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Hendrix
Caldwell Brothers #1
MJ Fields and Chelsea Camaron
Loveswept
Perfect
for fans of J. S. Scott and Emma Chase, Hendrix introduces the wild and sexy
Caldwell boys—three brothers who are living up to their legendary names in
Detroit Rock City.
Hendrix Caldwell wants nothing more than to revitalize the family bar—and tear down every last reminder of his no-good father. But business isn’t the only thing on his mind. An explosive encounter with a stranger at a charity masquerade is just the distraction he craves, with no names and no strings attached. For Hendrix, sex is casual, and love is a four-letter word. His commitment is to his brothers, his bar, and his bike. So why can’t he stop thinking about the naughty Cinderella who rocked his world, then left him—and her panties—behind?
Olivia Hemmingway knows fairytales are for little girls. Drowning in debt and hiding a shameful secret, she won’t be saved by a knight in tattooed armor, no matter how mind-blowing their one-night stand may have been. Olivia never expects to meet her masked lover again. But when she takes a job at Hendrix Caldwell’s bar, her sexy new boss seems all too familiar. And once the lights go out and the music is turned up, the sparks between them burn hotter than ever.
Hendrix Caldwell wants nothing more than to revitalize the family bar—and tear down every last reminder of his no-good father. But business isn’t the only thing on his mind. An explosive encounter with a stranger at a charity masquerade is just the distraction he craves, with no names and no strings attached. For Hendrix, sex is casual, and love is a four-letter word. His commitment is to his brothers, his bar, and his bike. So why can’t he stop thinking about the naughty Cinderella who rocked his world, then left him—and her panties—behind?
Olivia Hemmingway knows fairytales are for little girls. Drowning in debt and hiding a shameful secret, she won’t be saved by a knight in tattooed armor, no matter how mind-blowing their one-night stand may have been. Olivia never expects to meet her masked lover again. But when she takes a job at Hendrix Caldwell’s bar, her sexy new boss seems all too familiar. And once the lights go out and the music is turned up, the sparks between them burn hotter than ever.
I
walk in the bar on a Friday morning after my run with Floyd along the
riverside. We don’t open until noon, but I have to place stock orders for next
week.
I
start up the coffeepot in the kitchen, then walk out behind the bar. The place
looks like hell. It better have been a busy fucking night.
The
weekday barmaid, Lola, is getting lazy. I swear to fuck, she spends more time
applying that glossy shit to her lips than she does doing the job she is paid
for.
Work
ethic is sorely lacking nowadays. Everyone wants something for fucking free.
What happened to hard work, perseverance, dedication, and determination?
I
watched my momma bust her ass for years. Even though I heard a million damn
times, “This is my bar,” come out of my old man’s mouth, it was Momma who held
those qualities—the ones it takes to run a
business—not him.
Sighing,
I wipe the sticky mess from last night off the nicked-up old oak bar. One of
the four sinks under the bar hasn’t drained completely, so I reach down, pull
out the lime wedges plugging it up, and throw them in the trash that I notice
wasn’t taken out. The coolers aren’t stocked, the fruit trays are sitting in
the melted ice under the soda tap, and I am ready to fucking explode.
When
I walk around the bar and look down, I find the fucking floor isn’t swept or
mopped, and there are full ashtrays on the pub tables. What’s more, I have at
least an hour’s worth of paperwork and orders to place before I can even start
the damn cleanup. Orders that have to be placed, or I won’t get a delivery on
Monday when the bar is closed, and I will be fucked.
I
decide the priority lies on getting the order in, so I head back behind the bar
and walk up the steps between the kitchen and the back of the bar to my office.
I
walk in, and there is old Lola, bare-assed, lying across my old man’s waist.
“Get
the fuck up,” I yell.
She
startles and jumps. “Oh, God. Oh, Hendrix—”
“Get
the fuck out of my office. You, too, old man.”
“You
watch your tone with me, boy.” He glowers at me as he sits up.
“I
ain’t gotta watch shit, old man. What the fuck are you doing here? What the
fuck are you doing with my employee?”
“I
think it’s obvious what I’m doing here, son,” he slurs as he stands.
“Get
your pathetic ass out of here.” I point to the door. “Lola, I’m sorry about
this—”
“We
love each other,” she says and starts crying.
“Is
that so?” I force a laugh and shake my head as I look at my pop’s pitiful ass
as he buttons up.
“Yes,”
she answers and grabs his hand when it is free. “We’ve been in love for a
year.”
I
look at him, waiting for him to deny this “love.” Hell, as long as I’ve been
alive, I have never heard him say that word, to Mom or any of us. The denial
never comes, though.
“A
year? So Mom was still alive?”
Still
no answer, and at that moment, charity ceases to exist.
“Get
your shit out of the apartment. And, Lola, you’re fired. You may wanna get
yourself checked, too, old girl. His dick is a weapon.”
“How
dare you? You can’t do that!” he yells at me.
“It’s
done. Now get out.” I don’t yell, don’t fight. This is actually fucking
perfect.
He
had been under the protection of my mother for all my life and stayed that way
through grief’s numbing aftereffects over the last year.
The
first step in the grieving process is denial and isolation. My brothers and I
hit denial from the word “terminal,” but with only a two-month warning of
expiration, there wasn’t time to go hiding out. The next step in the grieving
process is anger. I have been stuck on that one for a while now. There are even
stages to this particular stage. I get pissed, and then I am numb. Then, before
I know it, I’m right back to being pissed again.
Lola
is wiping the smudged mascara off her face. I can hear my dad mutter to her,
“Guess we were meant to be, you and me.” He puts his hand on her ass as he
looks over his shoulder at me, giving me his glare. It is the same glare that
once made my mother and us boys cower, but now holds no weight over me.
“It’ll
last as long as she stays your meal ticket,” I respond back as Lola shakes her
head and continues going about gathering their things.
I
head down to get back to work. He has no control over this family any longer.
“Lost
another one?” Jagger strolls in and laughs. His assumption is based off the
obvious fucking mess of the bar he’s taking in.
“Maybe,”
I answer noncommittally.
“Seriously,
bro, you need to learn to play nice with others.”
“Look,
unless you’re here to take on another night—step it up a bit—I don’t wanna hear
shit.”
“I
liked Lola,” he says as he sits down on the other side of the bar.
I
hold my finger in front of my mouth, keeping him quiet, and point up. “You hear
heels clicking up the wooden stairs into the apartment?”
When
he looks at me like he has no clue, I raise my eyebrow and shake my head.
“No
shit?” he asks when he catches on.
“Just
found ’em in my fucking office. Told him a month ago, when I caught him
skimming from the till, he was out. Not to step foot in my fucking place again,
or he could pack his shit.”
He
nods and then shakes his head. Then, his fists ball up as he takes a moment to
look down.
“What
are you gonna do?” he asks finally.
“He’s
packing his shit.”
“You
for real, man?” There is a mischievous look in his eyes, making my kid brother
look kind of happy. Looks good on him. Ain’t seen it in a long damn while.
“As
fucking real as terminal cancer.”
Some
people wouldn’t find that the least bit amusing, but they aren’t Caldwells. If
we aren’t able to find humor in our misfortunes, we would never laugh a day in
our fucking lives.
I
look up when the door opens to see my buddy Johnny, the cop. It isn’t unlike
him to stop by on a chilly morning and grab a cup of coffee.
Jagger
stands to greet him. “Got bail?” my brother asks me.
“You’re
fucking joking, right?” I shake my head, then look at his knuckles, and nah, he
isn’t joking.
“Jagger,
you know I have to take you in.” Johnny is pissed. “You beat the shit out of
your landlord.”
“His
kid was crying. Heard her through the wall, opened the door, and she’s running
down the hall. Fucker came out chasing her with a belt.”
“So
you beat him to the ground?” Johnny asks, taking the cup of coffee I slide
across the bar. “How about call 911? That’s my job, man. Now she’s so scared
she’s not talking and won’t press charges—”
“What
do you mean, ‘won’t
press charges’!” Jagger’s vein is popping out of his neck.
“She had switch marks across her goddamned neck, Johnny. She’s a fucking kid;
she needs someone—”
“She’s
seventeen. Can’t make her do shit, you hear me?” Johnny states, then points to
the door. “Restraining order, so now you got nowhere to live, and when the
judge asks where you work, what are you gonna say? ‘I smash people up in
abandoned warehouses while others stand around and watch’? It’s fucking
illegal.”
“Nah,
man, I got a job.” Jagger chuckles. “I’m a motherfucking astronaut. Just got
back from the moon last night. Shit looks good up there.”
“Last
time, you told the judge you were a fucking OB-GYN apprentice, and that got you
a week in county.”
Jagger
smirks and looks to me. “Do I have a place to live?”
“Of
course you do.” I lean against the bar and cross my arms over my chest.
“I
work here, right?” Jagger winks.
“Yeah,
man, you do. Call me after your photo shoot and fingerprints. I’ll be down to
pick you up.”
With
that, I watch them walk out. Only Jag can climb in the back of the squad car
like he is getting in a damn taxi. Then, I see the old man and Lola the bar
whore walk by with garbage bags from the side alley. They must have taken the
back exit. Good riddance.
I
feel a weight lift off my shoulders just before the guilt washes over me. I
should have booted his ass years ago. Then, maybe Momma would have paid
attention to the few symptoms she did have, cramping and shit. She wouldn’t
have thought they were just everyday stresses of working too damn hard. The
everyday stresses I knew damn well came from dealing with his sorry ass.
I
wish I could go back so fucking bad.
You
know what the third step to grief is? Bargaining. Right now, that is what I’m
doing. If I
only had done this . . . God, if I do this, will you make the loss less?
Yeah,
that shit is what I’m doing right now. Does it bother me? Hell yes. But, I also
embrace this new stage in life.
Bring.
It. On.
USA Today bestselling author Chelsea Camaron grew up turning wrenches alongside her father, which just so happened to inspire her Love and Repair and The Hellions Ride series. When she’s not writing, you can find her playing with her kids, attending car shows, going on motorcycle rides on the back of her husband’s Harley, snuggling down with her new favorite book, or watching any movie that Vin Diesel might happen to be in. She lives in Louisiana with her husband and two children.
MJ Fields is the USA Today bestselling author of the Love series, the Wrapped series, the Burning Souls series, the Men of Steel series, and the Norfolk series. A former small-business owner who recently became a full-time writer, Fields lives in central New York, surrounded by family and friends. Her house is full of pets, friends, and noise ninety percent of the time, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Want more Caldwell Brothers?
Pre-Order Book Two
MORRISON
Releasing Dec 1st, 2015
Thanks!
ReplyDeleteCrystal, Tasty Book Tours