It is necessary for us to learn from others’ mistakes. You will not live long enough to make them all yourself. ~ ADM Hyman G. Rickover, US Navy
Frankie hadn’t been manager for quite a week yet, but she already loved it.
On Tuesday night, she strolled through the restaurant section of the roadhouse, checking that the hostess was equitably seating people so no server got overloaded, the busser was speedy and thorough in cleaning off tables, glasses were kept filled, food was served promptly when up. And the customers were smiling. Definitely that.
She still couldn’t believe Bull had given her the position, despite knowing she would return to New York.
And would leave him. She didn’t want to. Just…didn’t. Not see him every day? Not be able to curl up against him in the night? Or hear his lower-than-low voice when he teased her during their sparring sessions? She wasn’t sure she could bear it.
On top of that…the thought of returning to Bocelli’s made her stomach churn like she’d been drinking battery acid.
The atmosphere here was everything that the Bocelli Agency wasn’t. Sure, she had to deal with obnoxious customers and drunks in the roadhouse, but they were nothing compared to advertising and photo shoot clients, all cologne and bleached-white smiles and hidden animosity.
Roadhouse staff made the few customer annoyances seem irrelevant. The waitstaff and chefs weren’t family—she wouldn’t go that far—but were more than mere co-workers. They bickered, certainly, but there was no cutthroat competition, no backstabbing. If she got swamped, Felix would notice and pick up some of her tables. If a drunk tried to harass her, either Bull or Raymond would notice.
Like when a pushy fisherman grabbed her hand. Before she could clout him over the head with her tray, Bull had bellowed, “Asshole, let’er go, or I’ll rip your dick off and shove it down your throat.” The fisherman saw Bull’s glare. With a squeak, he’d released her and fallen all over himself apologizing.
Bull had studied her for a long minute, then smiled and nodded, leaving it up to her whether to pitch the guy out.
She loved that too—that he trusted her to deal with things. As he’d warned, he dumped all the administrative problems on her. In the last week, she’d nailed down the Italian night menu, the design, and the décor. Hired more seasonal staff. Instructed and evaluated new bar and restaurant servers and busboys. Made purchase and replacement lists.
Rather than feeling stressed, she was having fun in a way she hadn’t since starting at Mama’s company. How had she let herself get trapped in a job that she didn’t enjoy?
Because of family expectations and pressure.
Her mouth tightened. Mama’s lecture last week was akin to one she’d delivered when Frankie was little and had skipped dance class to get ice cream with a friend. How she’d hated dance classes. Mama said dance taught the posture and grace needed for modeling, something else Frankie hadn’t wanted. Even as a child, she’d considered it to be a boring job.
Her mother hadn’t listened until two bullies messed up Frankie’s face. What with Mama’s horror of scars and her father’s intervention, she’d been allowed to take martial arts instead of dance.
What would it take to convince her mother to listen to her?
Pushing the unhappy thoughts away, Frankie smiled at the next table of tourists. “How was your meal today?”
This might be her favorite part of the job. Or maybe it was figuring out the scheduling software and talking to the staff, so everyone was 90% satisfied with their time on and off. One hundred percent wasn’t achievable—life happened—but from the happy smiles when people saw the schedules, she’d done better than Bull. It helped that everyone was willing to talk to her and make requests. No matter how friendly and reasonable, Bull really was intimidating, even without adding in that he was the owner.
Since she had control of the schedule, she’d assigned herself the hours she wanted to work in the bar—her best chance to talk to the Patriot Zealots. It’d almost been two weeks since their lockdown started. Surely their training exercises were done.
In between her quality assurance visits with the customers, she arbitrated a dispute over cooking responsibilities on the line, arranged to get Wylie a cabled cooking probe, and indulged herself by ordering candle holders that would be amazing for the romantic theme nights. Whether Bull realized it or not, Italian night was going to be the time townspeople brought their special someones here for romantic dinners.
By the time the restaurant started to close, her feet hurt—and she was still happy. Pulling off her name badge—the one that said MANAGER—she stopped beside Wylie who was shutting equipment down. “I’m off to work in the bar for a while.”
He frowned. “Bouncing back and forth between jobs isn’t healthy. Bull shouldn’t ask you to do that.”
“He didn’t.” Frankie smiled at the wave of sound coming from the bar section. “I like working in the bar.”
“Jesus, girl, you’re as crazy as he is. First, the owner wants to be a bartender, now, the manager wants to serve drinks?”
“My dear chef, I’ve decided all you Alaskans are crazy—and since I live here now, I’m embracing that mindset.”
The rest of the kitchen staff burst out laughing.
In the bar section, Felix greeted her arrival with a wide, relieved smile. “You’re my hero, girl. It’s insane tonight. Could we add another server on for the midweek shifts?”
“I’ll get that fixed.” Pulling out her phone, she added it to her to-do list.
So, who was here tonight? There was the usual scattering of locals and fishermen in boots, jeans, and T-shirts. A third or so were tourists in flamboyant attire. A few of the McNally’s resort employees were present—out for a good time and dressed to appeal.
Frankie noticed a blonde’s high-heeled footwear and sighed in envy. “Check out those boots.”
Felix followed her gaze. “Oooh, nice. It sucks that the prettiest shoes never come in my size. At least, not here in Alaska. San Francisco, though…”
“You shop online instead?”
“Oh sure, but it lacks the whole vibe of shopping for sexy stuff, you know?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Computers don’t flirt like store clerks.”
He was the biggest flirt she knew, much like fashion photographers who’d elevated sexy banter to an art form.
As she patted his arm in sympathy, she saw the men she’d been hoping to see—the PZs—and her pulse sped up. Their training scenarios must be over now. Was Kit still there in the compound?
“Felix.” Frankie nodded toward the front wall with the mounted caribou antlers and photos. “I’ll handle the Rudolph section.”
“The fanatics are there.” His brows drew down. “Girl, you pick their section every time you have a choice. You shouldn’t get involved with those people.”
“You think I’d take their bullshit seriously?” She blew a raspberry. “When I see them, all I can think is that somewhere a circus is missing its clowns.”
Felix snorted. “Okay then. I won’t worry even if I don’t get it.”
She smiled. “Like all clowns, they’re entertaining.”
“Not the word I’d use, but the section is yours.”
Frankie checked in with the bartender, then started to work. It was good Bull wasn’t here. She really didn’t want him to see her near the PZs.
As soon as she could, Frankie went to the PZ table. After taking their drink requests, she backed up…and deliberately tripped over the older man’s long legs.
He caught her by the waist, his hands lingering before he let her go.
“I-I’m so sorry.” She made her voice sound all choked-up. “I’m just having such a bad month.”
“No problem, girlie,” the black-bearded guy said. “Don’t get your pretty self all upset.”
“It’s b-because…” The way she used her oh-pitiful-me eyes on him would’ve gotten her high points from her sister. “My parents were killed in a car crash last month and…and sometimes it just comes back to me.”
Now, what could they do except say they were sorry for her loss?
Once she’d gotten them engaged, she blinked hard—c’mon, tears—and sniffled. “I probably shouldn’t even be working, it’s not like I need to, anymore.”
That got a spark of interest. “Then why are you here?” Blackbeard asked.
“It’s…it keeps me from sitting at home and just crying. I feel so lost sometimes, you know? Like, what’s the point?”
If she were a fisherperson, she’d have said the guy swallowed her bait—hook, line, and sinker. Come to think of it, what was a sinker?
“Ah, girlie, that’s a shame, now.” He took her hand and pulled her closer. “Sounds to me like you need to find a new purpose, don’t you? Someone to help you find the way.”
Don’t jump too fast, Frankie. “I…I”—she looked down, trying for humble modesty—“I guess. Maybe.”
“I remember you from a while back. You asked what the Patriot Zealots were.” The man who spoke was clean-shaven with a buzz cut.
Here was her chance to bring up Kit. “I was curious. Still am…maybe. Kinda. A couple of your women were at the grocery, and I asked them if they liked being with you.” Frankie tried for a shy expression. “They said yes. They were older, you know, not much like me, but they had a younger woman with them. And…wait, is she still there?”
Buzzcut narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
Frankie put on an unsure expression. “It’s…I mean the older women were really kind, but I just hoped that there were younger people there, my age, you know. Because…I guess I’ve never gotten very close to older people.
The man she was talking with frowned. “Did she have a name?”
“No, she never even spoke, but…” Please, don’t let me get Kit into trouble. Frankie tapped her lips as if thinking. “Maybe a little shorter than me, really slender, fair skin, brown eyes, streaky long brown hair.”
“Sounds like Kirsten,” a man with a long red beard said.
“There was that day we took her with us to buy bareroot trees and seedlings for the gardens.” Buzzcut nodded at Frankie. “She’s still at the compound.”
Suppressing a shout of glee, Frankie bounced on her toes like a little girl. “Awesome.”
When Blackbeard seemed surprised at her enthusiasm, she confided, “I’m really, like, more comfortable around girls my age. More than older women.”
His gaze ran over her body. “What about older men?”
“Um. I…” She put her finger in her mouth and cast him a hesitant, not quite flirty glance. Men like you make me want to throw up. “They’re… That’s different.”
He half smiled, took her hand, and ran his thumb over her palm.
She barely kept from jerking away.
He squeezed her hand. “I think we should talk. I might be able to point you in a good direction. The right direction.”
She shook her head. “I can’t talk now; I have to work.”
“When do you get off work?” He fondled her hip, way too familiarly, the bastardo, and slid his hand down to squeeze her butt.
Don’t punch him; don’t punch him.
Should she encourage him? It might be a way to get into the compound. No, don’t be stupid. She wouldn’t be able to conceal her loathing, especially since just letting him touch her ass felt far too much like cheating on Bull.
There was only one pair of hands she wanted on her.
Shaking her head, she pushed at Blackbeard’s arm. Weakly. “Oh, please, don’t. I’m a good girl.”
When the ginger across the table snorted, Blackbeard shot him a chiding frown before moving his hand back up to her waist. “Yes, I can see you are. I’m glad to know that. I think you’ll fit in well with us. How about you—”
“Oh!” She checked over her shoulder, as if just remembering that she had a job. “I need to get back to work.
After another shy look, she hurried away. And tried to suppress her anger. The we-have-all-the-answers and the controlling behavior would have worked like a charm on Kit, especially right after her husband died. That was how Obadiah had snowed Kit.
“Frankie, nachos up in the kitchen,” Felix called across the room.
She saluted to show she’d heard him and turned to head that way. She could make a quick dash to the kitchen to get the platter before it got cold, and then—
A man stood in the doorway of the roadhouse. Was that Obadiah?
She hastily turned away. No, it probably wasn’t him. He didn’t drink—and Kit’d said she stopped drinking, too. Even wine. Because whatever he wanted, Kit would do.
Frankie growled. Her fingers tightened on the tray she wanted to break over his head.
A glance over her shoulder showed that the man hadn’t entered the bar. She let out a breath. Even if it was him, he wouldn’t recognize her. Not from the few seconds in a wedding reception line. And dark-haired, brown-eyed women were a dime a dozen in Alaska.
She sped up her pace toward the kitchen.
Someone blocked her path.
“Bull.” Her heart did a happy little spin rather like Gryff’s dancing paws. “What are you doing here?”
“Coming to rescue you, but it seems you didn’t need any help. At all.”
Oh, merda, he’d seen her with the Patriot Zealots. “Actually, the stronzi were fairly nice for a change.”
His eyes were the black of a moonless night—and far too perceptive. “I noticed.”
“Waitress!” The call pierced the noise in the room.
Frankie turned to see a table of impatient tourists.
“I need to get moving.” She’d spent too much time with the PZs.
Brows pulled together, Bull nodded. “If you’re all right, I’ll get to work.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” She gave him what felt like the most insincere smile in the history of mankind.
The guilt pinching her muscles was far weaker than the longing to bury her face against his neck and beg him for help.
Instead, she waved at the tourists, told them she’d be right there, and went to retrieve the nachos.
Nabera walked out of the roadhouse in a good mood. Before leaving, he’d had Luka ask about the sweet little barmaid, the one who was ripe for the plucking. Naïve, with inherited money and no relatives.
Luka had learned her name was Frankie, and she lived in one of the old Okie’s cabins on the lake. Nabera sneered at the thought of Dante, the owner of the market and the cabins. The nonbeliever was on the town council and licked the uppity libtard mayor’s ass more like a trained dog than a man.
Nabera glanced around for their driver. After some of their intoxicated Zealots had run-ins with the hard-ass police chief, the Prophet decreed that members coming to the roadhouse must be dropped off and picked up. Earlier, Obadiah had stuck his head in the door to let them know he’d arrived.
At the car, Obadiah opened the door for him, then cleared his throat. “Captain, I wasn’t sure if I should mention this, but…” He scowled at the roadhouse.
“Spit it out,” Nabera ordered.
“It’s about Kirsten. In a way. See, last year, Kirsten’s friend came from New York for our wedding. That was before we moved to the compound in Texas.”
Nabera sighed. Was this going to take much longer? He had a nice buzz on and was impatient to select a woman to fuck tonight. “Get to the point, Lieutenant. Was there a problem when the friend visited?”
“Nah, I only saw her for a second. She’s all about women’s rights and that bullshit. Not a suitable person to be in my wife’s life.” Obadiah shrugged. “After she went back to New York, I exerted my authority, and Kirsten dropped her.”
“As it should be.” Nabera nodded approval. Unbelievers were an unacceptable diversion from the Prophet’s way. “I don’t see what the problem is.”
“I just saw her in the roadhouse.” Obadiah pointed to the roadhouse.
His lieutenants moved closer, and Conrad sneered, “Like you’d recognize someone you met for a second?”
“Kit had a ton of pictures of her. Hanging on the walls in her apartment. In photo albums,” Obadiah said doggedly. “I’d recognize Frankie, even in that roadhouse barmaid outfit.”
Nabera stiffened. “Frankie?”
“Yeah. She even uses a man’s name. Could she be here to try to get Kirsten away from me? From us?”
Luka and Conrad moved closer as Nabera spat out, “Describe her.”
“She’s part spic,” Obadiah said slowly. “Dark brown hair, brown eyes, full rack, mouthy.”
The description matched, and Frankie wasn’t a common name for a woman. “She lives in New York?”
“Yes, sir. She works—worked—at some fancy-ass job for her rich family.”
Now she was in Alaska working a minimum wage job? Not fucking likely. His teeth ground together. “She knows Kirsten is in Rescue. She was trying to get information about her. And about our compound.”
He’d thought she was tempting—innocent and stupid.
The filthy, lying bitch.
Luka’s mouth dropped open. “Captain, could she be the one who operated the drone?”
It got worse and worse. “The operator’s footprints were from a woman’s shoe. She’s snooping around, all right.” Nabera’s mouth thinned. “If we’re not careful, the feds will show up with search warrants. They’ll take our weapons. Remove our women.”
Conrad glared at Obadiah. “Your woman needs—”
“She’s not involved.” Obadiah snarled, his teeth barely visible behind his yellow-brown beard. “She knows if she’s stupid, her whiny-ass boy will accidentally fall off a cliff.”
Nabera wasn’t so sure. The barmaid—Frankie—had said, “A couple of your women were at the grocery,” and spoke about the younger woman with them. She’d seen Kirsten. “The snoopy ‘friend’ already knows too much about us. If she’s not stopped, she’ll learn more.”
Luka stiffened. “The chief of police is just waiting for us to put a foot wrong.”
Nabera growled under his breath. One day that cop would drive down the wrong back road, and his head would get blown off. “Let me think.”
The others waited respectfully as he considered.
They couldn’t leave the busybody alive. That was obvious. But if she disappeared, there would be a search. Awkward questions of why she was here.
A car accident might work, but…there still might be questions.
What if it appeared as if the target was someone else and she was—what was that big city term?—collateral damage.
She was staying in one of the Okie’s rental cabins. “Luka, didn’t you tell me about Dante fighting with someone?”
“Yes, bunch of wannabe gangsters from Anchorage. They got high and were shooting things up. He kicked them out of the cabin they’d rented.” Luka smiled. “They almost shot him as they drove away.”
Conrad spat on the ground. “City assholes can’t shoot for shit.”
“Just as well.” No one would question that the city thugs would want revenge—and would love to burn all four of those nice wooden cabins.
With some money as incentive, a few Anchorage scumbags could be found to pay a visit to the cabins. Nabera smiled. It would be worth the money to fuck up the old Okie who’d given the Prophet so much trouble.
Nabera told his lieutenants, “Change in plans. A quick trip to Anchorage right now. No point in putting this off.” Who knew what the cunt might get up to next?
“Anchorage, sir?” Luka asked.
“There are times it’s better to hire things out. Keep your own hands clean.” Law enforcement must not trace anything back to the Zealots.
Nabera glanced at Obadiah. “When we get back, we need to speak to Kirsten. The New Yorker couldn’t have discovered that Kirsten is here unless she was told.”
Killing the New Yorker would have been enjoyable but hearing Obadiah’s disobedient wife scream would make up for it.
The roadhouse was closed.
The night had been profitable, Bull thought as he finished with the bar receipts. Near the center of the empty room, Frankie waited for him at a table, doing her own paperwork.
The routine let them leave together so she could spend the night at his house. Even though he liked her little cabin, it wasn’t good to leave Gryff alone too long. The traumatized rescue needed more than his snug doghouse on the deck—he needed people.
After putting his paperwork away, Bull leaned on the bar top to watch Frankie work. Such a beautiful woman. Although when he called her that, she’d laugh and say she was pretty enough, but her sisters were the beauties. Not to gain herself compliments, just stating what she believed.
He didn’t agree. Maybe society considered her sisters to be more attractive than she was, but as a man, he had his own opinion.
Francesca Bocelli was beautiful.
However…
His jaw tightened. He might not know her as well as he’d thought. He’d figured her to be honest and straightforward. But tonight, her behavior with the PZs had him questioning his ability to read people.
Usually when men tried to touch Frankie, she sidestepped and called them on it. Effortlessly. Yet, earlier tonight, Nabera had held her hand, put his arm around her waist, even squeezed her ass. She’d not only let him but leaned in closer.
Her flirting had roused ugly feelings in Bull. Ones that hadn’t died down in the hours since.
Done with closing, Bull walked over to her table.
She rose and smiled. “Ready to go?”
“In a minute.”
Her smile faltered. “What?”
“Want to tell me what was going on with you and Captain Nabera?”
“That was Nabera?”
He blinked. She didn’t know who the guy was? Maybe he’d misread the situation. “It was Nabera who held your hand. Who squeezed your ass.”
Dark color rose in her cheeks, and his indecision faded away. That was guilt in her face.
Dammit. He’d been through this before, back when Paisley had taught him not to ignore his gut. “Oh, Bull, I was just flirting a smidgeon with the buyer. Everybody does it.” Only her flirting had been a prelude to fucking her clients.
Then again, his past might have skewed his judgment. “Maybe I’m too sensitive because of my ex.” His brows drew together. “Both ex’s, actually, since my first wife messed around when I was deployed.”
“While you were risking your life, she…” Frankie shook her head, her dark eyes softening with concern. “That must have been horrible.”
“Yeah. It was. But now…” He ran a hand over his head, feeling the first signs of roughness. Much like this relationship, eh? “I know we’ve never talked about how this relationship should work.” He’d been pleased she even recognized it as one. “But no matter how short-lived our time together might be, I have certain expectations of…loyalty.”
“What?”
“Loyalty for both of us,” Bull added. “For instance, that we only have sex with each other.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She jumped to her feet, hands lifting in the air. “I didn’t fuck the man. He just held my hand.”
“He fondled your ass, woman, and you let him. You’ve never let anyone else touch you like that.” So why now? What was he missing here?
Her mouth opened—and he expected some good Italian cursing. But she sighed and her shoulders sagged.
Surprised, Bull stepped closer to her. “What’s going on, sweetheart? Tell me so I can understand.”
She retreated a step, blinking hard, then shook her head, and looked him in the face.
And lied. “Nothing. Nothing is going on. And I’m going home. It’s been a long night.”
Feeling as if he’d been punched in the gut, he stared at her. Feeling as if he was back watching a marriage dissolve. Just like Paisley, she wasn’t going to talk. Explain. Work on making it right.
When she walked out of the roadhouse, he stayed silent.