They look . . . lifeless.
Sure, she’s got the smile plastered on. She’s got the glances down—the slight lift at the corner of her mouth, the lip bite—but she’s got this air of disdain surrounding her. She’s not like the other waitresses—the ones you can tell love working here. They flirt and laugh and touch. It’s obvious they thrive on the attention they get in a place like this.
Not her.
She hates it here.
Someone who isn’t really looking, who isn’t really paying attention to her, might not notice, but I do. Her dead eyes give her away.
I can’t blame her. Working here, surrounded by half-drunk men when you’re wearing less than some people wear on the beach, has to be tough. The thought of Tessa or Haley ever having to do this makes me sick, and I have to remind myself I’d never let it happen. That’s why we’re so careful with our money, why we scrimp and save even though we don’t have to. Why I work part-time even though the house is paid off, even though my mom made certain we were taken care of. Just in case. If our past has taught us one thing, it’s that anything can happen.
All night, I’ve sat quietly, watching a group of four guys a couple tables over getting progressively louder and more aggressive. I’ve gotten bits and pieces of their conversation—when she’s been near, and when she’s been out of earshot—and it’s done nothing but ignite my temper. I’m waiting for one of them—probably the douche with the fedora—to grab her and pull her into his lap or spill his drink all over her shirt and mop it up with his napkins for an excuse to feel her up. I’m sort of hoping he does, just so I have a reason to confront the shithead.
Jason is bitching about some basketball player and everyone around me is groaning, but all I can see is the table three over from ours. The girl with the dead eyes comes back, and my skin boils as I watch Fedora Asshole beckon her forward and whisper in her ear. She shakes her head, points toward the back corner, and offers him a sad smile, though I can tell it’s insincere. She’s not sorry about whatever she just turned him down for. And based on the conversation I’ve caught bits and pieces of, it wasn’t anything tame. He probably asked her to suck him off in the bathroom.
And then clumsy as all shit, his drunk-ass slides his hand down until it rests on her ass. She stiffens subtly, and I’m out of my chair before I can blink, my legs eating up the space between us until I’m right next to him.
I don’t think as I grab his hand, twisting it up and behind his back, pressing until I hear him groan. The image of Tessa or Haley in a place like this with a slimy jackass groping them hits me once again, and I push against this asshole harder, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction wash over me as his pained protests meet my ears.
I lean in, my voice quiet and controlled as I say, “If a girl says no, you listen, fucker.”
* * *
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Caged in Winter
Reluctant Hearts Book 1
About the Author
Brighton Walsh spent nearly a decade as a professional photographer before deciding to take her storytelling in a different direction and reconnect with her first love: writing. When she’s not pounding away at the keyboard, she’s probably either reading or shopping—maybe even both at once. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and two children, and, yes, she considers forty degrees to be hoodie weather. Her home is the setting for frequent dance parties, Lego battles, and more laughter than she thought possible. Visit her online at brightonwalsh.com. You can also find her on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, and Pinterest.
Copyright © 2015 by Brighton Walsh
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Edited by Tamara Mataya
Proofread by Sarah Henning
Cover Art © Brighton Walsh www.brightonwalsh.com
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Paige in Progress is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9971258-0-1
Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
OTHER TITLES BY BRIGHTON WALSH
CAGED IN WINTER EXCERPT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR