Chapter 8
JACE
“Where you at?”
“Behind the at.”
I groan. Audibly. Long and hard so that there is no room for any kind of questions about how I feel regarding my best friend’s answer. His stupid, stale, pedantic answer.
“That joke wasn’t funny when Mrs. Grupposo told it the first time in eighth grade English, and it’s certainly not funny now.”
Owen snickers, getting way too much enjoyment out of my reaction.
It was exactly what he was going for, I’m sure.
He was sitting right next to me in class that day Mrs. Grupposo snarkily replied to someone’s inquiry with that comeback, using it as a platform to lecture—errr, educate—us on when it is and isn’t appropriate to end a sentence with a preposition.
Apparently where you at is not one of those times. Hasn’t stopped me from using it.
“I’m south of Tifton on seventy-five,” Owen replies, mirth still filling his voice. “Why? Whatcha need?”
I slam the door of my truck behind me, clicking the button on the fob a couple of times to make sure it’s not only locked, but extra super locked.
“Just got back into town; gonna grab a beer at Pour Decisions.”
“I’m on duty for at least another half hour, but can meet up with you after. How long you gonna be there?”
I glance at my watch as I reach for the door.
Four fifteen. Meaning that even if Owen starts making his way back up toward town now, it’ll be five-thirty before he’s here.
Then again, it’s not like I have anything else on my to-do list for tonight.
Might as well hang out at my older brother’s taphouse.
“’Til I decide it’s time to eat.”
“I’ll text you when I’m about thirty minutes out. Good deal?”
“Good deal.”
I hit the end button, slipping my phone into my back pocket and yanking the door open. A blast of cool air whooshes past me, sending a chill up my arms. I shake off a shiver, squinting as I walk inside.
I’m so ready for a beer I can taste it. It was a long trip—a good one, but a long one.
Seven schools in eight days. A total of eighteen classes.
Including three training sessions, certifying fifteen new Hayes Personal Safety trainers.
Those are my favorite sessions. Working with people who are interested and passionate about helping others, teaching personal safety and self-defense techniques that are easy to understand and perform.
“It really just depends…”
A soft, feminine voice wafts through the air, my ears perking up, the melodic sound sending a different kind of shiver ripping through me. One that goes straight to my groin.
“I personally think that having both of you on camera is the way to go, but if one of you is more enthusiastic than the other, we can make pretty much anything work.”
My dick twitches, the sweetness almost too much to handle. Until I realize that I know that voice.
And it shouldn’t be making my dick do anything. Other than maybe wilt.
“I’m down for whatever. Just let me know,” Brandt Rawlins, Milo’s best friend, business partner, and now brother-in-law says.
“That makes me so happy to hear,” Presley coos. “It’s nice to have a team not push back.”
Wow…that’s a jab…
My eyes adjust to the dim lighting in the bar, Presley’s brown hair shining under one of the overhead lights from where she’s perched at the rough cut bar.
She hasn’t turned around or even slightly glanced this way since I walked in, so I know she doesn’t know I’m here.
Didn’t stop her from taking a swing at me though. That’s low—even for her.
Then again, I don’t know why it surprises me.
Maybe because my dick seems to have a mind of his own and is hoping she turns around so we can see those gorgeous blue-gray eyes.
“Not everyone is willing to potentially make a jackass of themselves online in the name of free publicity,” I comment, weaving my way through the tables toward the bar. I don’t bother to hide the bite in my voice. She knows exactly how I feel about this stupid social media push.
“Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve made idiots out of ourselves.” Milo laughs, slapping Brandt’s chest with the back of his hand.
“And probably not the last,” Brandt adds.
They both have a point. Those two have been making our parents sprout gray hairs for a long damn time.
Stories of the shit they got up to in high school are legendary around this town—some of them so often repeated and exaggerated it’s hard to know what is real and what’s fiction at this point.
The moonshine still they engineered out in the town forest. The camping trip where they were gone longer than expected, only to be found drunk off that moonshine by the town sheriff.
Brandt running through Rhythm and Brews naked except for a sandwich board advertising Southern Brothers the first year they were up and running.
And who can forget when they tried to beat the shit out of each other in this very bar.
Granted, Brandt had just walked in on his baby sister, Brenna, in a very compromising position with his best friend.
Both Milo and Brenna had failed to mention that they were dating one summer while Brandt was away.
It all worked out in the end, and Brandt stood next to Milo as his best man this past summer at their wedding.
“There are plenty of ways to engage with social media and online marketing that don’t involve facing the camera or doing anything silly,” Presley replies, her voice tight as she forces a smile.
“Oh, so you just saved all those for me?” I reply, not bothering to hide my snark.
I lean against the bar, keeping two barstools’ worth of space between us. Presley bristles, straightening up her stance.
“If the shoe fits, Jace.”
“Ohhhhh,” Milo croons. “Shots fired.”
I throw a glare at him and consider flipping him the bird too, but hold back. He’s supposed to be on my side here. Then again, everything is fair game with sassy older brother.
“My shoes fit just fine. And I’m not looking for a new pair.”
Honestly, I’m not even sure that response make sense. But it’s the only thing I can think of. Sounds halfway decent, I think. Maybe.
“Can we help you?” she shoots back. If nothing else, my nonsensical response got under her skin.
“The last thing I need is help from you, Presley.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Yeah, she’s all hot and bothered now. Just how I want her. Well, not the hot part. I don’t need to be thinking about that. Thinking about Presley Callahan that way has gotten me into more than enough trouble over the years.
Smirking, I adjust my stance, taking my time to answer. “I’m here for a beer. That’s what one does at a bar.”
As if on cue, a pint glass perfectly filled right to the brim appears in front of me, the cool amber liquid calling my name. I take a long sip of the beer, the tart, fizzy taste of Silver Lining Sour dancing across my tastebuds. Ahhh, that’s the stuff.
All of the beers my brother has come up with are good. There’s a reason that their brand has grown so quickly. But this one, the one he discovered by accident, is probably my favorite. There’s just something about it that gets me every time.
“Well, could you do it elsewhere? We’re trying to work.”
“Work?” I squawk. “Is that what you call this?”
Daggers launch from Presley’s eyes as she glares at me. Shifting on her stool uncomfortably, she swallows hard. I can tell she’s trying to find something to come back with, but coming up short. Mission accomplished.
Her shift makes me notice something though.
She’s wearing a dress. A really cute floral thing, with a ruffle at the bottom of the skirt.
At least I think that’s called a ruffle.
All I know for sure is that it’s frilly and cute and paired with those cowboy boots she’s wearing makes me want to push her around the dance floor at The Giddy Up.
Or take her on a picnic in a wide-open field where she can spin and twirl, letting that skirt billow out, showing off her legs, her giggles filling the air.
Fuck, now I’m hard.
I need to stop.
Presley turns back to Milo and Brandt, refocusing herself. I, on the other hand, can’t help myself. The need to poke and annoy her is too strong. This must be what Anton feels like all the time when he’s poking at us.
Scanning her up and down once more, the perfect jab appears in my mind. Like it’s on a marquee with accompanying bright lights.
“All dressed up and nowhere to go on this fine evening?”
“What?” Milo asks. I ignore him.
“I know you’ve had some practice with that.”
Fuck, I’m such an ass. This isn’t who I am—I’m a gentleman. I’m charming and tender and sentimental. Except when it comes to this woman.
Presley swallows hard again, keeping her gaze trained on something in front of her, doing everything in her power not to acknowledge me. I got to her with that one.
Who, when, where, or how the rumor started back in high school, I don’t know.
All I know is that by the time it reached me, it was too late to squash it.
That, and it had also made its way to Presley.
The results were exactly what you’d expect—the girl who had moved into town and turned my senior year upside down, and not in a good way, was now waiting on me to ask her to prom.
So I did what any stupid teenage boy in my position would do. I asked someone else. Ashley Tower, one of the few girls Presley considered a “friend” that year. Very publicly, in front of Presley.
Presley rebounded, with the help of our math teacher, Mrs. Chamberlain, and was all set to go with Charlie Wood a few days later. Only, Charlie never showed to pick her up the night of the dance, leaving her high and dry in a deep purple dress with a plunging neckline.
I don’t know what was whispered about more the next Monday at school—the fact that her daddy had to drive her to prom, or that I refused to dance with her after we were crowned king and queen.
A total dick move on my part. Fuck, I really am an ass…