Hendrix (Caldwell Brothers #1) by Chelsea Camaron, Mj Fields
Authors: Chelsea Camaron, Mj Fields
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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
“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
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