His sister would always be his top priority.

If it turned out Logan Stark was on the up-and-up, well then, maybe she’d be safe without Rowdy keeping tabs on her. At least for a short time.

Long enough for him to take care of Morton as he should have two long years ago.

A drunk loitered outside the bar entrance. Off to the side, two youths smoked and talked too loud.

Distractions like that would never have happened at Checkers, but for here and now, an uninterested owner worked to Rowdy’s advantage; the less accountability at the bar, the safer it was for him.

While wondering if the bar would end up abandoned, he almost missed the woman smiling at him. She stepped out of the shadows, tall, slender, sexy—and probably for sale. Too bad he avoided hookers. Not because of moral scruples, but because he never spent money so unwisely.

“What do you say, sugar?” She traced a finger up and down her exposed cle**age. “Got some free time?”

Nothing but. “Sorry, but you look out of my price range.”

“For you, I’d offer a…special.”

Yeah, he could just imagine. “Appreciate it, but not this time.” After a farewell nod, he entered the dim establishment. Sluggish music played. Regulars filled the booths and the bar. Up on a ramshackle stage, exposed bodies gyrated.

More women looked his way, so he tried not to make prolonged eye contact. In his current mood, he didn’t want to encourage anyone. He had a few things to work out before he sought company for the night.

A nod here, a halfhearted smile there. He always appreciated the female attention. But he didn’t always take advantage of it. Sometimes, though, when the dark past intruded and his turbulent thoughts made sleep impossible, he needed a woman’s softness to get him through the night.

And at those times, he always despised his own weakness.

Grabbing a seat at a small table, slouching back comfortably, Rowdy glanced toward one attentive woman who looked too young, another who looked too mature. He settled on watching a pole dancer who had a great ass.

Other women worked the floor in skimpy dresses, some nearly topless, all in mile-high heels. Matching small aprons distinguished them as employees of the bar.

He rubbed his mouth, wondering if a fast tumble would help clear his thoughts. Not that anyone had really grabbed his interest yet. Hell, he felt no spark, not even for the mostly naked blonde; he definitely didn’t appreciate her substantial curves as he should have.

“What can I get for you?”

At the intrusion of that brisk female voice, Rowdy glanced up—and got lost in pale blue eyes.

But not for long.

While the gyrating blonde left him cold, this woman set off a spark. He trailed his gaze over her, from thick, dark red hair held back by a headband, to a narrow nose and wide mouth, to her petite little bod.

No sexy uniform for her.

She wore straight jeans with slip-on shoes and a regular crew-necked T-shirt. That same apron, a little messier than the others, loosely circled her waist.

Rowdy looked back at her face. “You’re a trim little package, aren’t you?”

Her chin tucked in. “You have two options, okay? You can give me your drink order, or you can get a different table.”

Well, well, well. A challenge? A chase?

The spark caught flame.

Rowdy smiled at her—and saw her blink. A little predatory, a lot cynical, he kept quiet and watched her.

“Okay,” she said. “I have to admit, that look is effective. Dangerously so. But as it is, I live on tips, so if you don’t want anything—”

“I want.”

She filled her lungs on a deep breath. Shifted her stance. Looked up at the ceiling, then off to her right. “The thing is, honestly, I need to take a drink order. But that’s it. That’s my job, nothing more.”

“No pole dancing, huh?” He relaxed a little more, sliding back in his chair, one hand on the table, one resting on his thigh. “Well, damn.”

Her brows pinched over his mild show of disappointment. “The place would go broke, believe me.”

“I assume it’s already going broke.” When that confused her, he said, “The ‘for sale’ sign?”

“Oh, yeah.” She scrunched up her nose. “Are you thinking of buying?”

“Could I reassign you to the pole if I do?”

“Not if you wanted to continue employing me.”

Had the current owner already tried that? Interesting. “Got other prospects, huh?”

She gave a hesitant pause, then without invitation, she pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. Prim and proper. Spine straight, shoulders back. “So what’s your name?”

“You can call me anything you like.” As long as it wasn’t his actual name. For those who might care, Rowdy Yates had fallen off the face of the earth, and he planned to keep it that way.

“All right. Here’s the thing, Walter.”

“Walter?”

“That’s the name I’m choosing. You did say anything would do.”

He chided her with a small frown. “But not Walter.”

She let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m working, sir.”

“That’s not much better.” Hell, no one had ever called him sir. The people he associated with either had no manners at all, or were the ones he deferred to, not the other way around.

She forged on. “I have responsibilities, sir. I know that the bar encourages outrageousness. I understand that. It’s a guys’ hangout.” She glanced around with clear contempt, murmuring low, “There’s a lot of sexism, and a lot of inappropriate activity going on.”