no pilots allowed • bradley bradshaw
Rooster and his teammates are frequent patrons at your aunt's bar, the Hard Deck, while they're training for a dangerous mission. When he asks you out on a date, the two of you jokingly agree to keep it friendly, never cross certain lines…but Rooster has other ideas.
"Do you ever sleep?"
You don't look up from the glass you're polishing, but your mouth twitches into a faint smile...the same way it always does when he shows up at the Hard Deck this early.
"We're not open for, like, another few hours," you tell Rooster, as if he doesn't know that already. You can hear him approaching the bar from behind, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor, making his way through the quiet, mostly-empty room.
You're not supposed to let people in before hours, technically. Especially not good-looking naval aviators who will inevitably distract you a little more than you'd like to admit, but...
"Then what are you doing here?" he asks.
You look up at him. He's taken off his aviators, his dark eyes watching you rather intently. His posture is casual, his tall frame leaning against the counter.
You set down the glass you've been polishing and reach for another one, returning your attention to your task. "Someone has to make sure everything's ready before we open."
He gives you a slow, easy smile. "Mind if I help?"
"Help?"
"Yeah." He looks around the bar as if trying to figure out where to start. "What do you need me to do?"
"Aren't you tired from training?"
"I'm fine," he says, not convincing you in the slightest. "Seriously. What do you need?"
You set down the glass. A small part of you can't resist the chance to keep him around longer.
"I'll feel bad if I make you work," it sounds like you're reasoning with yourself.
Rooster grins. "Then don't make me work. It's my idea."
"My aunt will kill me if she catches you in here, especially if you're working."
"She won't know."
Well...there are some heavy crates that need to be brought in from the storage room, bottles of alcohol that need to be placed on the shelves, tables that need to be wiped down...
The heavy ones. Oh, the heavy ones are tempting.
"You're a menace," you tell him, though it comes out sounding more like a compliment than an insult. It's hard to offend him anyway, you've found; he seems to take everything you say in stride, regardless of whether you mean it or not.
He smiles at you, unfazed. "Is that a yes?"
"What are you doing here so early anyway? You and your team don't usually show up until well after dark."
"Do I need a reason?"
"It's early. You can't be that bored already."
"Maybe I just wanted to see you."
Boy, is he good.
Not falling for it is a challenge every time. You wonder if Rooster knows that, if he gets a kick out of it the way Hangman does when he flirts with every pretty girl who crosses his path. The difference is, Hangman's flirting is playful, an intentional provocation that you can take as a compliment or blow off with a laugh.
Rooster's flirting is different. It's always delivered in that same deep, mellow voice of his, a warm baritone that reminds you of dark whiskey on a cold night, and he has a way of saying things that makes you think he might actually mean them.
"...you don't have to sweet-talk me," you tell him. "I already let you in."
He grins at you. "Who says I'm sweet-talking?"
You turn back to your task of polishing glasses so he won't see the smile you can't contain. That's it, you think. New rule: no more letting him in early. He's too distracting.
"Am I being kicked out?" Rooster asks, amused.
"Yes."
"Really?"
You try not to laugh. "No. But you really don't have to help."
He straightens up from the bar and stretches his arms, yawning. "Where's Penny? Did she leave you here to do all this by yourself?"
"Visiting her mother with Amelia. She'll be back later. I offered to cover while she's gone," maybe out of boredom or some desperation for human contact, but it sounded like a good idea at the time, you just didn't realize it would involve so much work. "The other waitresses will be here, um, soon, I guess, once it gets closer to opening time."
You don't want to admit you're a little intimidated by the responsibility. You've only been working at the Hard Deck for a few months now, having moved here from halfway across the country, and most of that time has been spent behind the bar or taking orders on your notepad, doing the tasks Penny asked you to do, and nothing more. Now that she's away for a few days, you're starting to feel a little overwhelmed with the amount of work that needs to be done.
"You look tired," Rooster observes.
"Thanks."
"I mean it in a good way."
"It doesn't sound good."
"You always look nice," he clarifies, to your mild embarrassment and surprise. "I just mean you seem like you could use some help."
You don't meet his gaze because, no, you're not going to be distracted by those brown eyes again, it's bad enough already. "I...okay. The delivery truck is supposed to arrive soon, so...there are a lot of crates that need to be brought inside. And some in the storage room that I need to bring here to the bar. Some of them are really heavy. I'm not even sure how Penny brings them in by herself."
"Let me take care of that for you."
Let me take care of that for you, says he, like it's no big deal.
"There are some boxes of liquor that need to be taken out of the storage room and brought in here, too," you continue, despite your better judgment, still watching him out of the corner of your eye.
He gives you another slow smile. "Okay. Where is this storage room?"
"There's a door behind the bar. To the right. I'll help you carry them."
"You don't have to."
"I'll show you where they are. And it's gonna be easier if there are two of us."
He looks at you with a knowing smile. "Is that why you want to come along? So you can make sure I don't get distracted and break anything?"
"Exactly."
"I think you're just making excuses to spend time with me."
Does he really have to keep looking at you like that?
"Rooster," you say, as firmly as you can manage.
"Yes?" It doesn't seem to bother him that you're trying to scold him. In fact, you think he's enjoying it.
You walk backwards behind the bar to lead him toward the storage room, pausing when you reach the door. You let out a sigh. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
"Really?" He grins at you, putting his hands in his pockets. "I thought I was being very nice."
"Is that what you call it?"
"Yeah."
"Crates," you say, gesturing to the storage room and changing the subject before he can talk his way into any more compliments. "In there, by the wall. The smaller boxes on the shelves are for the bar. We'll bring them in after we move the big crates. The ones with the heavy bottles inside."
Rooster pauses. "'We'?"
"I can't let you carry all of those by yourself. They're heavy."
"That's cute. But I can handle it."
"No. Not by yourself."
He gives you a confident grin. "Watch me."
The moment he disappears into the storage room, you start to regret saying anything at all. You're not entirely sure what possessed you to let him help you with this; he must have gotten to your head. There are plenty of things you could be doing right now while he's out of sight, and yet...you decide to stand there in the doorway, watching him take inventory of the room, squinting in the dim light and trying to decide where to start.
It's not like you can just leave him to it. It would be too embarrassing if he hurt himself and you did nothing. The best way to keep an eye on him is to stay close by.
Right?
Rooster lets out a groan as he heaves one of the large crates up off the floor. "You weren't kidding," he mutters. "These are heavy."
"Let me—"
"I've got it."
He doesn't let you help him. He lifts the crate off the ground with another grunt, and you're distracted for a moment by the sight of his muscular arms flexing under the strain, the tight white t-shirt he's wearing pulled even tighter across his chest, the—
"Y/N?"
"Hm?" You look up quickly. "What?"
He grins at you. "Want to open the door for me?"
Fuck, you think, not for the first time that day, stepping out of the way to let him through.
You grab a smaller crate for yourself. It's not as heavy as the one Rooster is carrying, but you still strain a little under the weight of it, and Rooster still gives you a disapproving look when he notices.
"I told you," he says, slightly out of breath from his own effort, "you don't have to help."
"It's literally my job to help," you mutter. "Actually, it's my job to carry them all myself, so—"
"I got it."
"Yeah, but I can—"
"You can relax," he tells you, letting out a small groan as he heaves the crate up a little higher. "And go back to what you were doing."
It would be easier to protest if he didn't make it look so effortless. He carries the crate out of the storage room and sets it on the floor near the bar with a thud, barely breaking a sweat.
Your fingers dig into the rough edges of your own crate, which seems ten times heavier all of a sudden. You set it down next to his, more carefully than he did, glancing over at him to see if he noticed.
He looks down at the crate you just set on the floor, then over at you with barely concealed amusement. "Not bad," he says. "You could handle that all by yourself?"
"Shut up."
"No, really." He's not trying to hide his smile anymore. "Impressive."
The laugh you let out is entirely involuntary, equal parts embarrassed and amused. "Okay, fine, I get it," you say. "You're strong. You go get the rest of them while I finish wiping down the tables."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Thank you."
"Any time."
It's fine, you tell yourself as he heads back into the storage room. Rooster being in here won't distract you. It's fine. Everything is fine.
The delivery truck arrives shortly after Rooster has brought in the last of the crates to the bar, so you spend the next hour opening the boxes and sorting the bottles, filling the shelves behind the bar with whiskey and rum and vodka, gin and tequila and other liquors...and totally not stealing glances at Rooster as he carries the crates from the truck into the storage room.
You've found a rhythm by the time he returns from the truck for the final time, wiping your hands on your apron as you watch him approach the bar.
"I think that's all of them," he says, letting out a groan as he stretches his arms above his head.
The nerve, you think, resisting the urge to stare. The absolute nerve.
"Thank you."
He lowers his arms. "I never said it was for free."
"What?"
Rooster leans forward and props his elbows on the bar, the same cocky grin from earlier playing at his lips. "There's a price for my help."
"A price?" you ask, still polishing the same glass you've been working on since he arrived. "And what's that?"
"...a drink."
Well, that's easy.
"A drink? You want me to pay you a drink?"
"Ah, no, no," he says with a laugh, waving his hand like the idea is ridiculous. "I want you to let me buy you a drink."
Oh.
"Oh."
"And something to eat, too," he adds, and by the time you recover from the initial shock of what he's suggesting, he's already standing up straight again. "What time do you get off work?"
"No."
"No?" He looks at you in surprise.
"I can't," but you're only barely resisting.
"You can."
"Rooster."
He frowns. "What?"
"I..." Why is this so hard? "I can't go out with you. It's—I can't."
"Why not?"
You feel tempted. Boy, are you tempted. You're smiling even as you shake your head, trying to focus on polishing the glass in your hands. "Because I actually...like you."
Rooster pauses, his smile returning. "You can't go out with me because you like me?"
"This heart," you tap your fingers on your chest, smiling still, "is off limits, okay? No pilots allowed."
The tables are clean and the bar is stocked and organized, but you need to do something else, anything else, if only to avoid Rooster's gaze. You slip the cloth you've been using into your apron pocket and look around for another task. There must be something you missed. Anything.
Tables, yeah. You can wipe down the tables again.
"Okay," he says slowly, clearly not convinced, "so let me get this straight: You like me, therefore you're not allowed to go out with me?"
You nod. "Exactly."
"Are you kidding?"
You take the cloth out of your apron pocket again and glance around the bar, searching for any traces of dust on the tables or chairs that might need to be wiped down.
"Y/N?"
You've already gone over the tables once...
Rooster steps closer. "You know that makes no sense, right?"
You're not distracted by the sight of his hand sliding onto the countertop next to you. You're not distracted by the sudden proximity of him as he leans in closer. It's fine, it's not a problem, you can deal with this.
"So...you're saying you do want to go out with me," he says, sounding far too pleased with himself, "but you won't?"
He's so close. He smells good, like pine and leather. You glance over at him, realizing how little space there is between you now, and quickly look away.
"That's—I don't..."
"Because you like me."
"Shut up."
His gaze drops to your mouth. "Make me."
You swallow. Hard.
It takes a monumental amount of willpower to step away from him, to resist the temptation to touch him or get closer, but you manage. Barely. You make yourself focus on the task you've found for yourself, pretending that Rooster isn't standing behind you watching as you wipe down the tables a second time.
"I think we should go out," he says again, obviously not taking your silence for the no it's supposed to be. "There's a place downtown that I think you'd like."
You chuckle, which probably doesn't help matters, but...it's really hard to say no to him.
"Would I?"
He must have sensed weakness because he follows you around the bar as you continue your pointless cleaning. "Today is one of the last days we have off," he tells you. "Maverick has us in the air all day tomorrow, and most of the day after that. If we don't go out tonight, who knows when we'll have another chance...or how long it'll be before I see you again."
"Rooster..."
"Come on," he says, more gently this time. "One drink. Or maybe dinner. Nothing too fancy. I promise."
You pause and glance over at him. He really doesn't know when to quit. "But it's not a date."
"No. Totally not."
You don't like how much it sounds like he's laughing at you.
"Really?"
"Not even close," he says, like he's serious. "It's a totally not date between two friends."
He follows you, like a puppy, around the bar, until you pause again, thinking it over for what feels like the millionth time in the last few minutes. One drink, he said.
Not a date.
...just two friends hanging out.
No feelings involved.
You sigh, letting the cloth in your hand drop to the table, giving in to the inevitable. "Fine," you say, turning around to face him. "But it's not a date."
"No."
"Or a first date."
"Right."
"And it's just one drink."
"I swear."
"And we can't—we can't..." You can't help but notice the way he's looking at you, his brown eyes full of mischief, a hint of that playful smile on his lips again, and you're suddenly worried he might get the wrong idea about this whole thing. "No...you know."
His eyes linger on your mouth again before meeting your gaze with a sly smile. "No...what?"
"You know."
"I really don't."
"It's not a date."
He chuckles softly at your obvious distress, clearly enjoying this. "Okay, it's not a date."
"Exactly. So don't do anything you'd do if it was a date."
He steps closer, grinning, the space between you evaporating again. "And what is it," he asks in that deep voice of his, a low rumble that resonates somewhere in the pit of your stomach, "that you think I would do on a date?"
The table behind you feels like it's digging into your back.
"No kissing."
"Got it," he says, resting one hand on the table behind you, "no kissing."
"Or any other...date stuff."
"Like what?"
"Like..." You glance at his mouth.
Rooster smiles. "You want to make a list?"
You duck under his arm before he can do something that will get you in trouble. "I'll meet you after work," you tell him over your shoulder as you walk back toward the bar, desperate for some space before you lose your resolve altogether. "Just...stop talking. You're distracting me."
He turns and watches you, amused. "Okay. Pick you up at seven?"
You wonder if it's too late to back out of this, or if he's going to show up here at seven with that stupid smile of his and his ridiculous mustache and ruin everything anyway.
"You don't have to pick me up," you mutter, wiping your hands on your apron one more time, unable to hide your smile. "It's not a date, remember?"
"Whatever you say, sweetheart."
Oh, he's impossible.
"It's not a date!"
