All Chapters of Motley Crewed Shifters: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Ugh. Cowboys. Again.Wannabe fucking cowboys at that.I roll my eyes and deliberately turn my back on the group of out-of-towners strutting through the door like they own the place, their denim too crisp, their boots too clean.Not a scuff, not a speck of dust. Just that store-bought, mass-produced Western cosplay that somehow makes my skin crawl.Why do grown-ass men always wanna dress up like goddamn cowboys?I mutter it under my breath, but Rita, my coworker, hears me anyway.“I don’t know, honey, but it pays the rent,” she snorts, expertly balancing a tray of beers as she saunters toward the table of loud-mouthed city boys.They’re already hootin’ and hollerin’, like this is some honky-tonk straight out of a movie, instead of a dimly lit, no-frills bar in the middle of Dry Creek, New Jersey.Bob’s Bar.It’s old-fashioned and small, the kind of place that smells like stale beer and wood polish, with a stage that only sees live music on Fridays, and a dusty jukebox in the

“Is that my beautiful granddaughter?”Gramps’ voice booms from the living room the second I step through the door of our tiny apartment, warm and full of mischief.I roll my eyes, but I smile anyway as I set the single bag of groceries on the kitchen counter.One bag.That’s all I could afford this time.I try not to let it get to me, but Jesus, I can’t believe the price of things. The world’s going to hell, and grocery bills are leading the charge.Good thing I went vegetarian in my teens because the cost of meat? I don’t even want to think about it.Gramps, on the other hand, still needs his lean proteins, so I make sure to get him a small pack of chicken or fish when I can swing it.Our apartment is small.I call it cute and cozy, but really, it’s just small.Still, I do my best to keep it warm, keep it ours.A green and gold wreath I made for St. Patrick’s Day hangs on the door, the little ribbons dancing every time we walk past.A small ceramic pot of fresh herbs sits

I head into my room to get ready for my shift, which makes it sound like it’s some grand affair. It’s not.Just a pair of jeans that are starting to lose the battle against time and thigh rub, and a black t-shirt that says Bob’s Bar in peeling white letters over my chest. Real glamorous stuff.Still, it’s warm out today. Finally.I decide to brush out my hair until it falls in soft, wavy ribbons, all shiny and clean.I pull it up into a high ponytail, a little bounce at the crown. Something about it makes me feel fresh.Presentable.Kinda cute.I swipe on a bit of face powder, add some mascara to make my blue eyes pop, and finish with a touch of pink gloss.Sweet.Simple.Functional.I don’t do heavy makeup. Not because I’m some au naturel goddess or anything, but because I run hot.And by hot, I don’t mean sexy.I mean sweaty.You ever see blush on top of a peaches-and-cream complexion that’s currently losing a battle with humidity and hustle?Yeah.Not cute.I learne

The drive to my place is short.Like, blink-and-you-miss-it short.But with Kian O’Malley behind the wheel? It feels like an eternity.Holy hell, I’m in his truck.His actual truck.Not some dream sequence, not a fever fantasy brought on by working doubles and skipping lunch.This is real.And I have no chill.Because Kian isn’t just good-looking. He’s not some “Oh, he’s cute if you squint” kind of guy.No, he’s like boy band hot.Like, late-90s-mega-heartthrob-meets-Outlander-hero hot.Sure, I’ve seen plenty of attractive men. I don’t live in a hole, thank you very much.But Kian?He’s in another category entirely.I’m a natural blonde. But where my hair is just pale—more faded than gold, like something out of a sun-bleached magazine ad for hair dye—his is bold and bright.Glittering gold, kissed with dark roots and warm, tawny lowlights, like the sun and the earth decided to get drunk and make art on his head.And it’s straight.No curl. No frizz.Just that perfect,

Ever been so deep in your own head while driving that you blink and somehow, you’re just there?At your destination, with no memory of the stoplights or the turns or the road at all?Yeah. That’s me.Right now.Arliss is sitting next to me in the passenger seat like she owns the night. Chin up, eyes bright, a quiet kind of strength radiating off her like wildfire.Her blonde hair is loose, soft waves tumbling around her shoulders, catching the light and my gaze like a damn magnet.She looks like she belongs on a throne.Not in my beat-up truck.Not next to me.Her t-shirt clings to those perfect curves and those jeans—holy fucking hell—they’re driving me halfway to crazy.I’m so hard I can barely shift gears. My whole body’s coiled tight, like one wrong move might shatter me.I must’ve been speeding, because it feels like we hit my cabin in seconds.Too fast.Not enough time to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to say or do next.“Is this your place?” she asks, eyes w