Hendrix (Caldwell Brothers #1) (4 page)

Chapter Three

Hendrix

Mondays are no longer a day to relax; they are a day to renovate. With the bar closed, I can tear shit up and put this plan into motion.

Jagger, Morrison, and I have agreed for the shit-hole apartment we were raised in to be torn the fuck up. I didn’t have to have their input, but it’s kind of emotional, so I wanted to make sure they were ready to move on, too.

None of us have heard one word from our dad since he left with Lola, and that is just fine by me.

We made the collaborative decision that the far corner, which was once our bedroom—our retreat when shit got bad, a place Momma read to us, the one fucking place we felt safe—would be a VIP lounge area of sorts. No entry unless we are down with it.

A week ago, we emptied the place. Last night, we gutted it and threw up supports. Today, I have already cut the floor out, and I am now looking up from the first floor at the ceiling of our old apartment that we added tin tile to. It looks amazing. I can’t wait until I have time to finish the railing around the perimeter of the hole so you can look down onto the stage and dance floor area.

Not that I’m trying to turn this place into a dance club, fuck that. What I want is a rocking, biker bar. Local talent and local people filling the place up on nights we have entertainment. No fucking cover, no drink price increase, no bullshit. Just a good fucking time to be had by some people who love music like Momma did.

In only two more weeks, this place should look a little less like a dive—on the inside, anyway. I like the outside as is. Nothing over-the-top, nothing fancy, no more lights hanging on the windows than the joints down the road. Nothing saying we are something we aren’t.

*.*.*.*

Sally, the new girl, is doing okay. Lola got her trained well enough so I can at least focus on hiring someone else without having all new employees at the same time. She is a little rough around the edges, though. Hell, you have to be in order to survive here. She is in her mid-thirties, a single mom with a sixteen-year-old daughter who watches the younger two while she works. She has been on time every day, which is a plus.

While she works, I spend my time making the custom railings in my garage, my place, my heaven in the midst of the hell I am sometimes surrounded in. The space is not overly large, but it is more than adequate to hold my tools, my rides, my toys, and give me room to work.

I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. Besides, there is nothing better than a few splinters along the way to creating something beautiful. Take a tree covered in hardened bark, shave it down to the inner lumber, and you find something beautiful. Cutting, sawing, sanding, priming, staining, and molding into a new creation, all done by my hands. There is a pride in that creation, in the final product. The rails are coming along nicely. Shouldn’t be long before they are finished.

I look up when the door swings open and Jagger strolls in.

“Looks good, man.” He rubs up the wooden handrail I just applied a coat of poly to. “Looks real fucking good.”

I wipe my hand off on the rag and then set it down. “Beer?”

“Of course.”

As I walk to the fridge, I ask, “What brings you here?”

“You know that fundraiser, the one for HPV—”

“The one I said I wouldn’t attend, yes.” I walk over to hand him his beer.

“Three local bands are playing. I bought two tickets and called them, letting them know I wanted to see them, that my big shot brother may want to book them.”

“Cool, I appreciate it.” I reach forward and tap my bottle to his. Guess I am going to the fundraiser after all. Not my thing, but local bands are good for business.

“But here’s the thing—”

“Jagger, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“There’s a fight, and I need this one, Hendrix. I. Need. It.” He takes a drink then looks down. “Just like you need to meet those bands.”

Jagger has been in a real bad spot since Mom died, and he got his ass kicked at the last fight. He went and let himself fall in lust with the chick who’s fucking the Cobra—his fighter name fits his ass, too. The fucking snake knocked his girl around in front of the wrong Caldwell. Then, Cobra’s guys jumped Jagger’s ass one night. The next night, though, they got hit back, trust that shit.

“If you’re fighting, I’m going with you.”

“No. Morrison is coming back for the fight. H, you need this. Get them while they’re hungry. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s black fucking tie. I don’t do that shit.”

“Already got the tux and picked up the mask to go with it. No one will know you were even there.”

*.*.*.*

I stand in front of the mirror, looking at a man I can’t recognize, a man I have never known. I’m not a suit. This isn’t me. I will never fit the mold.

Hell, my high school prom night was spent at the bar because my dad was too drunk and belligerent, and Mom had to take him upstairs. I followed to make sure he didn’t get heavy-handed. When he passed out, Mom started heading down, but I told her I would take care of locking up with Amy.

Amy? Yeah, Amy was the bartender. She was just twenty-one, and although a little on the plus side, she was sexy as hell. We had a few shots and talked about the boy who broke her heart. Then, the jukebox played Daughtry’s “Feels Like Tonight,” and we ended up fucking on the bar. Hot as hell, even with a condom.

Ever since Amy, I have been attracted to curvy women. There’s just something about a woman who can take a pounding while giving you something to hang onto and push into, almost like a soft place to fall.

I don’t date. Expectations, titles, and all that shit doesn’t really fit me. I have gone out with more than a few women and some I hook up with more often than others. I have made the mistake of hooking up with Sadi, a fill-in barmaid a few times, when the old man ran the place. It has turned out to be a fucking annoyance to have her around.

The first time I left the bar with a friend when Sadi was working, she copped an attitude. Right then and there, we had the talk about me and her. We were not in a relationship, we were in a mutually beneficial exchange. She was warned that day that it would be the last time she dropped an attitude with any of my female friends.

I respect women. Hell, no woman in the world was more respected than my mom. Sadi was told if she pulls that shit again, it would be the last time she worked in my bar and warmed my bed. Hard worker, decent lay, but a pain in my ass every chance she can be.

Looking in the mirror, I try to fix the crooked tie, but that isn’t happening, so I take it off. Just another reminder that this isn’t me. I look down at the mask and feel like a fucking fool. Shaking my head, I shove the stupid thing in my pocket and give one last glance in the mirror before walking out the damn door.

It’s too cold for the bike, my preferred mode of transportation around the city. In this monkey suit, I would be far from comfortable, anyway. As a result, I think about taking my 1971, flat black Chevy Nova SS, the Heavy Chevy, as it was called in its day. My beast, my good, old American muscle car, restored and brought back to life by my very own hands. However, if I have to wear this suit and rub elbows with a bunch of people wearing masks, I’m going to at least get buzzed, so I make the decision to take a cab.

I walk into the Fairmount half an hour into the event and hand my ticket to the man at the door who is dressed pretty damn close to how I am. Donning my mask, I look around for the nearest bar and make my way to it, wading through the masked crowd. Even the bartenders are wearing masks. I have to laugh, thinking it may not be a half bad idea to have my staff start doing the same damn thing. Hell, with the mugs on the most recent applicants, I’m sure business would be better off.

“Southern Comfort Manhattan.”

“Do you want a cherry?” The barmaid smirks at me.

“Nah, that just makes things messy.” I smirk back.

I hear a girl beside me giggle and look to my left.

She laughs again, snorting, then covers her mouth. “Sorry.” The lights are low, but I can see her cheeks flush.

I shake my head. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” She shakes her head as she giggles again.

“Nah, I think you have something more than nothing going on in that head of yours.”

She laughs again and covers her mouth as she tries to hide another snort.

“See? I knew it. I bet under that mask of yours is a very dirty girl just dying to come out.”

She smiles a big, sloppy smile. “Oh, there is. There really is.”

I slam my drink down and motion to the barmaid, holding up two fingers. When she sets our drinks on the bar, I grab them and hand the dirty girl one of them.

“Oh, I don’t think that is a good idea.”

I lean in. “You got something better in mind?”

She stands completely still for a moment. Then, I swear to fuck, she rubs her ass. I am liking where this is heading. “I suppose I do.”

“Care to,” I pause, “share?”

She laughs, snorting again. As the band starts up, some chick comes up, dragging the giggly little thing away. Oh, well, I’m not here to hook up with some highballing broad, anyway.

I grab another drink and walk to the edge of the dance floor to listen to the band play some nineties rock. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the giggler and her friend edging their way closer in my direction as they dance together.

Mask or not, I can tell they are checking me out. I’m hiding nothing at all except my face. My interest, though, I make sure that is obvious.

Of the two women, one is a curvy, sexy Latina, and the other is the giggling little snorter with the long legs and a dirty mind. Well, hell, this night might not be as bad as I thought.

When the Latina points to me and curls her finger, calling me over, I point to myself. The giggler instantly smacks her friend’s hand away then begins laughing. They don’t have to call me a second time.

I walk out as the band starts cranking “Panama” by Van Halen. I won’t be jumping around like the crew to my left or doing some seventies, John Travolta moves like the drunk fucks to the right. I’m gonna do me. I’m gonna grind.

As soon as I get to them, I put a hand on each of their hips and pull them both closer. One on each hip, I began to move. The sexy Latina places her hand on my chest, rubbing up and down my abs, before sliding the other one onto my back.

“Nice.” She smiles as the giggler laughs. “You’re nice and hard.”

“Nothing wrong with that, is there?” I ask with a wink.

“Feel how hard he is,” she instructs the giggler.

“No way,” she says with a laugh. “Consent is fucking required.”

The way she says fucking in a whispered screech makes me look at her. “What did you just say?”

She smiles that big-ass, drunken smile and repeats, “Consent is fucking required.” This time, she says it with a little more confidence.

“You’ve got consent, squeak. You wanna feel me, you go right ahead.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.” She shakes her head.

“Oh, please, girl, you sure as hell can.” Her friend takes her hand and slaps it against my lower abs.

She starts to pull her hand away as she giggles again, but I hold my hand over hers, stopping her. “Consent is fucking given.”

Her mouth drops open as her friend laughs and walks away. She looks down at my hand, “Oh. My. God.”

I look down to see what she is talking about and I smile. “You like ink?”

“Well, I’ve never seen so much of it,” she replies like she is lost in thought. She takes my hand, holding it up as she looks at it, really earnestly looking at the ink covering the top of my hand.

“Panama” is over and “Rock You like a Hurricane” by Scorpions plays next.

“We dancing, or are you gonna just stand here and look at my hands, babe?” I pull her hands up to rest on my shoulders then grab her hips and pull her a little closer as she finally moves in even closer on her own.

She smells like vanilla and spring, and after how hard winter has already fucked me, I fucking lust after spring. I look down at her closed eyes, her face relaxed. She is feeling the beat, and I am feeling her hips grind against me.

I’m growing hard, causing me to worry for a split second that she may not take kindly to that shit, but when she pushes against my erection, all of that dissipates. Yes, we are on the same page.

She continues rubbing against me with an occasional whimper or moan as we fall into a perfect rhythm together. I position my leg forward and pull her against it. When she is all but humping my leg, I lift her chin.

“As much as I enjoy hearing your sexy little noises, I think we either slow it down or return to the discussion started at the bar.”

Her eyes are glazed, nearly black, as she nods. The black and red mask she is wearing only highlights the deep green color and the smolder in her eyes.

“You think you have something better than coming on my leg on a crowded dance floor in mind?”