Nick
The parking lot at Low Places has more rain puddles than cars. The guys and I usually don’t hit up our favorite dive bar on Tuesday nights—unless it’s playoff season—but tonight seems like the perfect night to have a drink or two by myself. Fortunately withthe rain, I can do so in peace.
Shaking off my umbrella, I mosey into the bar, taking in the desolate place, and suddenly, there she is.
Skye. The owner of Low Places, and someone you do not want to fuck with.
She’s a tiny thing with soft features, always clad in bright colors withblack accents, but on multiple occasions I’ve witnessed her taking out men twice my size.
Over the years, she has become a solace.
“Hey, Skye.” I wrap her in a big hug. She quickly pulls back, giving me a once-over. Then sniffing me. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
I scoff with a smile. “What are you talking about?” I smell my shirt. “Do I stink or—?”
“Why are you a sad little puppy?”
I wince. “I’m not a sad little puppy.”
She raises an eyebrow before directing me with her gaze to take a seat. “Are we needing your usual, or are we needing whiskey tonight?”
I smirk. “I’ll let you guess.”
She flips out a tumbler before pouring two-fingers of a top shelf. Skye knows me; just give me something good. She slides the glass across the polished wood, my drink stopping perfectly in front of me with practiced precision.
I hum, taking a pull, letting the burn overwhelm the aches from the day.
Skye grabs a dish of peanuts, placing them next to me. “Fresh bowl. No one’s had their grubby hands in it yet.” She winks, settling in front of me, leaning against the counter. “So?”
“So … what?”
She laughs sardonically. “Are you going to make me beat it out of you?”
I take another sip. “There’s nothing.”
“Right,” she sasses. “Okay, Nicholas.”
“Did you just proper-name me? Geraldine?”
“Damnit, I never should’ve told you that.” She snickers, wiping down the bar. “Where are your cronies anyway?”
I toss a couple of peanuts in my mouth, staring at her inquisitively. “At home. With their wives—”
“All done!” A petite brunette with her hair braided and fixed like a crown pokes her head out of Skye’s office from behind the bar.
“Ah, perfect timing. I’ve got an important job for you.” Skye waves the woman over. “Leah, this is Cowboy Ken. Your job is to make him not so grouchy.”
“I’m not grouchy—”
“And you …” She whirls around, pointing a stern finger at me. “Be. Nice. She’s my fresh meat, and I need her. Don’t scare her off, and for fuck’s sake—” she lowers her voice—“keep it caged up for the night. Got it?” She jokingly pats my cheek before heading back into her office.
As Skye disappears behind a beaded curtain, the new girl saddles up across the bar from me, offering a hand shake. “It’s nice to meet you—uh … what was it again? Cowboy Ken?”
Great. Thanks a lot, Skye. I was hoping to decompress alone. Not fake pleasantries with some airhead coed babysitter. I glance up, and …
Whoa.
My heart scrambles for its next beat and my lungs forget their innate ability to breathe.
Her smile. It’s sweet. Effortless and sincere. It's not even just the curl of her lips; her eyes come alive with a dance of amber and chocolate hues.
It’s absolutely devastating.
I blink away, my brain finally catching up to the fact that she’s holding out her hand for me to take.
But I can’t, not when touching her suddenly feels dangerous.
She crinkles an eyebrow before noticing the smudges of blue ink staining her fingers. “Oh! It’s marker. The package says it’s washable, but—” she wiggles her fingers—“that was a lie.”
I huff, what’s meant to be a laugh comes out as an incoherent grunt, like I’m a fucking caveman. I bring my drink to my lips, hoping to disguise the short-circuiting of my brain.
“Here …” She steps over to a large, industrial sink and turns on the faucet. “Can’t be too careful, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Folding my hands on the polished wood, I scan the bar, determined to look anywhere but at the gorgeous woman behind it. Naturally, that's when she reaches for a stack of paper towels, and my traitorous eyes catch the movement.
And fuck me sideways.
Her ass in those jeans is immaculate.
And that's when I realize it: she's wearing jeans. Like, actual blue jeans.
No offense to the waitresses and bartenders at Low Places, but I'm used to Daisy Dukes so short they're practically an undergarment. But these jeans fit just fine. Even her bar-issued t-shirt isn't hacked to pieces in the hope some extra skin will mean better tips.
As she pivots back around, my attention snags on a tiny silver cross resting in the hollow of her neck.
Ah. Even more reason to stop ogling at her.
So stop already, stupid …
“..., paint and ink stains are an occupational hazard when you work with kids.”
Her words bring me back to reality, my eyes meeting hers. “I’m sorry. What about kids?”
“Oh! I teach kindergarten.”
I grimace. “The itty-bitties.”
She smiles brightly. “Yep, the itty-bitties. It's such a fun age. They're so cute and tiny. I end up spending most of the day bouncing up and down on my hands and knees—”
I cough and sputter into my drink, quickly setting down the glass.
“Oh my gosh, you okay?” She hurries around the counter, patting my back.
“Fine,” I choke out, coughing into a fist.
Her touch is tender and warm. Heat pools low in my stomach as I wonder how her fingers would feel elsewhere on my body.
Seriously? You literally can’t even coordinate drinking and breathing. Not the best time to be fantasizing about your dick getting wet.
Besides, Leah looks like she’s still in her early twenties—a baby compared to my nearly-forty-year-old ass. She’s young and vibrant, probably believes in love and marriage and soulmates. Hell, she probably cries during proposals and baby announcements.
I don’t need another complication, another woman getting attached to me when I don’t have the capacity to be anything more than a good time. And to be honest, I’m barely even that these days.
I clear my throat, shrugging her off. “Thank you. I-I’m fine.”
After slipping back behind the bar, she hands me a bottle of water from the walk-in fridge and resumes her work, straightening coasters, refilling garnishes, and arranging cocktail napkins into surprisingly elaborate geometric patterns.
Working through her tasks, she hums along with the jukebox …
totally unaware that I’m watching her—and I’m completely fascinated by her mundane movements.
The bell above the door chimes, breaking my reverie, and announcing the arrival of Hal, Skye’s great uncle and the unofficial grandpa of Low Places.
He’s a fun, quirky old man who served in the army for over three decades.
After his wife passed away several years ago, he became more of a regular, not wanting to spend his evenings at home alone.
He shuffles in, streams of rainwater pooling on the floor from his umbrella. A couple of men sharing beers in various corners of the place lift their bottles in acknowledgment as Hal makes his way to a stool at the far end of the bar where he can people-watch and drink.
“Hey, there, sweetheart,” he says, snagging Leah’s attention.
“Well, hey, there, Mr. Hal. So good to see you again.” She chuckles, tossing a towel over her shoulder and joining him.
The space suddenly feels empty, like the silence that follows the blast of a firework—and I welcome it. I came here for a quiet evening of drinking alone, not to be placated by a lightening bomb of sprinkles who sings nursery rhymes and plays pattycake with children all day.
Who looks fucking delicious in those goddamn jeans.
I mentally shake myself, forcing my attention on the highlight reel of various sports from over the weekend.
As commentators argue over the questionable two-point conversion that cost the Texans the game last night, I finish my whiskey and immediately start abusing the straw, bending it between my fingers and chewing on the end.
“You know that's not edible, right?” Leah snickers, reappearing briefly to grab a cold beer from the walk-in.
I pause, glancing down at the mangled plastic.
“Gimme a second.” She pops open the top of the bottle.
“I'll be right back.” After serving Hal his Shiner, Leah jogs back into Skye’s office.
Within seconds, she returns with a large, plastic bag with at least a metric ton of sour gummy peach rings.
Plopping it on the bar, she pushes it toward me while also taking away my crumpled straw. “There. This tastes better.”
I raise an eyebrow, staring at the massive amount of candy. “You just had this on hand?”
“You mean you don't?” She steals a piece. “No wonder you're having a bad day, cowboy.”
I chuff. “I'm fine.”
“Mmhmm.” She takes a bite.
“I am.”
“I believe you.” She pops the other half of her candy into her mouth.
I blink. “Is that sarcasm?”
“Not at all.” She grabs another piece. “I believe that you believe you're fine even though you and I—and that mutilated stirring straw—know that you are not fine.”
I let out a humorless snicker. “Are you my shrink now?”
“I was going for friend.”
“You want to be my friend?”
“Well, it depends.”
I lean in on my elbows. “On?”
She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a deck of playing cards. “If you're a cheater or not.” She giggles, removing the cards from the box and straightening them out. “They’re a bit of a mess. We had rainy-day recess the other day, and we played—”
“Listen …” I interrupt, waving her down. “You seem like a really nice girl and all …”
“But?”
“But what?”
“There's a but in there somewhere.”
I stifle my laugh, tapping my hands rhythmically against the bar. “You don't have to do all of this. I know Skye told you to entertain me, but I really am fine.”