FOLLOW THE HONEY (Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance Book 4) Read online

  But she’d chosen her outfit for practicality, not sex appeal. She wore her new tee with black, skinny-legged jeans, and chunky, black walking shoes for which she’d paid a whack, but were worth it as they were comfortable for walking and standing long shifts. Also, black pants and shoes didn’t show spills.

  “You bet, I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “So, I’m ready for my orientation. Are you doing that, or one of the other waitresses?”

  Pete Vanko straightened, and Lesa made a show of looking around the bar—anywhere but at him. It was unfair what he did to a pair of snug jeans and one of his own tees. Look at him too long and she was liable to forget her resolve to avoid him as much as possible.

  “I’ll show you where everything is,” he said. “State law says our floor’s divided into bar and restaurant. Families with kids stay outside the railing, no exceptions. Waitresses take turns on either side. You and Sylvie work the early shift together today. She’ll show you all that I don't cover. We’re a brewpub, not a full-service bar, so we serve beer, soda and wine, that’s it.”

  That was fine with her, as it meant not remembering fancy drink orders.

  “Got a line on a full liquor license,” he added. “I want it, ‘cause mixed drinks are big, and whiskey’s making a come-back, even have some micro-distillery’s in the area. But for now, we’re beer and wine.”

  Lesa followed him along the bar to the open kitchen doors. A short, skinny guy looked up from the big slicer he was using to prep tomatoes. He had short dark hair, soulful brown eyes and tattoos covering nearly every inch of his neck and arms. He wore jeans, boots, a black Hangar tee and an apron.

  “Pico, this is Lesa,” Pete Vanko said. “She starts today.”

  Pico gave Lesa a chin lift and she smiled at him. “Hi, nice to meet you.” It was very wise to be friends with the cooks, plus she liked people, and she liked getting along with those around her.

  Pete was already waving an encompassing hand at the counters nearest the kitchen doors. “Condiments and garnishes are kept here, you can get what you need. Nobody in the grill area except cooks, and me.”

  She nodded. Every waitress knew the cooking area was off limits for safety reasons. Not to mention many cooks had tempers as hot as their fry oil.

  Pico went back to his tomatoes, and she and Pete walked out of the kitchen. Pete turned right, past the shelves of tee shirts and beer glasses, to the other open door. “My office.”

  The office was large enough for two desks with computers and a large printer, several filing cabinets, and a work counter littered with papers and other items. One desk was meticulously tidy, the other as messy as the counter, with open boxes of beer glasses stacked behind it, and a stack of tees straggling off one corner.

  “Marta will be here soon,” Pete told her. “She’ll have your paperwork. You don’t start until that’s filled out and checked.”

  “Right. Marta’s your …”

  “Bookkeeper,” he said, already on his way out the office door.

  Hmm, the way he clipped the word off said there was a story there. But none of her business. Although if the woman was on her way out—Lesa’s heart gave a flip of excitement—maybe she could apply for the job. But for now, she needed to focus on preparing for her new job as a server.

  Fifteen minutes later, Lesa had had a whirlwind tour of the brewpub, and the lean redhead waitress was coming in the doors. She looked from Pete to Lesa, and waited, her expression wary.

  She looked to be around forty, with the skin of someone who spent a lot of time tanning. Her hair, short in back and artfully tousled in front, was several shades of improbable red, but she rocked the look with silver jewelry and dramatic eye-makeup.

  “Sylvie, this is Lesa,” Pete said. “She has experience, but need you to show her how we do things here, da?”

  "Okay, Pete."

  It turned out that Sylvie was, under her tough girl exterior, easy to work with. She hovered nearby as Lesa waited on her first table, a pair of older men in ice fishing gear, but after Lesa fielded their good-natured flirting and their orders for Reuben sandwiches and IPA ales with aplomb, the other waitress shrugged.

  “Looks to me like you know your stuff. You have any questions, ask. Otherwise I won’t be up your ass. We’ll take turns with new tables, okay? It’s Friday, so it’s anybody’s guess how busy it’ll be this afternoon. ‘Bout four o’clock the beer drinkers will start rolling in, then by supper-time we’ll be slammed.”

  Lesa nodded. “Works for me. You get first pick on dinner breaks, I’ll go whenever.”

  Sylvie gave her a small smile of approval. “Aysha comes in at five, I’ll eat then. Half an hour apiece, anything on the menu you want.”

  “That’s generous.”

  “Pete’s a good boss. And it’s not like we serve steaks, so he doesn’t lose money on us.”

  This was true, but it was still nice to have variety, not have to pay for more than the cheapest sandwich on the menu.

  The front door opened, and a slim, stunning redhead—her color looked natural—in a faux fur-trimmed coat, short skirt and high boots with stiletto heels strutted in. She swept the place with a look, pausing only long enough to give Lesa a narrow-eyed once over, then headed straight to the bar.

  Lesa turned her head to see Pete standing there behind the bar, chatting with two customers on the other side.

  “Is that his girlfriend?” Lesa asked quietly.

  Sylvie snorted. “She wishes. That’s Marta Sokolova, the bookkeeper. For now, anyway.”

  Ah, Russian-American. Well, that explained the gorgeous cheekbones. Lesa watched as Marta stopped close enough to touch Pete Vanko, and tipped her head coquettishly to one side as she spoke to him.

  Pete tipped his head down to the woman, and replied.

  Lesa couldn’t hear what either of them said, but their body language spoke clearly. The woman might not be her employer’s girlfriend, but they were sexually intimate.

  And that was not disappointment sinking like a stone in Lesa’s middle, nope. Not even a little bit.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Pete chose that moment to shoot a look across the bar at Lesa. She turned away, her cheeks hot, feeling as if she’d been caught spying. Which was ridiculous, since this was a public area.

  Luckily, she had plenty to do. The front door opened again, letting in a trio of working men.

  “Here come your next customers,” she said cheerfully to Sylvie. “And I’ll go check on mine.”

  She checked back with the two fishermen, who eyed her with friendly interest. “You the new girl?” one asked, his eyes twinkling.

  “I sure am. You’re my very first customers.” Lesa winked at him. “I’m lucky I got a nice pair of guys like you to break in with. So how’s everything? Need any more of that dipping sauce for your sandwiches?”

  “Nope. Your first customers, huh? That mean you tip us, instead of the other way ‘round?”

  Lesa laughed. “Can’t. Haven’t made any money yet. You come back again, maybe.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  She was smiling as she walked away to gather a set of the red, white and blue menus for the next arrivals.

  However, Marta moved to intercept her, beckoning imperiously as if Lesa was a servant, her green eyes chilly. “Sylvie will take this table. You need to come with me.”

  “As soon as I deliver these menus,” Lesa said, keeping her voice and expression pleasant with an effort. “Customers first, right?”

  A moment later, she followed the woman to the office, where the redhead moved gracefully behind the neater of the two desks and sat. She held out a sheaf of papers to Lesa. “You will fill these papers, then return them to me.”

  Great, she had an accent to go with her cheekbones, like a female spy who might play opposite James bond. Bet the guys loved that. Lesa wondered if Marta and Pete Vanko spoke Russian to each other when they were—ack, no. Just no, not going there.

  Lesa took the papers. “
And do you have a place where I might sit to do so?”

  Marta looked irritated, her porcelain brow creasing. “It will only take you a moment.”

  “Never mind, I’ll just sit here,” Lesa said, and moved to take a seat at Pete’s desk. She scooted his very comfortable chair up to the desk and smiled cheerfully.

  “You carry on with whatever,” she offered. “I’m sure you must have so much to do.”

  Then, ignoring the bookkeeper, who did not look quite so pretty with her lips all pinched together like that, Lesa got busy and filled out her paperwork.

  Finished, she looked up to see Sylvie peering through the open door, her arms loaded with full plates. She gave Lesa a ‘What the hell?’ look.

  Lesa hopped to her feet, slapped her paperwork on Marta’s desk, and escaped from the office with relief.

  “Sorry,” she called to Sylvie as she passed, grabbing a handful of menus without slowing. “Guess it’s gonna be a busy Saturday for January, hmm?”

  And was it ever. Turned out there’d been a mixed martial arts exhibition fight at a new gym on the east end of town, and the Hangar soon filled with a rowdy crowd of Flyers and other fight enthusiasts who were thirsty for beer, and hungry for lots of munchies.

  Lesa put on her friendly smile and moved fast, she and Sylvie performing a swift, complicated dance of greet, take orders, serve drinks, serve food, check back with those eating, refill drinks and clear.

  Although some of the guys looked her over like she was a tasty new offering on the menu, to her relief they behaved themselves.

  The two Flyers she’d met when she interviewed, T-Bear and Moke, arrived with two other men, both Flyers by their vests. One was tall and dark. The other was big and sandy-haired.

  She set down their menus and smiled around the table. “Hey, gentlemen. I’m Lesa. I’ll be your server. What can I get you to drink?”

  The other men looked to the dark-haired stranger, so Lesa did too. He gave her an easy smile. “Hey, Lesa. I’m Rocker. T-Bear’s right, you are way prettier than Tiny. You can bring me a shot of Jack and a glass of Brews’ new amber.”

  She smiled back, which was not difficult, because the man had some serious appeal, and his compliment had been said in a friendly way, not sleazy. “Nice to meet you, Rocker. I’m so sorry, but we don’t serve hard liquor.” Which she was surprised he did not know, being one of their club.

  To her surprise, all four of them chuckled. “For us, you serve it,” he told her.

  Lisa blinked. “Okay. A Jack and an amber, you got it.”

  “Hey, sweet thang,” T-Bear rumbled, giving her a wink. “Glad to see you’re still here. Bring me a twenty-ouncer o’ that amber.”

  “Same,” Moke said.

  The sandy-haired biker grinned at her too, and Lesa blinked. Holy hotness, were all the Flyers this fine?

  “I’m Jack. I’ll try what they’re havin’, minus the Jack, ‘cause I already got plenty of that.”

  Lesa laughed. “I see what you mean. Be right back, fellas, and you can let me know if you want anything to eat.”

  At the bar, Pete was busy with Sylvie’s latest order, so Lesa waited for Streak.

  “Those guys who just came in?” she told him. “One of them, Rocker, wants a shot of Jack. I told him we don’t serve it, and he said for them, we do.”

  “He’s right.” Streak reached under the bar to produce a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shot glass, which he filled and set on her tray. “Rocker’s the club VP, so be sure to treat him with respect, yeah?”

  “Hey! I treat all our customers with respect.”

  He gave her a quizzical look over the beers he was pulling. “Not what I meant. If the VP of the US of A came in here, you’d treat him extra special, right?”

  She shrugged. “Well, sure. But he’s second-in-command of our nation.”

  Streak set the last two beers on her tray and leaned in, giving her a look that said he was not kidding around.

  “Around here? Stick Vanko, Rocker, and the other club officers, they’re the ones in command. Not the US government, or Washington state, or any of the other layers of fuckin’ bureaucrats who wanna stand on our backs. Airway Heights is Flyer Nation.”

  Okay, that was scary. Which must have shown on her face, as he shook his head. “Not tryin’ to freak you out. Just cluing you in for your own good. Go on, you’ll be fine.”

  Would she? Lesa served the Flyers’ drinks a bit nervously, and evidently failed to hide this, because Rocker gave her a quizzical look from under his brows and winked at her. “Thanks, darlin’. You come back in ten with another round, and you’ll be our favorite girl.”

  “I think she might already be mine,” T-Bear rumbled, grinning at her. “A hot brunette with cold beer, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “Hey, here’s Stick and Bouncer,” said Jack, an interruption for which Lesa wanted to kiss him.

  She hurried to wait on other customers. At least she’d made it through the first part of her first encounter with the local bad boys.

  Advantage, if she had any problems with them, her boss was one of them and he’d save her … she was pretty sure.

  To her relief, the new arrivals, including a tall man who looked like an older, harder, colder version of Pete, sat in Sylvie’s section, so Lesa wasn’t slammed with the full Flyer contingent.

  When she and Sylvie found themselves at the service desk at the same time, Sylvie filling glasses with ice water as Lesa grabbed silverware for a big table, Lesa asked quickly, “Who’s that biker? The one who looks like Pete, only older? Is that his brother?”

  “Yeah, Stick Vanko. President of the Flyers. And I hope you’re not looking to hook up with him, ‘cause he’s taken. Has an old lady and two little boys.”

  Lesa’s eyes widened in horror. She waved her bundle of silverware like a weapon to fend off the idea. “No! God no. Just want to know who he is, that’s all.”

  Because it was clear that the tall, broad-shouldered man was respected by the other Flyers, but if you asked her, he was scary. He looked like he might just drink his beer and then eat the glass for an appetizer.

  She planned to stay as far away from him as possible.

  Lesa made a few mistakes on her first shift—she missed that a corner table was in her section until she saw them giving her irritated looks. She looked to Sylvie, who scowled and stabbed a finger at her. Her face flushed with chagrin, Lesa hurried over to apologize and offer them a round of free drinks, then made sure they had instant service the rest of the time. They left smiling.

  But when she took their payment to the bar, and tried to hand Pete a twenty from her tips to cover their free round of drinks, he shook his head. “You’re doing good. I forgot that fuckin’ MMA exhibition fight was this weekend, or I would’ve had Aysha in early to help. But you handled the crowd like a pro, and earned those tips.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him, his praise a warm glow in her chest.

  “Don’t thank me. You’ll earn every dollar you make here.”

  At five o’clock, Marta strutted out, taking time to speak with Pete and Sylvie, while pointedly ignoring Lesa. Rude, but whatever.

  At ten after six, the blonde waitress sauntered in. She tossed her blonde hair and moved to one of Sylvie’s tables, a rowdy group of thirty-something guys with more ink than manners—Lesa was glad they weren’t in her section.

  Hand on one full hip, the blonde said something to the guys and smiled. Since she was pretty under her makeup and wore a tight Hangar tank and very short skirt despite the cold air swirling in through the front doors each time they opened and closed, she received appreciative smiles in return.

  However, Sylvie hurried over and snarled words that made the blonde jerk upright, and then turn away in a huff. A couple of the men looked disappointed, but the others laughed.

  Pete Vanko, pitcher of beer in one hand, glasses in the other, a displeased look in his eye, moved to intercept the blonde. She hurried to put away her
purse, then got to work at a new table.

  “Meet Aysha,” Sylvie said, stopping beside Lesa at the service sink where Lesa was filling water glasses. “Watch her. She’ll try to move in on your tips. Tiny scared the shit out of her, so she didn’t try it with her, but you’re sweet, so she’ll take advantage.”

  “Good to know.” Lesa sighed inwardly. Disadvantage, there wasn’t just one bitch working here, there were two.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Pete Vanko worked as hard as his staff, Lesa soon learned.

  He didn’t spend his time lounging behind the bar between drink orders, but moved out onto the floor. He bussed tables, picked up trash, mopped spills, and picked up empty glasses. He also managed to chat with nearly all of his customers, and not just the attractive women.

  When her first shift was over, Lesa was tired and her feet hurt a little, but she’d killed it in tips. She handed Sylvie a twenty and thanked her for being so helpful.

  Sylvie took the money with a nod. “You work that hard and fast every shift, we’ll do just fine.” Her brow scrunched under her flaming locks. “You’re a good waitress, and you’re classy. How come you’re not working at one of those fancy-ass places where they tip a hundred or more a meal?”

  Lesa shook her head. “Oh, thanks, but I’m not a waitress anymore—that is, I don’t plan to be one for good. I’m a bookkeeper.”

  Sylvie eyed her. “Huh. ‘Cause you’re sure good at this. To each her own, I guess.”

  “I guess. Well, see you next shift.”

  “See ya.” Sylvie hurried off, and Lesa made her way toward the front doors, stopping to wait for a large group to wander out.

  “Hey, new girl,” called a rough voice behind her.

  Lesa looked back to see the short, stocky biker—he wore a black leather vest with symbols on the front—who had arrived with Stick Vanko leering at her from the bar side of the railing. He had messy, thinning hair and a face that said he drank hard and often.

  “You wanna ride back to your place?” he asked her. “Then once we get there, you can give me a ride.”