Hendrix (Caldwell Brothers #1) (6 page)

Chapter Five

Hendrix

I’m standing in front of the bar with a sledgehammer in my hand when Jagger pulls up.

“What the hell are you doing?” He hops out of his Dodge Charger and walks toward me.

“Taking out the front windows and the walls.”

“The walls?” he asks, grabbing the sledgehammer. “You know how many times we put these bitches back in?”

I laugh and nod. “They have been broken a few times, haven’t they?” Before I have time to say anymore, he swings the hammer, and then broken glass goes flying. “Fuck! Jesus, Jagger, safety fucking glasses!”

“Those things are for pussies.” He swings again and hits the wall.

I head to the truck and grab two pair of safety glasses and another sledgehammer. I hand him the glasses, and he rolls his eyes yet puts them on.

After spending a couple hours releasing a shit ton of frustration, the storefront is demolished. We fill the wheelbarrow then take the rubble to the dumpster out back.

“What the fuck possessed you to do this shit now? It’s February, man.”

“Finished the hardwood upstairs last Sunday and Monday. The railing is up. The place looks too fucking upscale. Gonna put a garage door in the front. When we’re open and it’s warm, it can stay up. When we are closed, ain’t no motherfucker gonna be breaking a window, that’s for sure.”

“A garage door?” he laughs at me.

“Think about it, man. Fucking perfect.” I step back and look at the gaping hole in the front of my place. “Looks good.”

“Are you out of your dammed mind?”

“Nah, think of the private parties we can have.” I smile at him. “Monday night cards?”

“No, shit. Morrison will love that.” He is catching on now.

“His ass may be able to win every other place he plays, but not here. We know his tells.” I laugh.

“We sure as hell do.”

*.*.*.*

By dark, Jagger and I have the garage door hung. It looks cool as fuck.

In the cities, they use those gates in front of storefronts, but I’m not trying to make it look like the hood any more than it already does down here. I sure as hell don’t want to keep replacing windows, though.

To the right is another entry door, allowing access when the large door is down

Consent is fucking required.

I laugh to myself and feel shit stir a bit in my jeans. The giggler was one hot piece of ass, and for some reason, I can’t get her out of my head.

I try to shake it off and decide I am sure as hell gonna have a sign made that says, ‘Consent is fucking required,’ when I finally get one that says, ‘Caldwell’s Dive,’ to replace the Hooligans sign of my dad’s.

*.*.*.*

I look up and laugh as Morrison struts into the bar. “Well, there he is. New do?”

I swear, not one of the three of us look alike, but you would think Momma was banging the delivery man when she got knocked up with Morrison. Jagger and I can pass as brothers, more on the basis of eye color than anything else. Morrison, though, he has blue eyes. Fucking pretty boy dresses like he is from uptown, too. “Gotta have swag,” he says when we bust his ass about it.

“You home for a while longer than expected?” Morrison’s choice of career gives him flexible hours and as he puts it ‘travel benefits.’

He takes off his jacket, blowing his hands to warm them. “Sure as fuck wish I was in Vegas right now. It’s cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra out there, man.”

“What’s keeping you?”

He holds his hands up and rubs his thumb and fingers together. “Waiting on pay day.”

“You broke, man?” Morrison always has money. The fucker is a card shark and never loses. He has been banned from a few casinos because they thought he was counting cards, even though he wasn’t. He is just that damn good.

“Bet everything I had on a fight.” He smiles as I slide him a cup of coffee.

“And you haven’t been paid yet?”

“I bet a lot.” He winks.

“I see. Good for you, man, good for you.”

“When you gonna have entertainment in here?”

“Couple weeks probably,” I say as I sit on my stool behind the bar and take a drink.

“What are you gonna do to draw them in until then?” He smirks, and I know exactly what he is thinking.

“Nah, man.” I smirk back.

“We haven’t done a proper ladies’ night in years, Hendrix.”

A few years back, Momma and the old man took off for a week. They went to a casino or some shit, and I was left in charge. We didn’t have a band that night, since the old man wouldn’t allow it. Said we couldn’t be trusted. I needed bank and so did my brothers, and band nights were the big pay nights. Morrison had a date the next week with one of his highballing bitches, the kind who required flowers and dinner before they put out. I was trying to fix up my Nova with a new, small block engine. Jagger wanted to hire a trainer. As a result, we advertised a ladies’ night, and the place was packed.

Morrison was fucked up and ended up dancing on the bar. Then Jagger hopped up there, too, and both of them stripped down to their boxers. The crowd started chanting my name, and I had drunk just enough to make me say, “Fuck it.”

I threw the bar rag over my shoulder and decided to join the fun. I got up and grinded a bit, lost the boots, the socks, the shirt, and the broads were still begging. Jagger was turned around, twerking at the crowd or some shit, and I snapped his ass with a bar rag. Funny as hell. I still remember him being pissed until I handed him a shot.

About that time, I dropped the denim, and well, let’s just say, underwear isn’t my thing. The fucking chicks went crazy. I pulled the bar rag off my shoulders and covered up the crowned jewels of Caldwell then grinded some more.

“Not gonna happen.” I laugh as I tuck the memory back away.

“You worried mine is bigger than yours now?”

“I ain’t worried about shit.”

“Bullshit. This place has kept you busy as hell for a few months now. When’s the last time you got laid?”

I’m not one to kiss and tell, so I simply shake my head at him.

“Don’t you worry about my dick. Worry about your own.”

Jagger strolls in, smiling. “We on for tomorrow night? I just hung up a bunch of flyers. The Caldwell boys are back to providing Ladies’ Night Delight.”

“No, man, we aren’t.”

“That’s not what the flyers say.” Morrison laughs and fist pumps Jagger.

“Look, shit’s changed over the years, man.” I shake my head. “Laws and codes, man.”

“You got that door. Shut the bitch when it’s packed in here.”

I stand back, lean against the back bar, and cross my arms. “Don’t pull that shit on me again. I’ll let it happen this once, but not again.” They smirk at each other the same way they used to when they pulled the wool over Mom’s eyes. I suppose I was the oldest, and with that came responsibility and shit. “I’m not getting up on my bar.”

“Bullshit,” Jagger laughs. “All for one and one for all, man.”

“I own this place. It ain’t happening. Besides, I tend bar Thursday nights. No coverage, so don’t fucking push. Be happy I’m allowing it.”

I look up as a chick walks into the bar, holding the newest ‘Help Wanted’ sign. She is bundled up in what seems to be four or five scarves and an oversized coat. With her hat covering her head, it is hard to get a good look at her, but even in layers, it is not lost on me that she is a hot, little piece.

“Hi, I’m here to inquire about the position.”

Morrison’s lips turn up as he turns on his stool to give her his undivided attention. “What position are you applying for?”

“Um, any position is fine with me. I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

“I’ll give you whatever position you—”

I smack him in the head with the bar rag to shut him the hell up. “You have any experience?”

As soon as the words leave my lips, I regret them. My brothers both turn around, biting their tongues.

“Very limited, but I’m a real quick learner,” she says in a sugary sweet tone. Too sweet. She will get eaten alive in here.

“Really don’t have time to teach anyone—”

Her hand immediately goes to her ass, and I swear to fuck she rubs it. Is this some new trend and I missed it? First the broad at the fundraiser and now this chick with the ass rubbing.

“Well, shit, I do.” Morrison smirks as he turns back around to her. “You’re hir—”

“Morrison,” I cut him off. He continues anyway.

“Come back Thursday night, eight o’clock, and bring your friends. You still think you can handle any position we have to offer, you got yourself a job.”

My jaw is twitching from clamping it so tight. Before I can calm myself down enough not to scream at my brother, she smiles, turns, and all but runs out the door.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I snap at him.

“Getting you some help.” He winks. “If you don’t want to teach her the ropes,” he says as he grabs his dick, “I will.”

“First of all, if I hire someone, you don’t fucking touch them. Second of all”—I point to myself—“I hire my employees, got it?”

“Fuck, I don’t care. I just hope she comes back Thursday.” He laughs like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“If she does, I’m tagging in,” Jagger adds, only putting more fuel on the fire of my untamed aggression right now.

“You fuckers are sick.” I take a drink of my coffee and turn on the TV. Monday night football will be on soon, and my Lions are playing tonight.

Jagger gets up and walks behind the bar. “I’m making wings. You guys want some?”

The rest of the night, we sit at the bar, eating wings—our Monday night tradition with Mom. The old man was always taking off on Monday nights and going somewhere. Always said it was a card game, but I heard him telling Mom once that he needed a break from his responsibilities on Mondays. His responsibilities. That was a fucking joke.

As I look at my brothers, both seem happier than they have been in a long time. I’m sure Momma is proud of them.

Chapter Six

~Olivia~

Bars mean tips. Tips mean immediate pay. If I show up Thursday night and work, I will have tips. If I do it well, if I make this work, I can pay my water bill on Friday and avoid disconnection.

I can do this. I will do this. What other choice do I have?

I went to five places and applied, and only Hooligans—that’s what the sign said it was called—would give me a chance. The place has been undergoing construction, so I am not sure if it is still named that or not. Honestly, I don’t care what I have to call it.

After the one slick looking guy in the suit agreed to let me work there just for Thursday night, I practically ran out of the building, afraid it was a joke, or they would change their minds.

Oh, goodness, don’t let this be a joke. I cannot afford for this to not pay off. It is only a temporary solution to my problems, but it is the one I can get myself through.

Once at home, I kneel in front of my entertainment stand and open the drawer where I keep my movies. Cable is a luxury, one I cannot afford, so I rotate movies.

Starting with
Roadhouse,
I begin my own version of training. Certainly, I can learn a few tips from Hollywood.
Roadhouse
is followed up with
Cocktail
as my marathon continues.

When the movie finishes, I am more than intimidated about what I am getting myself into. I rub my hand over my ass, tracing the letters blindly, and remind myself,
girl power
, today’s underwear quote. Silly, I know.

However, since I was a little girl and my mom bought me days of the week panties, I have had a small obsession with panties that have sayings. Call it undercover inspiration. Victoria does have her own secrets, after all.

Going back to my entertainment center, my fingers run over the movie cases. One by one, I pass them all by until my hand lands on the one.
Coyote Ugly.
Perfect!

The hours pass by as I replay the movie over and over, pausing and perfecting my own version of the dances

By the end of the night, I don’t know if I feel completely overwhelmed by my new job or like a sex kitten on steroids. This dancing on the bar is hot. Well, it’s hot when I can manage to dance and not fall.

Grace has never been a word used to describe me. I may have been voted most likely to fall off the graduation stage in my high school.

Bills are coming regardless of my physical well-being, though. I only have days to prepare, and this is not something I can mess up. Sleep can wait for when I’m dead.

*.*.*.*

Work comes far too early for my liking after trying to bring my inner barmaid to life. I make my way to the office I share with Toni and immediately start un-layering my clothes, getting close to the small space heater I have hidden under my desk.

Making my way to the coffee pot after I warm up some, I suppress a grunt as I try to get something warm inside me.

“Girl, what the hell is wrong with you? Why are you limping?”

“I’m sore. Who knew dancing around used so many muscles?” I woke up aching in places I didn’t know it was possible to ache in. Add my walk to work, to say my thighs are on fire would be an understatement.

She laughs loudly at me as she sits in the chair by my desk. “I gotta hear this. Why were you dancing?” She pauses, and then her eyes grow big. “No, no, no! Oh, no, you didn’t. Please tell me you aren’t stripping to pay for your car.”

My eyes must be as big as saucers. The thought never crossed my mind. After everything I have been through, I am far from being comfortable in my own skin. No way could I take my clothes off in front of strangers. I don’t even know if I can manage showing off my midriff like the movies showed. Plus, strippers are gorgeous. They have well-toned bodies, and more than that, they have grace. If I tried to dance on a pole, I would most certainly fall on my head.

“Heck no, I’m not stripping. I got a part time job at Hooligans. In fact, I need a favor. I’m supposed to bring friends on Thursday night—that’s what one of the guys said. Please, please, please come and hang out. I need this job, and I need the comfort of my friends.”

“Tabby and I’ll be there. You know we got you, girl.”

Whew. Bring some friends, check the box done. Now, to show up, work my butt off, make some tips, and land the job.

I rub my ass, reminding me that today’s panties say, ‘You got this. Now rock this.’

I got this.

I am going to rock this.

*.*.*.*

Thursday night comes all too quickly. I don’t know why people say they get butterflies in their bellies, like their nerves are light tickles. No, I have birds in my belly, heavy things pecking at my insides, begging to be free. I think for sure I am going to puke.

I enter Hooligans, ready to turn and bolt back out into the freezing Detroit evening. What have I gotten myself into? The place is packed—wall to wall people with a line out the door—and it’s just barely opening.

Knowing I have to do this, I make my way through the chaos and up to the bar. The sight in front of me should be in a movie. The three guys I met the other day all stand behind the bar, serving drinks.

The slick guy is wearing a nice pair of dress pants with his white button up shirt unbuttoned all the way down to his mid-stomach, exposing a chiseled chest and two clearly defined top abdominal muscles. The sleeves rolled up to the elbow show his forearms flexing with every move he makes. His hair is spiked and styled to perfection.

The quieter two stand off to either side of Mr. Slick. One has a black T-shirt on and jeans. His arms are clearly inked all the way down to his hands. My mind races with wonder at what each tattoo means. Seeing tattoos on his hands, my mind goes back to the night in the closet. I vaguely remember mystery man having tattoos on his hands. His dark hair is spiked, and his facial features are stern even in the darkness of the bar.

The younger of the three is the farthest away, wearing workout pants and a T-shirt that looks almost painted on, which is certainly not hiding his clearly cut abdominal muscles. They have all been drinking the water full of hotness—that much is obvious.

“Come on, sugar, bar’s packed. Get back here and get to work, sweet thing,” Slick commands with a wink at me.

Broody guy gives me a nod, while Sporty smiles and continues to serve drinks.

“I need to use the restroom. I’ll be right back,” I inform them, but it comes out barely above a whisper.

After making my way through the crowd, I use the restroom then look in the mirror and steel my resolve to get through tonight. Returning and timidly stepping behind the bar, I begin to remove the many layers of clothing I have on.

Once I store my stuff in the only open space I can find, I then turn to the guys to try to get some sort of instruction.

I am dressed in jeans, a black half shirt with only a bra on underneath, a black belt, my favorite black knee-high boots, and my hair is topped with a poof anyone from the Jersey shore would be proud of. My makeup is done up with a smoky eye and lips glossed for a perfected pout … well, that’s what the package promised.

Broody guy grunts at me in what I take to be disapproval before he starts pointing and talking, but the noise around me makes it hard to hear. His temperament makes it obvious he’s not one to repeat himself, either.

I hear Toni yell my name as she and Tabby have arrived like they promised. I give them a quick wave in acknowledgement as they settle in at the very end of the bar. It is too crowded to give them much time, and I don’t want to mess this up.

Broody guy continues talking, and I feel like I’m already falling behind.

Afraid I might miss something important, I pull out a tiny notepad and pen from my back pocket. I am trying to take notes as the bar gets louder with impatient people pounding on the countertop, wanting to be served.

“Name, sugar?” Slick questions me. “What’s your name?”

“Olivia, but my friends call me Livi.”

They told me to come at eight, and I made sure to show up early, yet it’s so packed I can’t keep up. This must be another cruel joke on me. Ha, ha, ha, Livi can’t make it.

I rub my butt to remind myself of my ‘I’m a rock star’ panties.

The first hour passes in a blur of mishaps. Then, at nine-thirty, the song shifts, and suddenly the women are screaming like we are teens at a boy band concert. I turn around to see Slick climb on the bar.

His dress pants are tailored to cut his butt, one I am sure I could bounce a quarter off. The white button-up shirt is tight on his arms, the material stretching to the max with every move he makes. His back is to the crowd as he pulls his shirt from his pants and unbuttons the last few buttons. Then, he moves to the music as he slides the shirt off his shoulders.

I am helpless to the show. Unable to move, unable to think, I watch as he points to Quiet and Sporty to join the fun.

Soon, it is like the Three Musketeers on the bar. No wonder the sign in the window said this is ladies’ night.

Sporty is next to start dancing and removing his clothes. I have to hand it to these guys, they sure know how to move. I read a magazine article once that said, if a man can dance, he is good in the bedroom, too. It’s all about the rhythm or something.

It is dark and hard for me to make out all the ink covering these guys as they each stand mostly naked on the bar, but not one of them is lacking in the looks department.

As they move together, but not quite in a routine, it hits me. Oh, my goodness, it’s just like in the movie! They may not have been showboating with bottle tossing, but they have found their niche dancing on the bar.

What have I gotten myself into?