Tapped: A Blue Collar Bad Boys Book
Tapped: A Blue Collar Bad Boy Book
Blue Collar Bad Boys, Volume 10
Brill Harper
Published by Brill Harper, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
TAPPED: A BLUE COLLAR BAD BOY BOOK
First edition. July 6, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Brill Harper.
Written by Brill Harper.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Tapped: A Blue Collar Bad Boy Book (Blue Collar Bad Boys, #10)
About this Book
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Further Reading: Nailed: A Blue Collar Bad Boys Book
Also By Gwen Hayes
Sexy bad boys who do sexy bad things with their rough hands and the awkward heroines who love them. What’s not to like? Sign up for Brill’s Bites so you never miss a new release. I won’t spam you—I don’t have time! You’ll only get emails from me when there is a new release or a really great sale.
About this Book
ANKER BECK IS JUST doing his time tapping kegs at the neighborhood pub while he socks away money for his dream: to own his own brewery. What he doesn’t have time for are relationships, but not being interested seems to make the women in the bar want him more.
That’s when she starts coming in. Mousy, plump Annabelle Rogers, roommate of his co-worker. She brings her books to the pub and seems to do everything she can to stay invisible. So why does he keep noticing her?
One night, when a female patron is getting particularly handsy with him, he tells everyone that Annabelle is his girlfriend and kisses her in front of the whole bar. She has every right to be mad, but the mousy girl surprises him with a challenge: She’ll pretend to be his girlfriend to keep the women away if he agrees to help her with one little thing: losing her virginity.
With a catch.
He absolutely isn’t allowed to fall in love with her.
Author Confession: It’s a role reversal for the bartender to give the customer the tip, isn’t it? There’s also tapping, dry hopping, and some thick foamy head—it is a bar after all. But do you really think I could write an alphamallow who doesn’t fall head over heels for the mousy, plump girl? I think you all know me better than that by now. Let’s hear it for BBW love and blue collar heroes!
Chapter One
Anker Beck
THE CRESCENT MOON ISN’T exactly a dump.
It’s just seen better days.
The once deep-red and purple velvet upholstery has faded and rubbed into dull gray in many places, leather accents have cracked, and the seams of the wallpaper are lifting. The parquet dance floor still shines like it’s covered in glass, but it doesn’t get much use. It’s not like we have a band come in every weekend. Luckily, the lighting is dim, so the signs of the years stay muted.
According to my grandparents, their parents used to come down here all the time, dressed “to the nines” and drink highballs and do the Foxtrot. I know about seven people who know what highballs, foxtrot, and “to the nines” even mean.
I call them my afternoon regulars and they knew my great-grandparents.
The Crescent is basically a senior center by day, but at night, it’s become a flame to the hipster moths of the neighborhood. Mr. Costanza doesn’t know much about hipsters, craft beers, or computers, which is why he hired me to be his manager.
“Beck, you’re a good egg,” he likes to tell me, patting me with his gnarled hand.
I make sure the business runs and nobody takes advantage of Mr. C. He pays me decently and rents me the apartment upstairs for free so I can save all my money.
The Crescent isn’t my dream. But I do have one.
My own craft brewery. As a nod to my Viking ancestry, I’ve been working on a sahti—an unhopped ale—that I’d like to commercially produce someday. Until then, I have the Crescent and business classes.
Mondays are the only day we’re closed.
Unfortunately, it’s Thursday.
I’m waiting for Tanaya to get here to take over the bar so I can do some paperwork. It’s quiet, but I’ve got two high-maintenance patrons following my every move with their eyes. They just got done with a yoga class down the street. They both work at the bank two blocks over. They’re here more and more lately, and I don’t think it’s the shiny dance floor they’re after. At least not the one with her hands all over me tonight.
“You must work out all the time,” the brunette still wearing her yoga sports bra says, squeezing my arm while she licks her lips.
“Oh that’s subtle, Shar,” her blonde friends says. She’s got pretty lips, too. They’re glossy and red, painted to draw attention to them. To make a guy think about what they’d look like wrapped around his dick. I doubt they wear lipstick to yoga, though.
But the blonde isn’t predatory. It’s “Shar” that’s getting bolder every time she comes in.
“Ladies, will that be all?”
“Is there more?” Shar asks.
I slide a bowl of pretzels toward her. “That’s all we offer.” I wink and move to the other end of the bar but feel their eyes on my ass.
When I first started working in bars, I learned a lot about women. And I enjoyed every fucking minute of it. I didn’t mind being treated like an object then. And I learned a lot about sex. I’m not the roses and poetry kind of guy in or out of bed. I like sex raw and dirty. Once I get turned on, my Mr. Nice Guy fades to black, and I go someplace a little dark and a lot aggressive.
And some women eat that shit up.
But something changed. I stopped wanting to be a boy toy for women looking for a little strange. So, when I started managing the Crescent, I tried to put up some barriers.
It got fucking worse.
Apparently, a lot of women love a guy who promises primitive sex. But even more love a man who plays hard to get, even if he isn’t playing. I don’t mean to complain. I know I sound like a douche when I do. But I’d really like to just tend bar and not worry about how to provide good customer service without literally servicing my customers.
Tanaya pops in, bundled up from the cold, wet night and with someone else right behind her. She directs her friend to the round booth and joins me behind the bar. “Hey, Ank.” She looks around while unwinding her scarf. She’s changed her hair again. Now it’s tight cornrow braids. Last time I saw her, she was channeling her inner-Beyonce (her words, not mine) with blonde waves. Next week, it will probably be a new color. Tanaya is restless when it comes to her appearance, but serious about her employment. “Quiet night.”
She’s disappointed, and I don’t blame her. She only works about twenty hours a week and depends on tips. She’s in college, too, but she goes full-time. My classes are usually online, and I only take one or two per quarter.
“It might pick up.” I nod at the table. “Who’s that?”
The girl she came in with is taking off her jacket. The only word I can come up with to describe her is nondescript.
“That’s my roommate, Annabelle. She’s going to hang out during my shift.”
I raise my eyebrows. I’m not against havin
g a friend hanging out, but I don’t want it to turn into a problem. Tanaya’s a good employee, and Annabelle doesn’t look like trouble, but it’s not exactly normal for Tanaya to bring guests. She used to have a boyfriend who would come in near closing time to pick her up, but she’s never had a visitor during her whole shift. “Why?”
“We had a break-in at our apartment today. She wasn’t really feeling like hanging out alone at night. We’re both kind of shaken up.”
Oh, shit. I reach for Tanaya’s arm. “Were you home?”
She shakes her head. “No. Thank goodness. We didn’t have much taken either. Of course, we don’t have much, but still.”
I fucking hate that it happened. We don’t hear about a lot of crime in the neighborhood. It’s pretty chill, actually. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It sucks, but what can you do, right?”
“I’ll walk you guys home tonight.”
“Thanks, Anker.”
Tanaya takes over the bar, and I get to the paperwork. When I come out a couple hours later to give her a break, I check the corner and find Annabelle reading a book or maybe a door stopper. It’s huge. That’s something else we don’t see much of in a bar.
I can’t even tell you the color of Annabelle’s hair. It’s not blonde. It’s not brown. It’s not red. It’s just sort of—nondescript. She’s wearing glasses. That’s the most interesting thing about her. Tanaya has always spoken fondly of her, but seeing her in person, it’s hard to imagine them as friends. Tanaya is such an extrovert. She can talk to anyone, and this Annabelle is making it pretty clear she doesn’t want to talk to anyone.
I could learn a thing or two about putting up walls from this one. But then, I depend on tips too. I need to be friendly—I just need to figure out how to send out the signals to make women stop hitting on me.
Jesus, I sound like a douche.
At closing time, I lock up the lounge and instead of going upstairs, I meet Tanaya and Annabelle at the door and walk them home. As usual, Tanaya talks a mile a minute, which is fine since I don’t think Annabelle has much more to say than I do.
We get to the street outside their apartment building and Annabelle freezes. Shit. She’s really scared.
“Hey. I’ll come up. Make sure there’s no one around and everything is okay. All right?”
She nods and gives me the smallest smile I’ve ever seen. Fuck if it doesn’t melt the ice on my heart a little. Here I was beginning to wonder if I even had one.
The apartment checks out fine. Their landlord replaced the lock, and it seems secure. I check the windows, too. But I feel uneasy. Not like that gut feeling you get that something is wrong. Just that I don’t want to leave her...them...here alone. Like it’s my job or my honor or some damn thing to stay. Slay dragons. Provide protection.
Makes no damn sense.
Chapter Two
Annabelle Rogers
IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS since the break-in, and I still haven’t gotten my bearings yet. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m usually the pragmatic one. The rational one. Tanaya hardly seemed fazed by it, but I can’t stand to be alone in the apartment since it happened.
I’m in my usual booth, my laptop in front of me, but I’m not getting much done. Truthfully, it’s because Anker Beck, Tanaya’s boss, is wearing the black T-shirt with the V-neck again. I’m not sure what it is about that shirt, but it does something extra special to the butterflies in my stomach that are always present when he’s around. They’re even more active when he’s wearing this particular shirt.
He’s a big guy. Behemoth really. Barrel-chested, tree trunk legs, full, thick arms. For a bartender, he’s really well made. I can visualize him in a different time period, wielding a battle-ax and wearing the furs of his hunt.
And he’s so out of my league. We’re talking like not a league in the same galaxy. I’ve seen the women who think they are in his league make plays and fail, and if they can’t do it, there’s no hope for normal human beings. The one last night was probably as close to a Victoria Secret model I’ve ever seen in person, and he managed to let her down gently, but still let her down. Tanaya suggested that maybe he’s gay. But I’ve seen more than one dude try to get his attention, and they don’t fare any better than the ladies.
I don’t talk to him much. I don’t talk to anyone much. I don’t know why that is. It’s not that I don’t like people. I do. One of my favorite things to do is people-watch. It’s one of the reasons I like coming to the Crescent. There’s such an interesting mix of clientele. Especially in the liminal times—the twilight between the day crowd ending and the evening crowd beginning is almost magical.
I close my laptop and bring out the book I’m reading about Norse mythology. I’m kind of obsessed these days. I try to ignore the black shirt and sink into the text in front of me. If anyone can do it, it’s Thor, right? I mean what Hemsworth and Hiddleston have done for bringing back the interest in Asgard is nothing short of amazing. It’s even hard for me, a serious scholar, not to cast the actors into what I read. Which isn’t really a bad thing. It certainly adds another layer.
Tanaya slides into the booth across from me. “Tomorrow, I want you to come to the bar like a regular person.”
I don’t even lose my place when I answer her. “I am a regular person.”
“I wouldn’t put a lot of money on that one. But what I mean is, leave your books and computer at home. Hang out. Meet people.”
“What would I do without my stuff?” Just sit here?
“Hang out and meet people,” she repeats. “You’ll notice the vast majority of people in this place do not bring outside entertainment. You’re never going to meet anyone with your nose buried in a book.”
“I don’t want to meet anyone.” Which is mostly true.
“You told me you wanted to punch your V-card this year. How do you plan to manage that if you don’t meet people?”
I look around to make sure nobody heard her basically announce to the whole bar that I’m a virgin. Probably the oldest living one in the city. And that’s counting the regulars from the day crowd. They might be old, but I bet even Ms. Winston with the blue hair had sex at least once. Though I really don’t want to think about it too closely. “I truly don’t think my next boyfriend will be someone I meet here. I think I’ll have better luck on campus.”
Tanaya swipes my water and takes a drink. “Why does it have to be a boyfriend?”
“What, are you advocating that I have a one-night stand now? I thought you were the one who was telling me how magical it can be with the right person.”
Which is never going to happen because I don’t intend to ever fall in love. Ever.
“I was in new relationship with Denton then. You can’t take anything someone says while in a new relationship seriously.”
Denton didn’t work out.
“I think this is what they call transference. You want to get back in the saddle after your breakup, so you’re putting it on me instead.”
She pushes the glass back over the table. “Oh, I’m so glad you paid attention in Psych 101. Transference, my ass.” She’s got that look that says she’s going to school me about something. “Look, the longer you put it off, the harder it will be. You should just pick a guy and get it done. Then you can move on, and when Mr. Right comes along, you won’t be consumed with insecurity and fear about that step in your relationship.”
“Well, I wasn’t consumed with fear and insecurity a few minutes ago, but I am now. Thanks, Tanaya. Now I’m paralyzed with it. All I have to do is lay there, right? I think I can handle it.”
She shakes her head at me. “Girl...”
“I’m just kidding.”
“It’s picking up. I should get back up there. I mean it, though. Tomorrow you wear something not beige and you don’t bring a book.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
I get back to Thor and Odin and suddenly, instead of Hemsworth, it’s Anker Beck swinging that hammer. I�
�ve seen him pick up a lot of heavy things. He could totally do it.
Those butterflies are moving again. Lower.
Much lower.
Chapter Three
Anker
THINGS ARE HOT FOR a Wednesday, but for some reason, my gaze keeps traveling to Annabelle in her booth, absorbed in a book. Nobody else seems to even notice that she’s here.
There are a couple business suits that come in after work, but the majority of tonight’s clients are neighborhood people. And hipsters. Always the hipsters. But they’re all neighborhood too.
The women tonight are mid-twenties and the kind of girl you might find at Starbucks or REI. The northwest vibe is strong tonight—and they are all fresh faced and pretty. The kind of girl you take hiking or home to mom. The kind of girl my mother would love me to bring home. I’m beginning to worry that I might never want to bring anyone home to meet Mom. I’m busy, yeah. And I’m over the being someone’s boy toy phase. But that doesn’t mean I can’t date. I’m just not feeling it.
My eyes travel to the invisible woman in the booth. I don’t know why. She hasn’t moved. I hope she’s breathing.
There’s something very soft about her face. She’s restful. And she can concentrate like I’ve never seen. Tanaya says she’s on academic scholarship and makes Dean’s List every semester. It doesn’t surprise me. I wonder what it would be like to have someone pay that kind of concentration to you.
Why does it bother me that she never looks at me? Am I vain? Shallow? I spend most nights trying to avoid being looked at but bristle when she doesn’t notice me. It makes no sense.
I’m surrounded by pretty women my age who smile at me and ask me how I am and lean into me when they’re talking, and I can’t stop looking at the girl who hardly says two words to me a night despite the fact that I walk her home every evening. She’s got no interest in me or any other dude at the bar, and maybe that’s what I find so interesting. She’s not seeking anything. She’s just doing her thing.