I expected that question. Maliki owns the Down Home Pub in Blue Beech. It’d make sense if I needed a job, he’d give me one. He offered, but I declined.

“I got into some trouble.” I mentally curse myself at the admission and backtrack to what I planned to say. “And we decided I needed to get out of town for a while.”

I decided.

My mother claimed it was a terrible idea. My father swore I’d fall into more trouble, working at a bar.

Georgia perks up, fanning strands of thick brown hair out of her eyes. “What kind of trouble?”

“Just stupid stuff that got me kicked out of college.” I wince, wishing I hadn’t said that either.

“Oh, I’m going to get that story out of you some time.” She laughs and swats my shoulder.

I’m grateful she doesn’t push for more.

Waitressing isn’t as easy as it looks.

Twisted Fox’s crowd has nearly doubled since the start of my training, and as the night grows later, the customers grow needier.

More handsy.

Ruder.

Drunker.

After shadowing Georgia for an hour, she gave me two tables of my own to serve. All of them are easy two-tops, but hey, I’ll take it. She instructed me to tell Finn if anyone gave me trouble. As a girl who attended frat parties like they were her second major, my creep meter is legit. I can spot a dude who’s contemplating catching a feel or slipping a roofie in seconds.

“You bitch!”

Whipping around at the comment, I spot Georgia across the room with a man standing in front of her.

He pulls his shirt out, his face wild and inebriation bleeding through him, and inspects a red stain. “You ruined my shirt!”

“You okay, Georgia?” I yell, a chill snaking up my spine.

Creep meter is losing its shit over here.

She nods, giving me a thumbs-up, and talks to the guy. When he grabs her ass, I dash in their direction. Her tray crashes to the floor, and he stumbles when she shoves him.

“What the fuck?” Archer screams, jumping over the bar like a damn hyena and storming toward them.

Oh shit.

My throat turns dry as I witness the fiasco along with everyone else in the bar. Not one TV is getting an ounce of attention at the moment. Not one drink is being sipped. This is now tonight’s show, and it’s better than any Real Housewives reunion.

“Archer, no!” Georgia yells at her boyfriend.

“Fuck that shit,” Archer roars. “Move, Georgia.” He levels his gaze on the asshole and tightens his fist.

The murderous glare on his masculine face has me convinced the drunk dude isn’t leaving in one piece tonight.

“He’s drunk,” Georgia pleads. “Let Finn kick him out.”

“Nah,” Archer says, spit flying from his mouth. “I’ll take the trash out myself.”