Taking Risks (The Runaway Series Book 1) Read online

  Taking Risks

  H. Maloney

  Cover Art by Melody Simmons

  Edited for Content by Hot Tree Editing

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For every snarky girl who’s jokes fall flat more often than they should and for the few people that get her.

  Dark secrets have forced Meg to go on the run and leave the only home she has ever know n . But, it’s not just her home she has left behind; it’s her family a nd her name too. A clean slat e – a fresh start somewher e where she can ’ t be found . And where better to get lost than in a small , dive bar, in a new town run by the local MC ?

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 1

  MEG

  “Hey, sugar, I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  Walking behind the bar from the back office where I’ve just stored my purse, I immediately start playing along with the drunken older man who is, at the moment, swaying slightly. I slap my hand to my chest and gasp, “I know! It must have been at least, what? Nineteen hours? Tell me, what earth-shattering events have I missed since then?”

  I love working here at The Seventh Circle. I’ve come to realize I thrive on the human interaction, and this place draws all kinds of people, which is an endless source of amusement for me.

  I lean on the bar and rest my face in my hand. Close enough to know he’s not about to say “a bath.” Armed with this newly acquired knowledge, I quickly straighten up and step back so I can breathe some semi-fresh air.

  “Oh you know, sweetheart—changin’ the world, curin’ cancer. That kinda thing,” Dennis answers with what I think he believes is a debonair smile, but actually comes off as kind of a leer.

  Actually, you know what? That was probably his intent anyway. Never mind.

  Smiling dubiously, I walk away, grab the short apron from the wall, and tie it around my waist. It’s a burnt-orange hue with gray stitching and matches the colors of the Infernal Demons Motorcycle Club, who just so happen to own and run this fine establishment.

  Dennis continues, “Next week, I’ll figure out how to get a goose to shit gold. You wait and see.”

  I laugh a little and shake my head at him before I start setting up for my shift. “Well, don’t forget to help a girl out when that happens.”

  Truthfully, I’m doing pretty well without the magical shitting goose. I’ve worked at The Seventh Circle for a little over three years now, and the crowds have been good to me. The property consists of two buildings with a small courtyard between them. The front building is the bar proper, with pool tables and dart boards occupying the left-hand side and a long, fully stocked bar running along the right. The bar ends with a jukebox just before the hallway leading to bathrooms and the courtyard exit. Pub tables and stools are scattered around the remaining space, with a bandstand at the back wall. Depending on who’s available, it could be the jukebox or a band ruling the bar on any given night. The courtyard is my favorite place, set up with metal tables and chairs and the occasional towering tree. The back building is where the club hosts their informal fights. They usually take place once or twice a week, involving any soul brave enough to be beaten more thoroughly than my morning scrambled eggs.

  With everything that can go on, business doesn’t usually drag. Not to mention my rack is solidly epic, and she with the good boobs usually gets the good tips. I always have enough to pay my bills, with some left over. I’m pretty sure that’s bar canon, but I digress.

  “Never darlin’. That’s when I’m finally gonna buck up the courage to ask you to marry me.”

  Tempting, except not. Dennis is a Vietnam War veteran who, by his own account, spent the entire time running a river boat up and down the Red River completely stoned. You can tell.

  “Well, you get it to work and I just might say yes.” I wink comically so he knows I’m kidding then walk down the bar to let Allie and Caitlyn know the cavalry is here.

  Catching me in her peripheral, Allie turns and sports a relieved grin. “Welcome to the circus!” She leans forward and delivers a theatrical whisper behind her hand. “These people are driving me crazy. I swear these crowds get more and more relentless. I’m going to have to start holding them back with a chair.”

  I take a quick look around the room to reassess how busy tonight will be. I had looked around when I first walked in the door—I like to start my shifts prepared—and when my original evaluation stands, I start laughing at her obvious exaggeration; it’s a medium-sized crowd, at best. Busy enough to keep me from getting bored, but not busy enough that I’ll be run ragged. Perfect. I point out to the drama queen, “Well, think about it for a minute. Most of the people in the crowd are regulars, so it stands to reason that their alcohol tolerance will continue to build... And build. Imagine how bad it’ll be this time next year... And the year after that.” I finish with a fake shudder.

  She narrows her eyes evilly and smacks me. I’m sure she thinks her hits are light, but she’s delusional and I’m left rubbing my arm over my rapidly forming bruise. “Remind me not to turn to you when I’m trying to be talked out of jumping from a bridge. I was looking for sympathy, ho.”

  Caitlyn saves me from shoving my foot in my mouth any farther and receiving more bodily harm when she walks back behind the bar towards Allie. When she spots me, she throws her tiny arms up to signal a touchdown. “Yes! I’ve got a hot date with my foot bath and a bottle of wine, so consider me gone, bitches!”

  Caitlyn’s what I imagine a real-life Tinkerbell would be like, except with long brown hair. She even has the spitfire attitude. Maybe I’ll finally be able to talk her into wearing that costume for the bar’s St. Patrick’s Day celebration this year. I am definitely not the only one who would find that funny.

  Allie shakes her head in disappointment. “When are you finally going to let me set you up?” She’s got maybe five brothers who she continually tries to pawn off on unsuspecting females. I’ve lost count of the exact number, though, so I’m not sure. The thing is, she doesn’t seem to understand they’re not all catches.

  “When you can assure me a foot massage on the first date. That’s my stipulation.”

  Hands on her hips and finger wagging, Allie replies, “You’re going to regret it one day when you look around and realize you have no one to keep you warm at night.”

  Caitlyn just raises a disbelieving brow. “At least I know my date tonight is guaranteed to get me wet. Ba dum tss.” Effectively putting an end to Allie’s useless attempt at motivation, she throws her hand over her head and wiggles her fingers at us as she walks out.

  I’m laughing so hard at the expression on Allie’s face that I snort. At
the sound, she turns her scheming look away from Caitlyn’s retreating back and onto me. My amusement dies.

  Nope, time to stick a cork in that bullshit bottle right the fuck now.

  I take a very large step back and move my finger in a swivel motion. “Whoa, now! Don’t look at me. I already went on a reluctant date with one of your brothers and it didn’t work, so I’m off the hook. Turn your beady, calculating eyes elsewhere.” She promised me after badgering me for a year that, if I went on one date with a brother of her choice, she’d stop trying to set me up with her siblings. Thank fuck I got it in writing; she’s a damn pit bull when she wants to be.

  “The only reason it didn’t work is because you didn’t want it to!”

  Yeah, that was it. It couldn’t be because he was more interested in his steak than me. I scowl. “Don’t make me get your written statement, Allie. I’m not dipping my toe into your unfiltered genetic pool again.”

  She matches my scowl and turns her body but keeps her head facing me, pinning me with her glare for as long as she can before she has to help a customer down the bar. I just roll my eyes and get busy pouring drinks. I love that girl, but part of me thinks she’s insane.

  Tonight really is a good night, crowd-wise. We don’t even fall too far behind when Allie takes her break and I have to make a few cosmopolitans for the airheads positioned at a table by the bandstand. There is nothing worse than having a full bar of persistent customers and you have to stop and make ridiculous mixed drinks that the clientele should know better than to order. I thought it was an unspoken but universally agreed-upon rule: You can’t order pink drinks if the bar doesn’t play Justin Bieber. And I promise you, our manager, Wiley, would rather see himself dragged over hot coals before he let the Biebs in his jukebox.

  Seeing me head their way, I feel their judgmental gazes. I know exactly what they see—artificially bright red hair, piercings. My short stature boasts a flat stomach, topped off with pretty magnificent boobs. I can’t get too cocky, though; Mother Nature sought to even everything out with a pair of baby birthing hips. Seriously, if I have to have go through childbirth with a C-section, I’m going to fucking kill someone. I am pretty confident in all my attributes, excessive though some may be. Looking at you, Mother Nature. Something about these cookie-cutter women always has me on defense, however.

  Walking towards them, cosmos in hand, I return their judgmental gazes and take in their outfits. Standard uniform of skintight dresses, overdone makeup, and shoes so high I’d need an oxygen mask from the change in altitude. I laugh a little to myself at the picture they make. Don’t they know what kind of bar this is? They stick out like sore thumbs in their apparel, but then again that’s probably the point. My own outfit consists of black skinny jeans, black combat boots, and a V-neck T-shirt with the bar’s logo. Whatever; just add it to the pile of ‘things I’ll never understand.’ I deliver their stupid drinks with a tight smile and walk away. Hopefully, that’s the hardest part of my night.

  We stay just as steady until about midnight, when only a handful of people are left. I sent Dennis off with a smile and a wave a couple hours ago; it is only a Tuesday, after all. Allie and I decide to seize the opportunity to start cleaning up and putting things in order. Luckily, someone with a huge hard-on for Three Days Grace put a shitload of dollars in the jukebox a while ago, so even the music is making my night downright enjoyable. Okay. That might have been me. Might. I’m wiping down the bar, intermittently holding up a random liquor bottle to my mouth to use as a microphone as I sing along to “The Good Life.” Allie’s goofy self is messing around right along with me, playing air drums and doing the classic headbanger move. She’s good. I’d get a headache after about five seconds, but she’s totally committed to the music. Soon, she’s forgotten about piling empty bottles in the plastic bin and I’ve abandoned my barback duties. We’re just having fun.

  When the song ends, I’m out of breath, laughing and trying to untangle my hair from my face from my two seconds of headbanging. Don’t judge me. I wanted to show I was committed too! The stragglers still in the bar start clapping and whooping, and Allie and I perform a series of shallow bows for our adoring fans. Still a little out of breath, I straighten up. I’ve finally succeeded in getting my tangled mass out of my face when butterflies erupt in my stomach as I come face to face with the man whose babies I want to have. Not by Cesarean. Are you listening, Mother Nature?

  Declan is leaning with his forearms on the bar in front of me, sporting an amused grin on his full lips. His smiles always cause my pulse to race, especially when I’m the reason for them. I momentarily allow myself to be distracted at how good he looks tonight. His dark brown hair—which he wears short on the sides and long on the top—is a little messy, and I know he’s been trying to keep the long inches from his face by sweeping it back with his fingers. His beard is neat and trimmed, like it always is. It’s a very good look for him, and I was pleasantly surprised when he grew it out a few months ago; it highlights his rugged jaw and great cheekbones. Shit, he’s tall. I’m craning my neck from my five-foot-three elevation to just drool over his jaw. I continue my perusal and take in his chest, so wide and cut it causes his gray T-shirt to stretch slightly in order to fit. I only snap out of my lust daze when said chest rumbles with laughter again. Probably at me. Way to be subtle, Meg. My suspicions are confirmed when my eyes fly to his and see he’s watching me check him out.

  I drag my lower lip between my teeth, debating what to do from here. If I had my way, I’d jump over the bar and attack him here and now, customers be damned. His moss-green eyes follow the movement at my mouth and I decide what the hell. I may as well take the opportunity to finish my perusal. I continue from where I left off, taking in his sculpted biceps and heavy forearms deliciously covered in colored ink. Sigh. I can’t think of anything sexier than tattoos and piercings on a guy. For some reason, it’s my kryptonite. My brain just says, “Oh, look! Body modifications! This looks like a good spot to shut down.” Stupid brain.

  I can’t wait to take his sexy ass home and lick every inch of his chiseled chest, follow every curve of ink with my tongue, and suck every tiny hoop he has in his ear into my mouth until he groans with frustration.

  I shake my head a little to clear the fog and stop drooling over my thoughts. I’m getting distracted, and I can feel Declan staring at me. Willing my libido under control, I catch his eyes again and grin.

  “Hey, Declan.” I lean forward and mimic his position, leaning my forearms against the bar. It just so happens to bring my awesome cleavage into prime view. He takes the bait and glances at my chest for a few seconds, long enough for me to see his Adam’s apple work as he swallows hard.

  “Hey, Meg. Got an encore coming up soon?” he teases, regaining his relaxed air.

  “Nope, but there’s a show every Tuesday at midnight,” I joke.

  “Good to know. So, how’s my favorite bartender?”

  I can’t get too excited, since I’m pretty sure he says that to all of us.

  Have I mentioned he’s not aware of the torrid love affair we share? Mostly because it’s only in my head?

  CHAPTER 2

  MEG

  “Hanging in there. What can I do for you?” I probe with genuine curiosity. It’s late, and I wonder what’s prompted him to come out.

  “Do you know where Wiley is? I missed an appointment with him, and he’s not answering his phone,” Declan asks, glancing around the bar.

  Wiley is the treasurer for the Infernal Demons. He also manages the bar, which includes scheduling the fights that Declan participates in.

  “Yeah, he was in the office last time I saw.” I seize my opportunity to touch him and briefly rest my hand on his exposed forearm. His eyes flare and electricity shoots up my arm. I usually take advantage of any opening I can to touch him, but I don’t do anything more than that. I think I just like to torture myself with the brief encounters, to be honest. Let the lightning fry my nerve endings to remind me what he
does to me. “Give me a minute, and I’ll let him know you’re here to see him.”

  I reluctantly remove my hand and walk out from behind the bar, heading down the hall to the office. I tap on the door and get nothing, so I open it just enough to poke my head through and yell at a sleeping Wiley that Declan is here to see him. Papers scatter across the floor as he startles awake, and I can’t help but laugh.

  Shooting me a disgruntled look, Wiley slowly unfolds himself from the chair behind the desk to stand to his full height of six-foot-four. He lifts his hands above his head and stretches while I wait patiently and covertly ogle him. He’s a big guy, built and handsome, with shaggy, light brown hair and a wicked skull tattoo on his neck. I almost peed my pants when I first met him, but then he smiled and two adorable matching dimples popped out. Those dimples took the unspoken threat of loss of life right out of his preceding glare. Not that I’d tell him that. Ever. If only my heart would lose its shit for him instead of Declan. Wiley’s much more approachable, with his easy smiles and laid-back personality. Regrettably, he fits into my heart as the brother I never had. Not to mention he probably knows too much about me, so I don’t know that he’d be willing to let himself get involved with me and put his club at risk. Sigh. Missed opportunity in any case—Allie’s totally tapping that now.

  Finishing his ridiculously noisy yawn, he lets his massive arms drop against his sides with loud thuds. “Send him back here, will you? With a beer?”

  I feign sympathy. “Need a pick-me-up beer after your nap, huh?”

  He laughs. “You know it. And I was napping through paychecks, so if yours is missing next week…” He indicates the new mess of papers strewn about the floor. “Well, it sucks to be you.”

  I stick my tongue out at him as I walk out of his office and back behind the bar. I smile at Declan and indicate with my thumb. “I woke him up for you, so you’re good to go.”