The Princess & Her Alphaholes by Renee O’Roark
Chapter Six
Poppy
Four Years Later
After checking my makeup in the rearview mirror one last time, I climb out of the car and adjust my black pencil skirt. I hurry toward the entrance of the Lucky Arrow and smile at the bouncer, working the door. “Hey, Sean.”
“Look who it is.” The bear of a man grins and lifts his chin in greeting. “Poppy, when are you gonna let me take you out?” he asks with a wink.
My cheeks turn pink, and I shake my head, a reluctant smile tugging on the corners of my mouth. The man’s twice my age and a shameless flirt, but somehow, he still manages to always make me blush. “When pigs fly,” I respond cheerfully.
He snorts and shakes his head in return. Sobering, he drops his voice and says, “He’s in a rare mood today. Be careful.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling ruefully. The sounds of music and conversation wash over me as I step in and head for the bar. I clock on, grimacing when I realize I’m ten minutes late. Again. Spotting Ava at the other end of the long counter, I head in her direction, fastening my pinstriped vest over my white button-up shirt. “Hey there, hot stuff,” I say, bumping my hip into my best friend as she pours a beer.
“Hey, girlfriend,” she says, her hot pink lips quirking up in a broad smile. She pulls me in for a quick hug and whispers, “He’s in a mood.”
“So I heard.” I try not to let the warning get to me, but my stomach turns at the prospect of facing him. “You closing with me tonight?”
“You know it,” she says with a wink.
Two ladies sit down at my end of the bar, so I tug on one of Ava’s pastel pink and purple pigtails in farewell and head in their direction. “Can I see your IDs please?” I ask, smiling in greeting.
They grin and pull them from the back pockets of their skintight jeans.
I take the proffered cards and glance between them and the girls before handing them back. “What can I get you, ladies?”
“I’ll take a lemon drop, please,” the brunette says.
“Make that two,” the redhead adds.
“Two lemon drops coming right up.”
“This is such a cool club,” the redhead says, grinning.
Looking over their awed faces, I can’t help but smile. I’m sure I looked much the same the first time I walked in. I was dazzled by the speakeasy’s crystal chandeliers, red velvet benches, and dark wood. It all felt so rich and luscious. “It really is,” I say, setting the drinks down in front of the pair with a smile.
A group of four guys sit down in my section, so I grab a handful of coasters and head for their table, biting back a groan when I spot the blue and yellow insignia on the pockets of each of their crisp, white button-up shirts. Damn it. Frat boys.
“What can I get you, gentlemen?” I ask, after handing back their IDs.
“What beers do you have on tap, darlin’?” one of the men asks in a smooth southern drawl, his mouth tipped up in a cocky grin.
I list off the selections and offer a practiced smile.
“What do you recommend?” a second man asks, his eyes taking a lazy sweep down my body.
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, even as a blush begins to creep across my cheeks. “The summer ale is pretty popular,” I say with a practiced politeness.
The man scans my face and grins. “Then I guess I’ll just have to try the summer ale.”
Once they’ve all placed their orders, I turn away from their arrogant smiles and wandering eyes and start for the bar, pausing when I spot him standing in front of the computer. Passing by him, I grab four pint glasses and start filling them with beer from the ice-cold taps.
“Poppy.”
“Adam,” I say simply, working to keep my posture loose.
He walks behind me, his hand ‘accidentally’ brushing my hip. “You were late.”
I clench my jaw and turn to face him, arranging my features into an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”
“That’s what you said last time. There are plenty of people who would die to have your job, Poppy.” He lifts his brows in challenge, his eyes straying to the cleavage made visible by the plunging neckline of my blouse, the neckline he requires to be open all the way down to the black bra I wear beneath.
“I know, Adam. I’m sorry.”
“Good. You can make it up to me by having dinner with me.” He smirks and rests his hand over mine where it’s wrapped around the edge of the counter, the force of my grip turning my knuckles white.
“Can’t, sorry. I work every night.” I slip my hand out from beneath his to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle in my vest.
“Maybe next week,” he says, offering a lecherous smile. “Listen, Anna’s got the flu. I need you to open tomorrow.”
“I—”
“It’s the least you can do since you were late,” he says, barely holding back a smirk.
I take a steadying breath and blow it out through pursed lips. “Okay.”
“That’s my girl.” He winks and, after glancing down once more, wanders down to where Ava’s pouring drinks.
She offers our slimy boss a bright smile but rolls her eyes as soon as he’s out of sight. I laugh and shake my head, turning back to the taps to finish pouring the beers. Goddess, I wish I could just ditch this place. But starting over at a new bar means starting at the bottom again. I’ve paid my dues here and have the best shifts, and I can’t afford to give that up. Glancing back at my ball-busting friend, a twinge of guilt turns my stomach. Even though she denies it, I know that the only reason she stays is because of me.
The club starts to pick up, and I’m soon lost to the familiar rhythm of pouring drinks and greeting guests. Grabbing the last lemon wedge from the garnish tray, I slide it onto the martini glass and set the lemon drop down in front of a smiling, slightly tipsy, bride-to-be. I pull open the refrigerator door under the counter and shift the metal pans around, looking for lemons and finding none. Damn. I head down to Ava’s end of the bar and ask, “Have an extra pan of lemons by any chance?”
She ducks under the counter and rummages around for a moment before shaking her head. “Nope. Here, take some of mine, and I’ll let Adam know that we’re out.”
“You’re a peach.” I take the wedges with a grin and head back to my end of the bar.
Ava flags Adam down and tells him about the lemons, eliciting a huff of frustration and a five-minute rant about her incompetence. He shakes his head and irritably says, “I guess I’ll just have to go buy some. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
“Ass,” I mutter to myself, clenching my jaw.
One of the giggling bridesmaids waves her hand to get my attention, and I start in their direction. “We want another round of lemon drops, please,” she says, enunciating each word carefully.
A chuckle slips past my lips at her attempt to appear sober. “Sure thing. Do you —”
Movement at the front snags my attention, and I look away from the tipsy girl to glance at the door. My gaze lands on three gorgeous men striding into the club. They pause and scan the crowd around them. Something in my chest tightens painfully, and my heart flutters before taking flight as if to escape the cage it suddenly finds itself in. Goddess, they make Michelangelo’s David look like nothing more than the boy next door.
My fingers itch to put pencil to paper, despite knowing that I could never truly capture the timeless beauty of their striking features. Regardless, the sketch comes to life in my mind, and I trace the lines of the strong jaw and straight nose of the first man, adding his dark unruly hair, high cheekbones, and intense eyes. My gaze slips beyond the first, and lands on a man who could only be his brother. With the same strong features, he looks just like him, only his full lips are tipped up in a broad smile, aimed at a group of girls in a nearby booth. Where the first two are dark, the third is fairer, with dirty blonde hair swept to the side in a perfectly styled look, and a neatly trimmed beard of the same color framing his face.
Broad-shouldered and standing at least a head above those around them, their presence demands attention, and attention they have, as men and women alike stare at the trio. A sense of déjà vu washes over me as I, too, stare at them, and my brow pinches in concentration, trying to grasp at the feeling of familiarity. Do I know them? Have they been to the club before? I feel like I’d remember faces as perfect as theirs.
The man in front reaches out and taps Rachel on the shoulder as she passes by, her tray laden with drinks. She stops and smiles up at him, looking dazed. He leans down to speak into her ear, and even with my heightened sense of hearing, his words are lost amid the music and conversation. She nods her head toward the bar and walks away, tossing a flirty smile over her shoulder as she does. The man looks up, and our gazes collide. A jolt crashes through me, sending my heart fluttering wildly once more, and I quickly look away. A fissure of unease runs down my spine. Shit. Are they from there? From before?
I turn away from the table of giggling bridesmaids and rush toward the bar. As I pull out the necessary ingredients for the girls’ lemon drops, I’m careful to keep my face averted, willing the trio to take the open table in Ava’s section.
“I’m looking for Adam. Is he here?”
Already on edge and startled by the deep rumbling voice, I jump and let out a squeak, the bottle clenched in my hand slipping free and crashing to the ground. “Shit,” I mutter, cringing as vodka coats my legs and shoes. I reluctantly lift my gaze to the men standing on the other side of the counter and take a shuddering breath, but my heart stops when I catch the unmistakable scent of wolf. These men are shifters, and the last damn thing I can afford in my life are shifters. Fuck.