Cherry Bomb (Brighton #1) Page 2

  “I know, but it’s…it’s important. I have to be out of here by eleven on the nose.”

  “We close at eleven. And it’s Friday night, so you’re going to need to be a little more specific about what’s so important that you need to leave early after you showed up late.”

  “I have a reason,” I argue, although I know it’s not a good one.

  “Let’s hear it.” He drops the pen and leans back in his chair. His fingers steeple under his chin while he waits.

  “You’re not going to understand because you’re an adult.”

  “Cherry, either tell me or leave at midnight with the rest of us.”

  I practice what I’m going to say in my head and hope it doesn’t sound as lame out loud. “Arden and Derek broke up.” Yup, sounds just as bad out loud.

  “Get the fuck out of my office,” he yells, pointing toward the door.

  “Fine. Fine. BUT if it slows down, think of me when you cut the floor.”

  “OUT!” he shouts.

  I bounce out of the office and make the hike all the way to the Garden Room. The back wall is covered in lush greenery. Candles flicker in the dusky room and the cool breeze kisses my cheeks. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

  No sooner than I think the thought, Emma breezes by with a young couple, and they head straight for table five. The man smiles at his wife as she rubs her pregnant belly. Wonderful. My first table of the night is a pregnant woman.

  I’m not anti-pregnancy or even anti-babies. What I am against is answering seventy-five questions about the menu because the baby can’t have soy, dairy, or grains. Also, no, I can’t ask the kitchen to make your risotto without butter. Why? Because this isn’t that kind of establishment. Spoiler alert: butter makes food taste good. Also, before you ask, no, we don’t have a vegan option. It’s a steakhouse. Meat is literally in the name. You wouldn’t go to Subway and ask for a burger, so don’t come in here with that bullshit.

  I plaster a big, fake smile across my face and make my way out towards the table. “Hey, I’m Cherry, I’ll be your server tonight.” The man looks up from his menu and smiles. “Can I start you guys with something to drink?”

  “Do you have Black Market?”

  “On tap.” I nod. “Twelve ounces or sixteen?” His wife narrows her eyes, and the man responds sheepishly. “Twelve.”

  I suppress a giggle and turn to the pregnant warden. “And for the lady?”

  “I’ll have a sparkling water with extra lemons.”

  I tap their drinks into my handheld. “Okay, I’ll go grab the drinks and be right back to take your order.”

  “Actually, I think we’re ready,” the wife says.

  “Okay, great.” I smile, pulling my device back out. “What can I get for you?”

  “You go first, honey,” the woman says. “I’m still going back and forth between the steak and the chicken.”

  “I’ll have the aged-ribeye, medium, please.”

  Easy enough. I add his order to their ticket. “Great choice. What would you like for your sides?”

  “Baked potato and spring vegetables.”

  “Ready?” I turn to the woman expectantly.

  “I’ll have the same.” She nods. “But make mine well done,” she says rubbing her belly. “Can’t have undercooked meat when you’re pregnant.”

  I cringe, here we go. “Anything else?”

  “Do you guys have steak sauce?”

  I almost roll my eyes. I ALMOST DO IT, but if they complained, Marco would probably make me scrub the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, so instead, I simply bob my head up and down like some sort of cracked-out pigeon, knowing the kitchen staff is going to lose their shit when I ask for the A1.

  Cash

  BRIGHTON IS MY PERSONAL DEFINITION of hell. It’s not posh enough to be Beverly Hills or Calabasas, and it’s too over-populated to be Malibu or Laguna. It’s more like San Francisco’s ugly, slutty sister. It can’t decide if it wants to be a tech town or a tourist destination. Add that to its proximity to Los Angeles and the world-class University, and it’s become a melting pot of rubbish actors, model rejects, and tech outliers hiding from the big fish.

  A funny thing happened a few years back; those wankers, the ones who couldn’t hack it in the big pond, turned this little slice of the world into the fastest growing economy in the States. It’s also the place my estranged daughter has called home for the last two years.

  The driver slows to a stop outside of a swanky steakhouse. Logan, one of my mates from Columbia, is good friends with the owner. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him and it will be nice to catch up, although technically, this is a business dinner. Logan’s start-up INVIGOR, boomed in the last few years, which was hell on his personal life, but great for his net worth. His company is expanding and he needs someone he trusts to help run the financial side of things. I’d be second-in-command to the man Forbes called the next Jeff Bezos. Not too shabby for a tosser from Hackney.

  I step onto the concrete; my black loafers shine against the dull cement. “Have a good night, Mr. Davidson.” The driver nods.

  I slide a twenty in his palm. “Cheers, mate.”

  The restaurant is dimly lit. Two blokes I’d recognize anywhere stand with their backs to the door. I sneak up behind them, jam two knuckles into Logan’s back and grit in a terrible American accent, “Hand over your wallet or I’ll blow you away.”

  Logan chuckles. “Sixteen years in this country and you still talk like a broke-ass David Beckham.”

  “Oh, bugger off.” I grin and throw an arm around my best mate. “Becks wishes he had my charisma.”

  “Will you two get a room?” Jaxon, Logan’s younger brother, laughs. The three of us were inseparable in grad school, then Jaxon had to go and become a priest, and now his life revolves around guilt, atonement, and knowing him, staring at nuns’ asses after Mass.

  “Mr. Gregory, your table’s ready,” a small blonde woman says shyly.

  Logan’s eyes widen, then narrow. A beat passes with him glaring at her. Then, as if it physically pains him to do so, he speaks. “About time.”

  The woman jumps at his harsh tone, but Logan storms off towards the back of the restaurant without uttering another word. It’s only then that I get a good look at her. She’s standing there, shuffling from side to side, tugging nervously at her ear. The resemblance is uncanny. Same height. Same build. Same big round eyes. Same tan skin. It’s like looking at a ghost from the past.

  I shoot Jaxon a sidelong glance, but he throws his hands up in defeat. “I’ve been praying for him, but he’s been a miserable bastard since…” His voice trails off.

  I nod my understanding. He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. Logan’s wife is a subject we don’t bring up. It’s been nearly four years since she’s been gone, yet he keeps all the pain locked up inside. He’s got to grieve her so that he can move on with his life.

  Turning to our hostess, I grin. “Don’t worry about our friend, love. You just remind him of someone we used to know.” I shake my head sadly. “Since she’s been gone, he’s only got two moods, bitter asshole and bitter arsehole.”

  A smile tips the corners of her lips. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “Precisely, but you Yankees get all dodgy when I say arse.”

  She lets herself laugh, as she leads me and Jaxon to where Mr. Arsehole is glaring at the menu. The poor girl squeaks out the specials at rapid speed, then scurries back to the front.

  “I think you scared her,” I say, slipping off my jacket and rolling up my shirt sleeves. Brightly colored tattoos peek out from under the fabric. Tattoos that I’ve collected over a lifetime. Moments and memories that define me.

  “More ink?” Jax asks inspecting my arm.

  “A few pieces I picked up along the way.” I haven’t seen my mates in years. Our lives carried us in different directions. Logan got married and started his company. Jax dedicated his life to God, and I stayed in New York, fucking everyt
hing in a skirt and taking over Wall Street. Until I ran into my ex, Mandy, at a charity event, and my whole world shifted.

  “Your stuffy New York firm doesn’t mind the degenerate look?” Logan asks. He’s the most straight-laced of the three of us, which says a lot considering Jaxon’s profession. He only ever allows himself two drinks, and only in social settings. No tattoos. No fighting. No sleeping around. He isn’t perfect though. He cusses like a sailor and has a rubbish temperament, so I guess that’s balance.

  “They’re covered by my suit the majority of the time, but even so, I’m their top earner. I could murder a stripper and they’d hide the body.”

  “Jesus.” Jax rubs his brow in exhaustion.

  “Relax, Father.” I grin cheekily, miming the sign of the cross. “I’ve never murdered anyone, strippers included.”

  “Thank the Lord for that,” Jax retorts.

  The air smells of spring. Fresh flowers line the walls and candles flicker. It’s all very romantic. Unfortunately, I’m dining with an asshole and a priest.

  “The painters finished up today, so the house should be ready next week,” Logan adds after a few beats of comfortable silence. Along with a job, he set me up with a swanky pad that sits right on the beach.

  “I appreciate it, mate.” And I do. The job, the house, and what it means for my relationship with my daughter.

  “I’d give you my liver if it meant getting you to the West Coast,” he grunts. We chat about his company, and what my role in it will be. He wants to spend more time focusing on finding potential investments and less time worried about operations. Logan is, and always will be a shark. Staying in the office crunching numbers is like keeping him locked in a cage. He needs room to hunt, and I need a job here in town.

  The air in the Garden thickens, and I pause mid-sentence. The first thing I see are her legs, long, lean with smooth olive skin. I can tell she’s spent a lifetime underneath the California sun. As she nears, my eyes lift higher, narrow hips, perky breasts, sleepy gray eyes, a tiny diamond through her nose, and jet-black hair on top of her head. It’s her lips though. Perfectly pouty, like she spends all day sucking on them just to torture wankers like me with hard-ons.

  Fuck me.

  I watch her gaze land on Logan. There’s something about the way her lips quirk up and the way her shoulders straighten. The way her eyes bore into his skull like she’s daring him to try the same shit he did with the shy girl up front. This girl, this Cherry, according to the name stamped on her chest, isn’t backing down. That bit of backbone has my dick standing at attention.

  “Can I start you off with drinks?” she asks. Her brow sits high on her face, like she’s waiting for Hurricane Logan to hit land.

  “Black Market—the pint,” he grunts without bothering to look up from the menu.

  The hot hipster waitress smiles tightly then turns her attention to Jaxon. “And for you…” Her eyes drop to the pristine white collar tucked around his neck, “Father,” she adds hastily. Confusion wrinkles her brow. I bet she’s wondering what a priest is doing with an evil dick like Logan.

  Jax laughs. “I’m off the clock. You can call me Jax. And I’ll have a Black Market as well.”

  “It’s beer?” she confirms.

  “He’s a priest, not a saint,” Logan grits.

  Finally, Cherry turns her attention to me, and I flash her my best smile. The panty dropper. Her lips part, and she exhales. She was ready for Logan. Me, on the other hand, well, most people aren’t ready for me. Six foot two and a lifetime spent on the football pitch means that even though I’m pushing forty, I’m as fit as I’ve ever been. Her eyes rake my body, settling on the stretch of brilliantly colored ink peeking out from beneath my oxford. She shifts, then blinks, realizing that she hasn’t taken my drink order yet. “And for you,” she asks, breathless. I have a feeling it’s the first time Cherry has ever been breathless. My dick jolts. I also have a feeling it won’t be the last.

  Leaning forward on my forearms, I smirk. “I’m a Brighton virgin. What would you suggest?”

  “Oh, well, you could be like your friends and order a Black Market. It’s a Southern California craft and it’s our best seller,” she tells me, falling back into her role as our waitress. I don’t like it. I don’t like her on autopilot. Not with me.

  “Do I look like the type of bloke who wants to fit in?”

  She checks out my ink again, smiling. It’s a real smile, not like the fake one she gave Logan or the respectful one she gave Jax. No, this time her entire face lifts and the apples of her cheeks turn pink. “No, no, sir, you don’t.”

  “Sir? Ouch.” I bite down on my lip. Honestly, I like the way it sounds coming from her mouth. I imagine her saying it on her knees, begging for me to fill her with my cock.

  Logan pins me with his glare. “Will you stop flirting with our waitress and order the same Hendricks and soda you order every fucking time we go any fucking where?”

  “Excuse my mate, Cherry Girl. I would say he’s just having a bad day, but he’s always a bloody prick.”

  “Trust me, I know,” she mumbles, then snaps her mouth shut. She shoots Logan an apologetic look, and it’s then I notice the small red tattoo behind her ear. A cherry, but instead of a stem, there’s a fuse. My little Cherry bomb. Sexy, sweet, chaos.

  “I’ll take a Hendricks, please.” I chuckle, saving the girl from Logan’s wrath, or saving him from hers.

  She nods, tapping our drink order into the handheld. “Any questions about the menu?”

  “No. Just grab our drinks,” Logan snaps.

  “Whatever, asshole,” she mutters as she turns to walk away and I can’t help but check out her heart-shaped ass. Jax laughs from across the table. I meet his amused gaze. “Father forgive me for what I’m about to do.”

  “Dude, don’t bring Him into this,” Jaxon says. “Also, don’t you have a daughter her age?”

  I groan. Right. I’m a dad. I shouldn’t be imagining what Cherry’s pussy tastes like. I moved across country on a very specific mission. “We’re meeting up tomorrow.” Anxiety pushes out any residual lust. I haven’t been this nervous since I first moved to the States sixteen years ago.

  “That’s good. A step in the right direction.” Jax nods. His presence is calming. Maybe it’s the priest thing, but those words from him, words that would be superficial coming from anyone else, put me at ease.

  “Yeah, I mean it’s the first time she’s agreed to meet me. But she’s blocked me on Facebook and Instagram and The Snappy one.”

  “Maybe because you refer to it as, The snappy one.” Logan cackles.

  I throw my napkin at his head. “Fuck off. I’m too old for social media. I only made the accounts to keep up with her, you know. Reach her on her turf.”

  “My God, you’re thirty-eight years old, for fuck’s sake. If you’re really trying to bone the hot young waitress, maybe try not to sound like an old man.”

  “I’m not trying to shag the waitress.”

  “Bullshit,” Jax coughs. “Dude, we’ve known you since grad school. Your game hasn’t changed much since Sarah.”

  “Please don’t even say her name out loud. You might summon her like Beetlejuice.” I pinch the bridge of my nose at the mention of her. Sarah, aka, the woman who I was engaged to marry. I haven’t been in a committed relationship since.

  “Fuck Sarah,” Logan grunts as the hot waitress returns with our drinks.

  “Who’s Sarah?”

  “The woman who broke his heart.”

  “Ohhh, nasty divorce?” Her eyes perk up.

  “A nasty engagement.” Sarah didn’t want to uproot her life for Brighton, and I didn’t want to stay in New York. We’d spent the last five years together and dissolved our relationship over the course of five days. My friends think I’m heartbroken, but mostly I’m relieved. I proposed because we had been getting to the point in our relationship where marriage was the next logical step, though if we were being honest with ourselves, neither o
f us wanted it. The fire died a long time ago, and we’d been going through the motions. The move was just the final nail in the coffin. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Sarah. I want to eat steak and get drunk.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place.” She takes our orders and brings over a round of shots. On her. Leaning into my ear, she whispers, “Best way to get over someone is to get under someone new.”

  I swallow hard, picturing my big body on top of her small one.

  “Oh, you’re fucked.” Logan’s laugh brings me out of my lusty haze. Cherry has since retreated towards the main dining room, leaving me with a hard-on so intense, it’s straining against the seams of my jeans. “But screw it. It’s been too long since I’ve had a night out.” His next move surprises me. Mr. Two Drink Maximum snags one of the shots and throws it back.

  “Oh, no.” Jaxon shakes his head and hands me his shot. “I’m here for dinner, then I’m out. If you two want to go trolling for college girls, you’ll have to exclude me.”

  “I’m a grown-ass man,” I say affronted. “I’m not trolling for college girls.”

  “So, you aren’t going to fuck our waitress?” Jax asks, steepling his fingers over his lips.

  I stare in Cherry’s direction. She’s staring back at me. Our eyes lock and she winks. “Okay,” I confess, lifting the shot glass to my lips. “One college girl.”

  Cherry

  THERE’S A SPECIAL MAGIC IN watching grown men drink. I don’t mean frat bros on Greek row, pounding beers, but productive members of society. Men with stock options and 401ks. Men with good credit. Men with airline miles.

  There’s an art to it. They don’t sling back shots, they sip Hendricks (or some other equally expensive shit) on the rocks and debate the changing political climate. These men, these three gods, are no exception. It’s like I’m drawn to their table. Despite the Garden being full, I keep finding myself checking on them, watching as they descend from sober to drunk.

  “Another round?” I ask, ignoring the couple at table four.