Pinkie Promise (Carter Ridge Book 1)

I’m fifty-two minutes into trying to focus on researching my upcoming assignment when Whitney, my top-of-the-pyramid replacement, takes her second fall to the mats.

Luckily for Whitney, the whole pyramid was already beginning to wobble when she did that high-kick, which means that the rest of the squad had already began panic-squatting, foreseeing the inevitable which just took place.

“What the hell!” Whitney shouts, staring across at Blair who could no longer hold her up. I drop my eyes back to my work, not wanting to watch another screaming match.

“I think that they should call it time.”

Connell’s voice sounds behind me, and he gives me an affectionate squeeze across the clavicle with his big footballer forearm. Living one floor down from Aisling and I, Connell is our post-cheer ride back to the condo.

“Get off me, Sweaty,” I say to him, mock-clawing at his arm. Usually I wouldn’t mind his brotherly post-training physical compressions but today is different because this evening I have my first shift. I take a little gulp to try and calm the bubbling in my belly.

Connell laughs but removes his arm, and then he’s standing in front of me with his arms folded over his chest. He’s staring down at me with the kind of omniscience that isn’t great if you’re keeping a secret.

“What is it?” he asks, his eyes narrowed.

“It’s just the grant thing,” I lie, tucking my notes back into my bag.

He waits for a few seconds before he says, “Fallon.”

I decide to add some truth to the lie, to make it more believable. “Although I did finally hear back from Dr. Ward, so that means at least I don’t need to worry about my referral anymore!”

Connell’s face scrunches up. I see some minor cat-fighting going on behind him. “Dr. Ward? As in Parker Ward? Isn’t she renowned for being an ass to her students?”

I vehemently shake my head but Connell doesn’t even look slightly convinced. “No, not at all! Well, technically yes, but I really need her on my team if I stand any chance at securing the funding.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s, like, best friends with everyone who’s at the top – all of the people who make the big money decisions eat right out of her palm. She’s respected, she’s listened to. Plus, she did teach one of my requirement classes last year and, okay, she was my hardest grader, but I still came out on top, and you just can’t argue with the numbers,” I say with a shrug.

“Fallon, don’t you think that maybe you should…”

I stare up at him with big pleading eyes, the message that they’re transmitting to him being please don’t tell me to find another faculty member. I messaged seven former tutors and Dr. Ward is the only one who even got back to me.

Connell seems to understand what I’m saying because he nods and then gives me another hug. I pretend that I can’t feel his pity seeping into me.

“Maybe don’t mention the Dr. Ward thing to Ash,” I whisper to him just before he pulls away.

When he does pull away he looks down at me, concerned. Then he links his arm back around my shoulders and we walk in silence all the way to the lot.

*

I shoot a shifty look left to right before I finally put a heel down on the rain-slickened road.

I probably look like I’m about to try and shift some drugs. I clip as quickly as I can without snapping an ankle and then I take a deep bracing breath as I look up at the neon signage above me.

Rodeo Bar is situated on the outskirts of Carter Ridge, with a clientele of grizzled small-towners who want a little entertainment. It’s early evening but the place is already buzzing, with one waitress walking across the counter and pouring shots from a height, while another side-saddles a mechanical bull and sends flirty eyes to the guys leaning over the barrier to watch. The women who work here are confident with their sex appeal, and the guys going slack-jawed over them are rough-around-the-edges hot.

I don’t feel as at ease here as I did at the wash on Frat Row but it has some small town charm that I’m hoping I can run with.

“Ford?” a woman asks, and I turn around to face her.

She has chocolate brown hair scraped back into a ponytail and sharp cat eyes that seem to bore into my soul. She also has 34DDs that have me questioning my sexuality and a blood-red “Hello My Name Is” clip-tag which simply reads Don’t Ask.

“Hi,” I gush, giving her my best cheer smile and holding out my hand for her to shake.

She looks down at my hand, dismayed, and then her worried eyes flash back to mine.

“You applied for the vacancy? To dance on my bar? To shimmy around my tables?”

Okay, so I take it that this isn’t a hand-shaking kind of establishment. “That would be correct,” I say, smile wavering only slightly.

“How the hell old are you?”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“Yeah, me too. ID?”

I hand her my ID and she looks as though she can’t believe her eyes. She shakes her head and hands it back to me, settling a hand on one of her hips and leaning back against the pool table.

“You’re a dancer?”

“Cheerleader.”

“Are you sure you wanna show your skills here?”

I look around the warm room and see that eyes are already on us. I blush slightly and Don’t Ask says a prayer under her breath.

“Ever ride a bull?” she asks.

“Er…”

“Or pour a drink?”

“Well–”

“Ever had a drink?” she continues, her eyes wide with concern.

“Ijustreallyneedthemoney,” I say quickly, hoping that that will be explanation enough for her to stop the inquisition and give me a tray.

She looks at me for a long moment before nodding and turning on her heel. We walk to a door that belongs in a high-security prison and she punches in the code. Then we both go inside and she settles down in a chair.

She pulls on a pair of sexy cat-eye glasses and rummages through a desk full of paperwork. When she finally finds a blank contract sheet she hooks a pen around the top and passes the document over to me.

“You can read through this out there. Sign it if you think you can cope with the attention.”

“I can cope with–”

“With this kind of attention, Ford. You know what I’m saying.” Before I leave she adds on, “It’s in the paperwork but working here requires a strong stomach. You’ll be dancing to drunk guys, and they aren’t always cuties. You’ll be riding the bull. You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”

“Why would that be–?”

“Because boyfriends don’t like other men going after their girlfriends. Any guy-trouble and you’re gone. That rule is hard and fast.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend. Your bar seems… really nice.”

She pulls her glasses off and cocks an eyebrow at me. “You really don’t have to do this. I’m sure that there are more” – she gestures vaguely at my cardigan – “you jobs out there.”

I take off the cardigan and her eyebrows rise a little higher.

That’s what I thought.

I’ve been wearing cheerleading outfits since I was back in high school – I know how to pull off a mini-skirt and a crop top.

“I did not peg you for the double-denim type,” she says, a little impressed.

I almost smile. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.