Cash (Sexy Bastard #2) (4 page)

“So considerate.”

“Women should always come first,”
he says with a wink as he spreads his hands on the bar and points to
each item. “So: salt, shot, lime.”

“Is this your proven bad date
cure? You’re going to get me insanely drunk very quickly?”

“Nothing like that. It’s a
game. Whoever has the worse date, loser takes a shot.”

“And the manwhore thinks he can
beat me? Haven’t you heard about my dates?”

“Oh, I have stories that would
make your toes curl.” He leans over the bar—I bet it’s
not just his stories that would make my toes curl.
Whoa
there
, I scold myself silently. Am I really considering
letting Cash Gardner make my toes curl? It’s been longer than I
thought. I mean, he is gorgeous, but he’s a
friend.
Keep reminding yourself,
Savy.

“Down boy,” I say to him.
“Trust me, you got nothing on me.”

“If you say so.” He smiles.
“Being a gentleman, I’ll go first. And speaking of
domesticated animals, a woman once meowed at everything I said and
did.”

I snort. “A man once took me out
to dinner and watched me eat everything by myself.”

Cash shakes his head. “You lose
that one. Sorry. Try harder next time.”

“I always play to win,” I
glare. “Although Cat Woman sex does sound amazing—as
long as she was declawed.”

Cash motions to the shot. I lick the
salt off my wrist quickly, trying to ignore the intensity of his eyes
on me, down the shot, then chase it all down with a bite of lime. I
fight back a grimace and flash a thumbs-up instead. It’s been a
long time since I’ve done shots, and I can feel the alcohol go
straight to my head. Cash pours another.

“Nice work with the salt there,”
he says, deadpan, though I can see a smile twitching at the corner of
his mouth. “Looks like I’m up again. A woman once made me
a painting out of felted hair that she collected from her drain. True
story.” He looks at me and folds his arms.

I’m agape. “Do you actually
sleep with these women?”

He shrugs. “They don’t seem
as crazy in person. At least, not right away.”

“Tonight a man wanted me to be
his get-out-of-parent-rage girl. He figured it’d be okay to
quit lawyering if I was there to impress his mom and dad. And he
wanted me to go to his band’s gig on Saturday and also see
about getting him a job here as a DJ. Also, he said I’m too
sexy to work in law, which I guess, besides being sexist, would
negate the first part of the bargain and leave neither of us with the
ability to appease the doting parentals.”

I take a deep breath after letting all
that out in such a long rush. Cash debates, and then takes the
salt-shaker.

“I think I actually lose that
one.”

“You do.”
I push the limes in his direction with a small, satisfied smile.

He licks salt off his hand, taps the
shot on the table, and takes it, chasing the drink with a lime.

Several horror stories later, we’ve
amassed a small pyramid of shot glasses and the edges of my vision
are beginning to unravel and fuzz. The world’s taken on a new
glow, and it makes my simple problems feel so much less important
than I once thought of them.

“I just—why
can’t I find a man? I mean I’m a catch, right? Do I just
have loser stamped across my head?” I ask as Cash pours another
shot.

“I can neither confirm nor deny
that.”

“I’m not saying I wanna get
married,” I slur, “or that I
need
a man to complete my life. I can take care of myself, you know? But
I’m wound up tighter than a spring right now. I will take
anything with two legs and a dick that can give me a passable orgasm.
Seriously.”

“Have some standards,” Cash
urges.

“Says the man with none,” I
retort.

“Ouch. Just for that, you get the
next shot.”

Salt.

Shot down the hatch, but when I grab
for the lime my fingers slip and the lime goes flying. The tequila
burns me from the inside out.

“Bite down, Savy.” Cash
holds up a lime and I lean in and bite down, sucking in the juice
from the fruit. Looking up through my lashes at Cash, a million dirty
things rush through my head. All of them starring Cash Gardner. It’s
enough that when he pulls the lime away and runs his thumb along my
lower lip, I catch it with my teeth. His eyes darken. This isn’t
just two friends having fun. There’s something happening.

One more push and this could happen.
Not just that, I would gladly let it happen, and probably enjoy every
minute of it.

Cash clearly thinks the same, because
he leans closer. “You know, Savy, if you ever need to relieve
that stress, all you have to do is ask. I promise by the time I’m
done with you, you’ll come so hard you’ll be grateful for
asking.”

I’m not sure if it’s the
alcohol or my hormones finally kicking in, but I’m halfway to
saying yes before my brain kicks in.

I sigh. “Like I said last night,
I want something more than a fuck and run.”

He looks at me again, that charming
smile looking hotter, more intense. Like he’s stripping me
naked with his eyes. I shiver. If he touches me, I’ll give in.
What would be so wrong with a quickie, especially if I’m in the
hands of a master? Tomorrow we could both pretend it never happened.
Right?

He gently brushes the inside of my
wrist, which is still damp from where I licked it. The feel of his
fingertips on my body shoots a very sexy signal straight down to my
center. I lean in, my skin prickling with anticipation. I can see his
eyes on my lips, drifting lower…

Then he pulls away. Dammit.
“Customers,” he gestures vaguely, and even though there’s
nobody waiting at the bar, I take it as a sign. Off limits. Never
going to happen.

I shake my head to clear the dirty
thoughts away and stand, which is remarkably more difficult than it
should be. “I should go.”

“Take care,” he says, and
he’s got that right: but I’m going to be the one taking
care of myself tonight.

Cash

Thursday night, we close the bar.
Private business only. We have three other spots around the city, so
one night off the clock isn’t going to break the bank. Besides,
we’ve got plans to discuss: location number five, our most
ambitious project yet.

Katie offered to come over after her
late class for a ‘study session’, but I’d put her
off. There’s nothing like working out a few kinks with a
friend. And trust me, Katie and I have worked through plenty. Her
O-Chem homework, my latest cocktail mix, but I’m not sure even
the lure of the Katie’s smooth thighs clenched around my head
can tempt me tonight.

Maybe I’m losing it.

Nah. It’s just the new bar.
Things get hectic, and we all work ourselves to the bone before a big
opening. I’m surprised Cassie hasn’t invaded and forced
us all to take a break. It may be the night off for our employees,
but until The Library opens, it’s all hands on deck.

Tables have been pushed together, and
the plans for The Library have been spread out, waiting for us to
make them perfect.

Located in Virginia Highland, we’re
going to take The Library to a new level. If Altitude was about going
back to our roots — Atlanta in all her glory
through the years—The Library is intended to be a throwback to
old-fashioned clubs. Lots of hardwoods, luxurious fabrics, and nooks
with grouped seating, but still plenty of what our customers have
come to expect from our clubs: a real fucking good time.

“Pizza’s
on its way,” Parker says, taking a seat at the bar across from
me. He’s as casual as he ever gets in a button up and slacks.
It’s just one more reason why I’m glad I never followed
my father into the investment world. I like jeans too much.

“The drinks are almost ready,”
I say, loading up the bar with several tumblers. I’ve been
working on the new cocktail list. We’ll always have the
staples, but we’ve got to give the crowd something new,
something they can only get at The Library. Tonight’s all
business: Jackson’s going over the
final renovations and set up, and I’ve got a new line of
drinks.

I’ve been going old school on
the cocktail menu: whiskey and bourbon. It’s something I always
associate with books and writers. Sure, the whole concept is based
around a library, but naming drinks after book titles or literary
people seems too logical, too obvious, too expected.

“What’s on the menu?”
Parker asks, picking up the card, I’ve been using to work out
the recipes.

“351.3—The Librarian.”

“I hope she’s hot.”

“She is well stacked,” I
joke. Parker laughs,

“My first crush was a librarian,
she had the whole sexy good girl thing going on. We should get the
waitresses to wear those cute spectacles and tight little cardigans.”

I snort. “Good luck with that.
The girls would blow their lid.”

Parker sighs. “That’s what
we get for letting them run the show. You’re no fun since
Cassie,” he calls over to Ryder.

Ryder looks up from where he’s
studying the plans with Jackson.

“Haven’t gone home alone
in the last week, what do you say to that?” Ryder shoots back
with a smirk and a toast with his beer. He and Jackson abandon the
plans and join us at the bar.

“I
say you’re two steps
past whipped.” Parker says, but there’s no
bitterness in his voice. It’s all good fun.

Ryder glances down at the
menu that’s still in my hands. “351.3?”

“It’s a library call
number,” Parker says. “Cash wants us to be classy.”

Jackson chuckles and shakes his head.
“And we’re going to take advice
about being classy from Cash Gardner? The man who lives above a bar?”

There are plenty of guys in Atlanta who
do class—I went to high school with most of them. They’ll
take you out to fancy dinners and woo you with roses. You want class,
give them a call. “In my experience, class satisfies no one in
the bedroom,” I drawl. “Never met a woman who said I was
classy in bed—or out of it, for that matter—and yet I’ve
never had a complaint.”

“Cash could afford a penthouse in
Buckhead if he really wanted it,” Ryder says.

My hand slips on the neck of a beer
bottle and it falls back into the ice chest. Ryder knows the elite of
this city—they all turn out for his fight nights. Does he know
about my past?

“Earth to Cash,” Ryder
says, tapping his beer bottle against the bar.

“What, sorry?”
Get
back in the game
, I tell myself.

Ryder looks at me like I’m one of
his fighters. Nothing gets past him. He takes care of what’s
his. His girl. His friends. His business.

“I was just saying you’re a
rich man, what with the tips you make and the profits from the bars.
You could easily move out of the studio.” Parker and Jackson
nod along to Ryder’s words.

“Don’t forget what we each
earn from investments from the clubs,” Parker asks.
Always
the money guy, that one.

“But out of curiosity, what does
he make in tips?” Jackson asks.

“Ryder, don’t
—”

“Usually he cashes out at four
hundred at the end of his shift,” Ryder says with a smirk.

Jackson slams his glass onto the bar
and Parker lets out a whistle. We all make a good fucking living in
the business, but clearly they’re not expecting that kind of
money.

“On a good night,” I add.
Got to put it in some context for them.

“Hell, put me behind the bar,”
Jackson says. “I’ll give up designing the building and
sling drinks myself for cash like that. Not to mention the ladies.”

I give each drink a final stir and top
them off with orange peels.

“May I present, 351.3.” I
stand back and watch as they try the new libation.

“Damn, that’s
good,” Jackson says. Parker nods, still drinking. Ryder
salutes me with his glass.

“You’re
welcome,” I say, with a laugh.

* * *

The game hums in the background, but
we’re still gathered around the plans for The Library. The
building’s got great bones, especially with all of the shelves.
Jackson’s done a number of adjustments that’ll take it
from former bookstore to the hottest new nightspot in ATL. And this
ain’t the kind of bar you went to in college, either. It’s
the sort of place that brings back the nostalgia of old-world
libraries and mixes it with the modern feel of the current club
scene.

“Where the hell is Knox?”
Jackson asks as we’re winding down. We’re setting up an
opening date and still have more than half the game left to enjoy.

“Cassie could take Knox’s
vote,” Ryder suggests.

There’s a grumble around the
table. “Are you kidding?” I ask. There’s really
only one rule to board meetings: no girlfriends. It was never a
problem when we were all making the list of most eligible bachelors
in Atlanta, but with the addition of Cassie, we had to lay down
ground rules. It’s not that we don’t like Cassie, plus
she’s the one keeping our books straight—but this is our
time. We started this place together, and we want to keep it ours.

“In all seriousness,” I
say tapping the plans on the table to get everyone
refocused. “The final plans look great. I’m all in for
opening next month.”

“So am I, obviously. It’s
my design, but we’re
still missing Knox’s vote,” Jackson says.

“Wasn’t it your
responsibility to get him on a plane?” I say to Parker.

Before Parker moved back to the great
30326 zip code, he and Knox lived it up in New York. Parker played
the stock market, and Knox played ball—literally. As a starter
for the Yankees, he’s the All-American boy making a name for
himself as a Park Avenue Playboy. When we opened our first bar—it
was sports themed and most of our startup capital came from Knox—we
knew we had it right. He still holds a majority share, even if he
chooses to never exercise it. But by our bylaws, we need his vote to
make decisions.