.

“Gee, Owen,” I said, pretending to be uncertain about what I saw, “I think coffee is going to be a big hit. I would stick with that.”

He chuckled. “A big hit, eh?”

“Yes,” I nodded seriously. “And scones. Caramel apple. You should get some.”

“OK, OK,” he said. “I’ll take four large Cup of the Day, and four scones. And your number.”

“Coffee and scones it is,” I said, dutifully ignoring the rest of his probably insincere flirt. I kept my eyes down as I poured out the coffee from the big air-pots into tall paper cups.

“No number,
still?
After last night and everything?”

“We have this strict no fraternization rule here,”
I said in a stage whisper, jerking my chin toward Dave.

That’s good. Show him you’re nobody’s fool. These rich guys think everybody should just fall at their feet.

“Oh… OK,” he said, cocking his head to the side. He cut his eyes toward the door in a gesture that was surprisingly charming and sincere. Almost as though he meant it.

I slipped the cups into a drink carrier and stuffed a handful of creamers, sugar, sugar substitutes, and stirrers in a bag, then grabbed a wax paper sheet to pick out scones.

When I turned back to him, he was staring at me, head still cocked playfully to the side as though he had never looked away.

“No number…
really
?” he repeated.

“Come on, Owen, fun is fun,” I said, as much to myself as to him.

“OK, then come work for us,” he shot back.

I pursed my lips and raised my eyebrows, somehow managing a decent impression of Melita, I thought.

“Owen, that will be $15.47, please.”

He pulled a clip from his tight front pocket and peeled a hundred off without looking, then laid it on the counter. I didn’t even glance at it. “You’re too good for this place.”

“The owner’s a friend,” I replied.

“But you could be doing so much more,” he insisted, dropping his voice. I felt the timbre tugging at my chest, willing me closer. If he didn’t leave soon I was going right over the counter after him.

“The owner is a really
good
friend,” I persisted. “I’m just helping out until this place is out of the toddler stage. Then it’s off to seek my glory.”

He gave me a raised-eyebrow look and took hold of the coffee and pastry bag.

“Glory, huh?”

“Well, as close as I can get to it. I promise to call you first when I am job-hunting.”

“Good, good,” he nodded, then looked down distractedly as his phone started buzzing in his other very tight front pocket. “I guess that will have to-- Oh hey. Looks like Lyle called a meeting for this morning. Say, do you have… Um… One of those really big coffees?” he asked. “Like for a meeting? Eight people?”

“Oh,” I said helpfully, “like the MegaChug? This?” I held up a bag-lined cardboard box with a handle and spigot. He nodded. “OK, sure,” I continued. “Just, uh… Give me a few seconds to get a new pot brewing here for you.”

“OK, sure,” he said in a faraway voice, thumbing the front of his phone. “No worries. Meeting’s in forty-five and I guess the espresso bar is out. Lyle can’t talk without coffee…”

I set a new filter in the brewer basket and pressed the red light, listening to it spring happily to life.

“Wait,” I interrupted, “you have an espresso bar… in your office?”

He looked up at me, the sudden sight of his aquamarine eyes sending my heart into a swirl of tight circles in my chest.

“Um, yes?” he answered carefully.

“But you’re here almost every day…”

He smiled and stared steadily back at me. I felt the gauges in my mind all entering the yellow-warning zone. If he didn’t leave soon…

“Well, you haven’t said yes yet,” he murmured in a low purr, dropping his chin slightly. Something snapped hard against my belly like a rubber band,
twang.

Danger! Danger! Red alert!
cried a helpful chorus in my head, and I swung around to grab the kit of cups and condiments that I had prepared for these sorts of sales. Melita was somehow beneath me, a puddle of soapy water around her knees from cleaning the pastry case. My heel hit the water and slid out from under me, dropping me on my ass, Charlie Chaplain style.

“Oh, shit!” Melita exclaimed.

“Oh no! Are you all right?” Owen asked, leaning over the counter, his voice tight with concern.

“I am so sorry!” Melita mouthed silently into the air. I nodded and held up one hand like, yeah, it’s OK. Please shut up.

Sitting still for a few seconds, I checked my body parts one by one for the second time in less than twelve hours. With the same witnesses and everything, I realized with a cringe. I seemed whole, even as I wished for a nice sudden loss of consciousness to drag me out of this humiliation like a pebble swept off a beach in a hurricane.

A big old ass-bruise,
I thought ruefully.
Oh, and yet another ruined shirt,
I noticed with a frustrated frown. The bucket-sized coffee had split open, drenching the right half of my white uniform top. It stuck to me like dampened Kleenex, gathering in ridges over my lace bra. I plucked at it with my fingertips, trying to turn away.

“I was trying to, uh, stay out of your way!” Melita hissed. Her eyes were panicked and bloodshot.

I waved her off, trying not to be mean about it even as my skin raced with goosebumps in the air conditioning. “It happens, it happens,” I muttered. “Can you please help this nice man with his coffee? I’m going home.”

Melita edged toward the register, her hands holding her face, her mouth in a contorted pout of apology.

Clambering to my feet as gracefully as possible, I breathed evenly through my nose.
It’s just a shirt,
I reminded myself.
And a little dignity, maybe.