Conceal (The Barker Triplets 3)

Beau thought he knew her—just like everyone else in town—but they didn’t know shit. No one knew the real Betty Jo and she was fine with that. She wasn’t about feelings or letting people in. She wasn’t about sharing. That kind of stuff would bite you in the ass.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t have a heart. It was there…buried somewhere beneath all the scars.

It was there.

She thought of the little boy—of the big eyes in the photos she’d seen posted around town—and something inside her twisted. And though she was probably going to regret it, she knew that Beau Simon would make a difference. His name alone would sell a shitload of tickets.

This was for the kid. She could do this.

Betty glanced over to the end of the bar where Beau sat chatting with Duke’s wife and Miss Goody-Two-Shoes herself, Deidre Hollings. Deidre glanced up and saw Betty. Blonde Goody-Two-Shoes, had her tits practically in Beau’s face, and smiled at Betty as she bent even lower to whisper something in Beau’s ear.

Something sparked inside Betty. Something fierce, and hot, and kind of exciting.

She squared her shoulders, tossed her hair, and walked toward them as if she was working a catwalk in Paris, a sexy smile on her face.

Miss Goody-Two-Shoes was about to get run over.

Chapter Eight

BEAU TOOK A sip from his beer and glanced up as Betty came swooping back into the bar from the kitchen.

She had him. Just like that.

His focus.

Hell, she had every cell in his body standing at attention. He figured it was a perfectly respectable reaction to a beautiful woman so he wasn’t gonna over analyze it.

Duke’s wife, Jackie, kept up with her enthusiastic endorsement of his last movie, her friends Sylvia and Deidre holding onto their autographed napkins as if they were buried treasure. The assholes sitting several feet away from him took their eyes from where Beau sat long enough to rest them on Betty.

The bastard who’d insulted her, grinned, wiped foam from his mouth, and shouted for another jug.

Betty didn’t bother to look at him as she answered. “Get it yourself dickhead.”

She strode toward Beau, those long, bare, tanned legs looking like every man’s dream in black come-fuck-me heels. Her hair was loose, falling around bare shoulders in silky waves. And though she wore barely any makeup, her natural beauty shone through in a way that even the dim lighting in The Grill couldn’t hide.

“You’re still here,” she said rudely as she stopped just on the other side of the bar. A soft, summery scent wafted in his nostrils and as she leaned her hip against the bar, he took a closer look.

The delicate skin beneath her eyes was bruised, as if she’d had no sleep—which, considering the scene he’d witnessed the night before, was understandable. There was something almost fragile in her gaze as she stared at him, hands twirling a straw between her fingers.

“Oh my God, Betty,” Duke’s wife exclaimed while her friends gasped. “That is not how we talk to customers. This is Beau Simon!”

“Yep, he’s Beau Fucking Simon, alright.” Betty said with a flip of that damn hair as her eyes landed on Beau. “I also know that just like every other man on the planet, he pees standing up—“ she paused and smiled wickedly at him—“you do, don’t you? Pee standing up? Or maybe you sit like a girl.”

Betty made a point of studying him closely, her bottom lip held between even, white teeth. “Yeah.” She nodded. “I think you probably sit like a girl and read People magazine, counting all the pictures and articles related to any one of the Simons. I bet you even take phone calls in the bathroom.”

“Really, is that what you think?” He tried not to smile, but couldn’t quite help it.

“I do,” she said, that wicked gleam still in her eyes. “I think you like to look at pictures of yourself and I think…”

“Don’t stop now.”

Betty paused, then leaned close to whisper. She was flirting and he had no clue why, but Beau wasn’t going to stop it. “You don’t want to know what I’m thinking right now.”

Beau took another swig of beer, liking the way her eyes rested on him and no one else. And this coming from a guy who, though used to people staring at him, didn’t particularly enjoy it much.

“Betty Jo Barker,” the woman beside Jackie Everets said. “You’re going to hell. Anyone who talks smack about Beau Simon is…Going. To. Hell.”

The woman pressed in closer to Beau, her chest thrown out as if she was hanging the girls out to dry. They were impressive girls. Nicely rounded, a tad more than a handful. Heck, if this was a different time and place, he might even make a play to have those girls in his hands for a few hours.