Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
CALLIE
The days following the bombshell about Frank blur together in a monotonous haze.
Every morning, I deliver art supplies to different classrooms and help tiny hands create masterpieces without getting paint in their hair—mostly unsuccessfully.
My afternoons are spent cleaning up messes and prepping for the next day’s chaos.
Brax is nearly impossible to read. One minute, he’s politely asking for more construction paper; the next, he’s avoiding eye contact entirely.
I’ve tried giving him space, skirting around his classroom when possible, but my chest aches whenever I catch glimpses of him with his students.
The tenderness in his expression when he crouches down to their level.
The patient way he explains things. All these new dimensions to the wild boy I once knew.
Regret sits heavy in my chest, a constant companion these days. I should’ve at least come back for the funeral. Frank Williams was like a second father to me, but I was too busy running from my demons to consider what my friends might be going through.
It’s been three days since I found out. Three full days of self-loathing. I’m hoping my shift at The Bar tonight will get me out of my head for a while. I finish applying a coat of mascara, check my reflection one last time, and grab my purse.
My phone dings as I climb into my RAV-4. Unknown number. Probably another scam about my car’s extended warranty. I glance at the screen and my blood turns to ice.
UNKNOWN
Please come back, baby. I love you so much.
Before I can process it, another text follows.
Don’t fucking forget that you are mine. I’m not giving up. We belong together, Callie.
My hands shake as I stare at the messages.
Acid pours through my veins. Fuck Theo. Was it not enough to steal my artwork and dignity?
He has to harass me too? I don’t understand why he won’t just let me go.
Anxiety has my heart pounding so hard I can’t breathe.
I thought leaving would be enough, but apparently, he’s decided our story isn’t over.
Hatred churns in my gut, rising, rising, rising until it shoots out of me.
“Fuck!” I scream, hurling my phone into the back seat. It thuds against the floorboard as white-hot anger courses through me.
I blocked his number, but I should have changed mine.
The thought of him showing up makes my skin crawl, but beneath the fear is something else.
A deep, simmering rage. He’s already taken enough from me.
I’ve had this number since I was a teenager.
It’s mine, I refuse to let him take that and steal my peace in Big Ridge too.
I start the engine, burying my emotions.
Dealing with this will have to wait. I can’t afford to be late to work, especially not when Maura’s been so good to me.
The drive through Big Ridge isn’t too bad tonight, but The Bar’s parking lot is packed when I arrive.
A muffled bass line thumps through the walls.
Perfect. A busy night means good tips and no time to dwell on unwanted texts or how much I’ve fucked up.
I slip in through the back entrance, waving at Lincoln who’s flitting around the kitchen.
“Hey, Callie,” he calls, grabbing the handle of a pan and dumping the contents onto a plate. “Brace yourself. It’s wild out there.”
“When is it not?” I tie my apron around my waist, adjusting the knot at my back. At least Jay, the lead bartender, is back from vacation. Maura’s been running herself ragged covering his shifts on top of everything else.
The moment I push through the swinging door into the main bar, the cacophony of laughter, music, and clinking glasses engulfs me. I’m heading toward my usual station when I hear a laugh that sends an electric current skittering down my spine. Low, rich, and achingly familiar.
I freeze mid-step, my focus drawn to the source like a magnet.
Behind the bar, flipping a bottle with practiced ease, is a man with broad shoulders and a wicked grin I’d recognize anywhere. The light catches the sharp angle of his jawline, the same one his twin brother shares.
No fucking way.
Jay is actually J for Jaxon Williams? I blink, shake my head, and look again. Shit. It is him. The lead bartender is Jax. My chest clenches. This can’t be happening.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, too busy charming a group of giggly tourists with that smile that always meant trouble.
“Shit,” I breathe, the profanity barely audible over the noise.
I swallow past the lump in my throat, cursing every deity I can think of. First Knox and the hurricane shot. Then Brax at school. Now Jax here? How am I supposed to avoid them if the Williams brothers are everywhere I go?
The universe is having a real good laugh at my expense. What a bitch.
This is fine. I can handle this. I’m made of tougher stuff. I’m Callie Mae Harrison. I will not let them run me off. Not again. I square my shoulders and lift my chin. I’ve survived revenge porn, art school critiques, an emotionally abusive ex. I can handle Jax.
One deep breath.
Two.
Fuck you, universe.
Jax catches sight of me and gives me a wicked grin. He snatches up a handful of tickets and strides over, his eyes dancing with mischief as he slaps them down in front of me.
“Maura said you’ve done a good job. I guess it’s time to see what you’re made of, city girl.” His tone carries a challenge I haven’t heard in ten years.
My skin prickles with something dangerously close to excitement. It’s not the tense confrontation with Knox or the vulnerable moment with Brax. This is something wholly our own. A dare for a dare.
That’s the way we work.
Scoffing, I spread the tickets out, memorizing the orders. “I guess it’s a good thing Maura hired a real bartender.”
“Oooooh,” he says, backing away like he’s threatened. “Still a trash talker, huh?”
I shoot him a look. “Shut up and get to work.”
Smirking, he gives me a one finger salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
There are so many tickets and bodies. The line has only grown since I walked behind the bar, and with the music pounding in the speakers, it’s sensory overload. The scent of perfume mingles with whiskey and beer, and I breathe in, letting muscle memory take over, falling into a rhythm.
Jax works beside me, our bodies performing an intricate dance of give and take in the limited space. Every time our shoulders accidentally brush, little electric shocks shoot through me. My body still craves these men.
“Four tequila shots, two cosmos, and a whiskey sour,” he calls out, already reaching for bottles.
I grab the tequila before he can. “I’ve got this batch.”
“Show off.”
“It’s not my fault you suck,” I fire back.
He chuckles and shakes his head. We power through the orders, trading barbs between drinks.
It feels eerily familiar, this easy competition, the way we anticipate each other’s movements.
For every drink he makes, I make another.
For every smile he flashes a customer, I counter with one that’s a little brighter, or a little more sultry, depending on the customer.
The tip jar in front of me begins to overflow while Jax’s is looking a little sad.
“You’ve gotten good at this,” he admits, watching me mix a perfect Manhattan.
I smirk. “One of us had to develop actual skills.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Says the girl who could barely pour a beer without it being all foam.”
Huffing, I slide the drink to the customer. “That was one time and I was sixteen,” I tell him before grinning at the tourist. “On the tab?”
“Yes, please,” she says.
Jax picks up the conversation where we left off. “Try seven. I counted.”
“Not everything is a competition. There’s no need to keep score.”
“Only losers say that.”
I bristle. “I’m not a loser.”
He finishes a round of drinks with a flourish, catching my eye as he slides them across the bar.
“I never said you were. Think you can keep up with this?” He grabs two bottles of vodka, flipping one dramatically into the air.
It spins twice before he catches it behind his back without looking. The bar erupts in cheers.
I roll my eyes, but my heart speeds up with that competitive fire I’ve never been able to douse. “You call that a trick? I learned that my first week in New York.”
“Oh yeah, princess? Prove it.”
I narrow my eyes, looking at the bottles, and tentatively reach for one then pause, like I’m scared.
Jax’s grin widens. The fool thinks he’s won.
Sucker. I grab a bottle of tequila and my shaker, taking a deep breath.
This will be easy. I’ve done it a hundred times.
In one fluid motion, I whip the bottle in a perfect gunslinger twirl, sending it spinning against my palm while I toss the shaker over my shoulder, catching it behind my back without looking.
The crowd murmurs with approval, but I’m not done.
I tap the bottle once against my armpit, launch it into the air again, and when it comes down, I catch it on the back of my hand.
The bottle balances there for a heartbeat before I flip my hand over, catch the bottle properly, and pour a perfect measure into the shaker.
The bar erupts. Whistles and hollers bounce off the walls. A grin cuts across my face. Yeah, I still got it.
Jax’s eyebrows are at his hairline, those ocean-dark irises wide with surprise and something that looks suspiciously like admiration. “I guess that was pretty cool.”
“You guess?” I ask with an exasperated look. That trick took me weeks to perfect.
He steps closer, voice dropping so only I can hear. “What other tricks did you learn?”
My face bursts into flames. “None that I’m showing you.”
He laughs, that deep rumble that used to make my teenage heart skip. “Is that a dare?”
“Don’t start,” I warn him with a smile that hurts my cheeks. With Knox, it feels like I might shatter. With Brax, it feels intense, but Jax? He makes it easy to forget and that’s more dangerous than the other two. His smile could wipe away ten years of resentment.
“Look at the bartender slut showing off.” The insult slices through the moment like a blade.
It came from Derek, the linebacker who spent most of high school trying to get in my pants only to spread rumors when I turned him down.
He’s sitting at the end of the bar, beard hiding most of his face, but I’d recognize that sneer anywhere.
You look like a slut, Callie. For a moment, I’m lost between all the times Theo called me vile names and Derek hurling the insult at me now. My smile falls as ice slithers through my veins.
“Bet she learned that trick giving lap dances,” he continues, loud enough for nearby patrons to hear. “You making a new porno tonight, Callie?”
His words are a slap across the face. The reason I left comes rushing back, dousing me in ice water.
Something primal and furious rises in me.
I’m done with men insulting me, calling me names to make them feel better about their inadequacies.
Slut. Slut. Slut. You know what? Fuck Derek.
Fuck customer service and kindness. Maybe it’s time to fight back.
I grab a water pitcher and fling its contents directly into Derek’s face, nearly crawling on top of the bar to make sure I hit the right target.
“What the FUCK?” he sputters, water dripping from his beard. “You crazy bitch!”
“Oh how original, Derek,” I hiss his name. “Still working with a limp dick?”
His chair screeches back. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Still the same trash, flirting with all three Williams brothers. Everyone knows you fucked—”
Suddenly Jax is between us, his back to me, shoulders tensed like a shield. He grabs Derek by the collar. A gasp tumbles past my lips. I didn’t even see him move.
“You better leave while you still have two legs to walk on.” Jax’s voice is hard, a stark contrast to the light-hearted bartender from moments ago.
Derek’s face flushes red beneath his beard. “Of course you’re taking that slut’s side. She still sucking your cock?”
So he did see the video. Embarrassment burns like fire in my cheeks.
“Last warning.” Jax shoves him away. “Get out of my bar before I break both those kneecaps.”
For a tense moment, Derek looks like he might push it further. Then something in Jax’s stance makes him reconsider. He throws some bills on the counter. “Whatever. There’s better beer at Ridge Watering Hole anyway.”
The crowd parts as he storms out. The buzz of excitement turns to murmured speculation, everyone watching to see what I’ll do next. The locals know every sordid detail, but the tourists are the worst. They’re strangers and now they all know my dirty past.
Thanks a fucking lot, Derek.
Jax’s body radiates heat. He’s still positioned in front of me. The protective gesture makes my skin buzz and my heart race for reasons I don’t want to think about. He turns slowly, eyes searching mine. “You okay?”
“Fine.” My voice comes out sharp.
He reaches for me. “Callie.”
“I said I’m fine.” I grab a rag and wipe down the bar with unnecessary force. “There are customers waiting.”
Jax hesitates, then nods, returning to his side of the bar. The easy camaraderie from earlier evaporates, replaced by a tension that manifests in my shoulders and at the base of my skull.
I steal a glance at him as he mixes a drink, his movements fluid and precise.
The heat of his body lingers on my skin.
He didn’t even hesitate to stand between me and danger.
My chest aches, years of missing the guys filling my head with all kinds of fairy tales.
But that’s not why I came back. I can’t risk more humiliation, more damage to my heart or my reputation that’s already in tatters.
Professional. That’s what I need to be. Just a bartender doing her job. Lord knows I have enough problems as it is, the last thing I need is three men that are sexier than sin messing with my head.