5. 🔧 Meet and Greet

**JUSTICE**

*Now she is something a man can grab a hold of.*

I move with silent footfalls into the bar, observing how the woman who came to apply for the waitressing job bends over the peanut sack, scoops a bucketful, and then places the tin on the counter. Three more times she does this, and I can’t help my admiration at how her black jeans stretch tantalizingly over her perfectly shaped backside.

But I have work to do, and as much as I love the sight, I have no time to mess around.

Well...*maybe* if she is offering.

I clear my throat to get her attention.

The woman whirls around, fists clenching at her sides. Her dark eyes capture me whole, sizing me up.

Sam told me she was a looker. He wasn’t lying.

She is big...maybe three, no more than four inches, shorter than me, and headed towards what most men would consider pleasantly thick if not already there.
A nice, hefty hourglass. Big tits. A good-sized waist. And lots of booty.

“Are you Justice?” she asks, with a lifted brow. Her frown at my perusal speaks volumes. She doesn’t like me checking her out. Too bad. She will get more than eyes on her *ass-sets* when working in a bar, and not just from me.

No worries if she’s not interested. Just because I looked her up and down and found her attractive doesn’t mean I will act on it. I haven’t had time to entertain a woman since Lilli died.

The kids come first. I have put everything aside to make sure they have what they need,

Still, this woman doesn’t know about my self-imposed abstinence, and her expression gets frostier the longer we stand in silence. With her frown and narrowed eyes, she seems to expect me to lick my lips and slobber all over her at any second.

That won’t happen.

And just to show her that I am immune to her charms, I pin my gaze to the top of her large afro. I then give her a taste of the attitude she has been dishing out.

“Why are you asking for him?”

She makes a “tsk” noise behind her teeth, rolling her eyes. “I am here for Justice. Are you him or not?”

“Who wants to know?” I ask. My disappointment at her demanding attitude lessens the attraction I am feeling.

Her look grows ugly, made even more so by the lost beauty of her face. “I do.”

This woman has her intimidation look down; I will give her that. But it doesn’t work on me. Coming from the streets, I have an education in intimidation. I had to be tough, even when I was scared shitless. Otherwise, I may not have made it out of San Francisco alive.

I cross my arms and meet her hostile eyes with my own daggers. “Name?”

She plants her hands on her wide hips and attempts to stare me down.

“Why should I give you mine when you haven’t given me yours? Her snarky tone makes my patience dry up like an African waterhole in the summer.

This woman looks cut out for hard work and she would be a welcome addition to the staff.

Too bad she blew it.

With her refusal to give over any information and her stank and rank behavior, she’s not getting the temporary server job she is here for.

For the Thanksgiving-New Year’s I have taken to hiring a person to give Sam and I time to breathe. With the new shopping mall close by, people come in for a few drinks after traipsing through the mall. Dave, the guy I hired for the last two years, finished grad school and moved to Washington.

*Really wish he had stayed. I hate going through the hiring circus.*

I move closer to the woman, ready to tell her to leave...until I see the swollen blood vessels in her eyes. Note how her hair looks tangled in some places. Smell the fatigue rolling off her in waves.

She has either come a long distance or she has been living rough.

Judging by her off-brand bag and dirty duffel on the bar stool, I am thinking it’s the latter.

Normally, I don’t like kicking someone when they are down... unless they deserve it, so I guess I can cut her some slack.

But not too much.

I take a step back. “Why don’t we start from the beginning?”

Her tongue comes out to lick her dry lips. “Yeah, we can do that.”

She sticks out her hand like she should have done in the first place. “I’m Keke.”

I take her palm in mine. After a brief flex, I let it go, ignoring the tingling sensation her simple touch causes.

“I’m Justice.” I nod to the stools behind the bar. “Won’t you have a seat?”

She eyes the stools and then scoots past me. In her wake, I catch a scent like crushed vanilla and five-spice powder.

*Not unpleasant. No... not at all.*

I shake my head of the thought and head to the stools, intent on conducting this interview as quickly as possible. She skips them and goes straight for the nearest table, sitting down as daintily as a queen on her throne.

*A real prima donna then.*

I grit my teeth.

*Let’s just get this over with.*

Before I sit, I pull my phone from my back pocket and remotely turn off the jukebox mid-song. I then place my device on silent.

I’m not expecting anything important, so I lay it face down on the table so we won’t be disturbed by all the notifications I get. Mostly from my other businesses.

Tipping my chair back, I get as comfortable as I can. Meeting those dark eyes once more, I test her to see if she can handle the pressure a female bartender can come across when serving a room full of drunk men.

Pippa, my only female bartender (so far), handled the flirtation that came her way with aplomb.

Except for one time when the scene turned ugly.

I loved taking care of that situation.

Beating those two racist pricks who slandered my friend was the highlight of my week.

It didn’t even compare to the sex I’d had.

With my eyes roving over Keke’s smooth face, I lower my register and make my voice seductive, “So, what do you need from me?”

She bristles, her back going ramrod straight. She is offended at my obvious come-on... yet she doesn’t hide how she isn’t immune to me. I can tell by the way she licks her lips, staring at mine. And damn if I can’t help but notice how perfectly pink her tongue is... and how wide.

Keke, like most women I come in contact with, is attracted to me.

*If I hire this woman, will her interest become a distraction?*

As her eyes drift to my chest and then slowly back up to my face, warming the areas they touch, I decide I wouldn’t mind finding out.

She clears her throat, once again all business. “Um, I am here for—”

Lifting a hand, I cut her off. As much as I would love to tease her and make her break, I have no time to ass-around. I need to accomplish too much between now and when the kids arrive. “You are here for the job, right?”

“Uh...” she says, her mouth hanging open.

I clench my teeth to stop a sigh from exploding from my mouth. This woman is wasting my time by being deliberately obtuse. Maybe Sebastian or Blake, my two go-to guys, asked her to apply as a joke. It wouldn’t be the first time. They are always trying to catch me up in something. Although, since the kids came to live with me, they have eased up somewhat.

*Maybe they decided my free pass is up? I will ask her for her paperwork. If she has some, she is serious about the job if not…*

“Do you have a résumé?”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t.”

Her short answer, with no further explanation, makes my anger rise. As a consequence, my face grows tighter than a camel’s ass in a dust storm.

*She can play all she wants to, she has plenty of free time it seems. However, I am busy, and I don’t enjoy playing games when I’m not in charge of them.*

I’m about to tell her to get out when she speaks.

“Since you are so interested in my job history, I can tell you about the work I have done.”

Without waiting for my reply, she launches into fairy tale.

“My first job, at eighteen, was in Dublin, Ireland. I worked for a family as a nanny and as a bartender in the evenings at their pub called the Hairy Horse. They served strong ale and a light lunch. I was there for six months before moving to another job in England. I stayed in that country for almost a year, tending bar besides my job of taking care of two pre-teens. I then traveled to mainland Europe, moving from the west to the east, every year for a little over five years. I mainly taught English and sometimes I would pick up a job at a bar for extra income.” She pauses, inhaling like it’s her last breath before a deep dive. She does this twice and then continues in a less confident voice, “Friends of mine were moving to Dubai and offered me a job watching their son. They moved back to Europe after a year and I stayed on... for uh... for... four years.” She lets out a deep sigh; her eyes move off my face to focus the floor.

Something happened in Dubai.

Saving women from their troubles, I learned to read people. By the slump of her shoulders and downward glance, whatever transpired in that desert oasis was bad.

Really bad.

I’m not interested in her past, so I don’t bother to probe. She seems qualified and willing to work. What more do I need besides that?

“Where did you work next?” I ask, moving things along.

Her head snaps up and I pretend not to notice the tears she blinks back. A ripple goes through my chest at her distress and I wonder why.

Her case doesn’t differ from the thousands of others I’ve dealt with. What makes hers so special?

*Nothing that’s what.*

“Um... I moved to Japan, again teaching English. I stayed there for over a year until I left for Singapore a few weeks ago.”

*Except for Dubai,* I add silently.

I regret feeling an ounce a sympathy for her tragedy when she says without fanfare, “I am here for the boys.”