Page 2 of The Player in New Zealand
“Have a good night,” I called out to the group as they passed the bar.
As the ladies strolled past, the crowd of burly men parted and I locked eyes with one of them. He had to be the biggest in the group and he was coming this way. He passed the young business guys and literally stood a head taller than them. As if his height weren’t enough, he was broad across the shoulders and all the way down to his thick thighs. The shirt he wore strained at the waist, and the shorts—as was popular in New Zealand—were a touch too short for my American sensibilities.
He also stumbled and blinked. When he paused for a moment just past the group, one of the guys back in the booth called out to him, “Hey, mate, get the shout!”
I expected him to beeline for the counter, but he swerved instead, walking alongside the bar. I glanced at Ron—preoccupied—and followed this beast of a man.
When I realized what he was going for, my stomach dropped.
He got the pass-through open two inches before I slapped my hand down on it. The resulting crack echoed around the room and conversation dipped.
“Sir, you can’t come back here,” I said. I could have said it more politely, but it was the end of my shift and I doubted this guy was going to back down easily. There was a time and a place for pasting on a smile and bullshitting people, and this was not it.
Though I did smile. Poorly.
Shock passed over his features first. His eyes were dark brown, almost impossible to differentiate from his pupils. His nose was bent and bumped, crooked from a fight or two in his past.
Then his eyes narrowed. I narrowed mine right back. Even at my height—five foot ten, add another two for my boots—I was tilting my chin way up to look at him. It just meant I had to glare harder.
His hand snaked under the bridge, but he maintained eye contact with me as if daring me to protest again. The wood wiggled as he pressed up. I slammed down again with both hands this time, pretty sure that if he decided to use his two giant paws, I’d be screwed. “Sir”—I gritted my teeth—“you can’t come back here.”
The whole group of men was behind him now. I didn’t know which one of the dumbasses in the back started laughing, but soon they all roared at us. This guy’s brown skin flushed with embarrassment, a scowl inverting his mouth.
“She’s a twig. You gonna let her tell you what for, mate?” someone goaded him.
“Don’t stand between him and his beer, sweetheart.”
The pass-through slammed open and I snatched my hands back just in time to keep them from getting smashed.
Oh shit.
I stepped forward, shouting for Ron.
“You!” Mr. Big and Tattooed pointed a finger in my face.
“Bloody Americans,” someone muttered.
I took a step toward the man as he tried to crowd into my bar. “Sir—”
He stood toe-to-toe with me. “Don’t you know who I am? You want to lose your fucking job?”
“Why you importing them anyway, Tane? Hire a proper fucking Kiwi,” someone in the back whined. Beyond the group, I caught a glance of Ron trying to push through to me.
Before I could make a retort, the Hulk leaned down to my level. “I’m your fucking boss. Get the hell out of my bar.”
Double shit.
TWO
“Tane Taumata!”Nina’s sharp voice cut through the noise. “What the hell are you doing? You, get back! Russell, call yourself a fucking Uber and get home to your wife. Ari, I’m going to tell your mother you’ve overstayed your welcome. All of you, go home!”
I heard a few whines and maybe even a whimper as the men tried to escape. I caught sight of a brown feminine hand poking and prodding, jabbing at soft spots and pinching when necessary.
Finally she got up to me and this Tane guy. Her hand reached up and snatched his ear, twisting and bending him down to her height—not much shorter than I was.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she seethed through her teeth.
He grimaced, twisting in an attempt to escape. “Getting a beer!” He punctuated it with a foreign curse word.
