His Someone Special Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Sammi Cee & Brittany Cournoyer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Photo credits: Wander Aguiar Photography LLC

  Cover Artist: Morningstar Ashley

  Proofing: Laura McNellis

  Contents

  1. Davis

  2. Sarge

  3. Davis

  4. Sarge

  5. Davis

  6. Sarge

  7. Davis

  8. Sarge

  9. Davis

  10. Sarge

  11. Davis

  12. Sarge

  13. Davis

  14. Sarge

  15. Davis

  16. Sarge

  17. Davis

  18. Sarge

  19. Davis

  20. Sarge

  21. Davis

  22. Sarge

  23. Davis

  24. Sarge

  Connect with Sammi Cee

  About Brittany Cournoyer

  Also by Sammi Cee

  Also by Brittany Cournoyer

  Chapter One

  Davis

  I stared critically at my reflection in the dirty mirror as I took in my appearance. I had cleaned the mirror numerous times, but it was as if the filth had been ingrained in the glass over the years, leaving its mark from the tenants throughout time.

  I smoothed down my shaggy hair, trying to get it to lay flat across my forehead and over my ears before adjusting the collar on my button-down shirt. It was a little on the smaller side, with the cuffs riding higher so my wrist bones popped out, but considering all the options at the consignment shop, the shirt I’d chosen was the best choice they had. All the buttons were still sewn on, and after a thorough inspection, I didn’t see any holes or frayed hems.

  The shirt was made of fleece, and it itched like crazy, but at least it looked nice in comparison to everything else I owned. Since funds were tight, I could only afford the shirt, so I dug through my clothes for my nicest pair of pants—some jeans with threadbare knees and a hole in the crotch—and my scuffed tennis shoes. This was as good as it was going to get, and I hoped my appearance wouldn’t be a factor.

  After checking the time on my prepaid phone, I winced when I saw how late it was getting. After making sure I had my wallet and keys, I dashed out the door and rushed toward the bus stop. Calling a cab wasn’t a luxury I could afford, and the idea of owning a car was only a dream of mine I was hoping to make into a reality. But that was contingent on how today went.

  The bus was right on time, the only thing that seemed to be going right this morning, and when I hopped on, I kept my head down as I sat in the first seat I saw. I avoided making eye-contact with the other passengers, and concentrated on staring at the frayed areas of my jeans while the bus bounced down the road.

  Even though the bus looked relatively clean, a weird odor hung in the air, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the actual transit or another passenger. But rather than question it further, I kept my head down—because I wasn’t sure I even wanted to know the source. I was just thankful my town offered free transportation, or else I’d be forced to walk to my destination.

  “Next stop, Fremont Avenue,” the driver announced through the loudspeaker. That was my stop, and I braced myself to exit as quickly as possible.

  My stomach was a bundle of nerves as I waited for the bus to come to a halt, and then I stood on shaky legs. Keeping my eyes forward, I quietly thanked the driver without looking in their direction, and then I exited the bus. As soon as my feet touched the concrete on the sidewalk, I heard the doors shut with a swoosh before the air brakes released and the vehicle pulled away—leaving me standing alone on a corner with my destination on the next block.

  The jumble of nerves doing acrobatics in my stomach increased as I took in a ragged breath. A lot was counting on how today went, and if it didn’t go in my favor… I didn’t want to think about that. I needed today to work out; it was my final hope.

  Taking another ragged breath, I wiped my sweaty palms on my jean-clad thighs and put one foot in front of the other. With each step I took, my anxiety began to increase while bile rushed toward my throat, leaving a scorching path in its wake. But I couldn’t turn back. Not when so much was riding on what would transpire in the next few minutes.

  When I arrived, I had to flex my fingers a few times to stop them from quivering enough to grasp the handle. It felt cool against my skin as I wrapped my fingers around it and pulled the door open.

  The first thing I noticed was how dark and dingy the place looked, even though it was early afternoon, and the stench of stale cigarette smoke and old beer clung to the air. I wrinkled my nose a little as I paused just inside the door and looked around at the barstools lined along the bar, wooden tables that were spaced evenly across the hardwood floor, and the various pictures of motorcycles and road signs that adorned most of the wall space.

  Music played from somewhere, and since I didn’t see a jukebox, I assumed there must be a stereo behind the bar. Two older gentlemen were seated there, asses firmly on the stools while they sipped beers from tall glasses. The men were decked out from head to toe in leather down to their patch-covered vests, and I noticed how the exposed skin on their arms was covered in tattoos.

  What in the hell was I thinking coming here? I couldn’t help but ask myself.

  You’re hungry was the quick reminder.

  Dammit. That was true. And it wasn’t like I had opportunities beating down my door waving jobs in my face. I was desperate and would take what I could get. Licking my suddenly dry lips with an even drier tongue, I did the palm swipe on my jeans again before I stepped farther into the bar and up to the counter.

  I could feel the eyes of the men sizing me up as I stood a few feet away from them. I felt as awkward as I was sure I looked and very much out of my element. Something inside my brain was telling me to abort mission and run away from there as fast as I possibly could, but the stubborn—and hungry—side of me prevailed. I couldn’t run away. Not only because I barely had the energy to spare, but also because I was past the point of rock bottom and this was my only way out. At least, I hoped it was.

  A man wearing a black T-shirt with the bar’s logo—a motorcycle with the name Full Throttle emblazoned over his right pec—sidled up to the bar with a box in his hard arms. I could see the muscle straining under the weight, and as he set the box on the counter, glass clanked inside. He had short hair cut in a military-style that was graying at the temples and a thick, full beard, and his eyes, dark and shrewd, were currently sizing me up. He kept his steely gaze on me as he reached inside the case to pull out bottles of beer and started to stock them under the counter.

  When I’d been called about the interview, I was told to ask for Sarge—no last name—and something told me that this was the man I was looking for.

  “Are you lost?” he asked with a deep, gravelly voice. Fuck, he was intimidating as hell. Did I really want to work for this guy? The answer was yes. Yes, I did.

  “I, uh, I...” I stopped and cleared my throat before trying again. “I’m Davis Prescott, and I’m here for an interview with Sarge?”

  I winced at how uncertain I sounded, and instantly I flicked my gaze down to the battered bar and traced the scuffs and scratches with my eyes.

  “Ah. You’re in the right place, then.” He flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall. “And right on time. I’m Sarge. Have a seat, and I’ll be with you shortly. Can I get you something to drink?”<
br />
  I instantly shook my head. Even if I did want something, I couldn’t afford it. Small things like sodas and junk food were luxuries I couldn’t indulge in. And since my job mowing lawns for the local community college had been outsourced, I’d been pinching pennies and living off ramen and water.

  “Are you sure? We don’t only serve alcohol here. We have soda as well.” He surprised me by placing his hands—huge hands—on the counter and leaning forward. Then he dropped his voice as he told me, “It’s on the house.”

  I felt my cheeks flame as I glanced up at him. “I, uh, I’m not picky. A soda would be great.”

  “Go on, have a seat, kid,” he said with a chuckle.

  I turned, nearly tripping over my own feet in the process, and stumbled to the first table I could find. The surfaces of the tables and chairs looked clean enough, like they’d been wiped down the night before, and the floor was only mildly dirty. It could use a good sweep with a broom before mopping and polishing it. I understood it was a dive bar, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t remain clean. Or could it? I was kind of out of my league.

  “Here you go,” Sarge said, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.

  I’d been so wrapped up in my own thoughts over the floor that I didn’t notice him approaching, and then a tall glass of soda was placed on the table in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I told him before I took a long pull from the straw.

  Sarge only grunted before sitting down on the chair opposite me. He had my application in his hand—the one I’d filled out online through an employment site. I didn’t own a computer myself, so I’d been taking the bus downtown to the library to use theirs and fill out as many applications as possible.

  Of the positions I applied for, a few didn’t respond to me at all. Others had my hopes up with an interview that led to nowhere, and I had some reply a few days later with a “sorry, but the position has been filled” email. And considering how shitty my luck had been lately, I wasn’t allowing my hopes with Full Throttle to get too high, even though I was mentally praying to whoever was listening that I got the job.

  Sarge quickly scanned my application again before flipping over to my employment history. His eyebrows were furrowed as he read over everything I’d painstakingly filled in, and then he set the paper down onto the table and pinned me in place with his stare. I dropped my hands onto my lap, keeping them out of his view so he couldn’t see how ill-fitting my shirt was. Appearance was crucial to a job interview, even if the establishment was a dive bar.

  “You don’t really want to work here, do you kid?”

  “E-excuse me?” I asked. That wasn’t a question I was expecting to hear.

  “You’re terrified to be in here right now, aren’t you? You’re strung tighter than a guitar string on the verge of snapping, but yet you’re still in that chair. Why?”

  I wanted to look away from his penetrating gaze, but I couldn’t. Instead, as painful as it was to do so, I held his gaze as I answered him as honestly as I could. “I’m in desperate need of a job.”

  “Loads of people are in need of employment, why are you desperate?”

  I sighed and started to fiddle with the hem of my shirt. “My job mowing lawns at Hawkins Community College was outsourced to a lawn care company a few months ago, and I’ve had a hard time finding employment since. What little money I had in savings is almost completely gone, and I have bills to pay and would like to keep a roof over my head.”

  Sarge hummed in his throat. “What about groceries?”

  I shrugged and finally was able to tear my eyes away to look over his shoulder. “I get by.”

  Sarge didn’t say anything as he quickly pushed back his chair to stand. Instantly, I felt dread sink in my stomach like a dead weight. I blew it. Telling him my sob story had cost me my last chance at finding employment, and I wasn’t sure what I was going to do next. Maybe call my aunt in Iowa and ask to stay with her until I was on my feet? I hated that idea even more than being homeless since she was a bitter, cruel woman. But it was the only option I had.

  Before I could fully process what steps I needed to take, Sarge reappeared at the table and placed a small bag of chips in front of me.

  “Eat,” he growled before sitting back in his chair.

  My jaw fell open, and I started to thank him, but he waved me off before I could say a word. Instead, he picked the application back up to glance over it one more time.

  “The hours for the position aren’t your typical nine-to-five. You’d work six pm to three am Tuesday through Friday, and every Saturday seven to four. We keep later hours for the weekend. Sundays and Mondays would be your days off since Ralph closes the kitchen.”

  “That’d be fine,” I told him after I swallowed the chip I’d been chewing.

  “Are you sure about this, kid?”

  I wasn’t a kid, though. I was a twenty-five-year-old man in desperate need of keeping a roof over his head. If that meant working in the back of a bar making fried food and washing dishes, then hand me a fucking apron. I needed the money.

  “I’m sure,” I said, and I was proud at how firm my voice sounded.

  Sarge pressed his lips together before letting out a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but when can you start?”

  Relief flooded my veins, and my eyes started to sting. I had to blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay over the fact I’d finally have a steady income and wouldn’t have to move to Iowa after all. Sarge didn’t know it, but he’d just saved my life. Or maybe he did and that’s why he offered me the job. Either way, I was ecstatic.

  “Is tonight too soon?”

  Sarge shook his head and gave me a hint of what he probably considered a smile. Though to me, it was just a slight curl of the left side of his lips. “Tonight is just fine. Be here at five-thirty so you can fill out paperwork, and then I’ll show you around.”

  “Thank you, Sarge. You won’t regret this.”

  Sarge stood and paused at the table as he cast a smirk in my direction. “I guess we’ll see if you’re right.”

  After Sarge walked away, I took another long sip of my soda and snatched up the half-eaten bag of chips to snack on on my way home. It was still early enough I could relax a bit, and maybe even get a nap in before I started my new job. And as I let myself into my small, grungy apartment, I felt a renewed sense of hope that things were finally looking up for me. I just had to work my ass off and show Sarge he did the right thing by hiring me.

  Chapter Two

  Sarge

  “Sarge, Ernie just sent me a text he won’t be here tonight,” Billy said as he bopped up to me. Another one I hired who had no business in my bar, but unlike Davis who’d pulled on my heartstrings with the hopelessness swimming in the depths of his startling pale blue eyes, Billy had batted his long, thick eyelashes and assured me he could handle this crowd if I gave him a chance.

  “Dammit,” I growled. My other bartender had an emergency crop up and I’d told him we could handle it without him. If it had been yesterday, we could have survived with only me and Billy. He had a way of making the customers behave while they waited with his playful banter and saucy winks, but not on a Thursday night. The crowd picked up in preparation for the weekend and Billy would drown in it, and my other waiter was out of town. I’d counted on Billy’s flirty attention to the customers at his tables, and the guys I bullshitted with at the bar while I made drinks, keeping them pacified if we got behind.

  “How about the new kid? Davis? He can run food from the kitchen and we’ll direct him otherwise,” Billy said.

  “Are you kidding me? He’s skittish around me, and Ralph said he only mumbles when answering him. These assholes out here will eat the kid alive.” I scrubbed my hand over my face. “Why the fuck is good help so hard to come by lately?” I murmured, mostly to myself.

  Billy’s eternal optimism about any situation—which usually amused me, but right now was pissing me off—shone through as he said, “Na. He’
ll be fine. As long as he doesn’t have to talk to anyone and can dump food on the table.” He planted his hands on his hips. “We’re going to need extra help out here way more than Ralph needs it in the back. If he runs out of plates or something, he can clean them himself, then Davis can go back and help him once it slows down out here.”

  “No. I don’t want the kid out of the kitchen. We’ll have to figure it out. Two up front and two in the back. It’ll have to do for tonight. Ernie isn’t scheduled again until Saturday, so I’ll have to replace him before then.”

  Billy scrunched his nose at me while jabbing a finger in my direction. “You’re going to owe me extra for running my ass off tonight.” Then he grinned and ran off to take the order of the four burly guys who’d entered the bar while we were talking and taken seats by one of the pool tables.

  The first few hours were fine, our typical dinner-time crowd, but it was becoming problematic as it approached nine-thirty. Billy had a nice little bebop going on, and the kid was hustling quickly, but there was no way he was going to be able to keep up with the orders going into the kitchen. Maybe I could shut the kitchen down early, but the regulars counted on Ralph’s food. I got distracted when two of the guys on barstools in front of me started arguing, and the next thing I knew, I saw Davis hovering right outside of the door to the kitchen with two plates in his hands. Billy ran over, grabbed them, and Davis disappeared back into the kitchen. That went on repeatedly over the next hour with Davis getting braver and braver, moving farther out into the bar so that he could hand food off to Billy, saving him the running time.