Chapter 3
“Every. Fucking. Time!” I hear Pete—a bar regular and local Sky Ridge medic—call out as he slaps twenty dollars down in the center of our worn pool table at Shifty’s the precise moment I arrive with his beer.
“You take him again?” I ask Matt, his co-worker, with a grin. He clearly just beat him for the third time tonight. Matt’s chuckling at Pete as he takes the two Budweiser’s off my tray and passes one to Pete.
“’Course.” Matt smirks. “I beat him every weekend and he keeps coming back for more,” he says with a friendly wink.
I laugh. Matt’s a good egg. And handsome. He’s all pretty, wholesome smiles.
“Thanks, Vi.” He pulls a five out of his pocket and pops it on my tray to tip me. He’s been doing that all night, adding to my nice little stash behind the till.
“Good thing he’s tipping, darlin’, he’s taken all my money,” Pete says, looking crushed as he takes his first sip.
“Play nice, boys,” I say, patting Matt on the shoulder. “Go easy on him; you know the more he drinks, the more he bets.”
Matt leans in. “I’m counting on it.”
I shake my head and cast them a smile over my shoulder.
“Double or nothin’.” I hear Matt suggest as I start making my way through the crowd back to the bar.
A few of their buddies laugh. I had all but forgotten what Saturday nights at Shifty’s were like. The smell of perfume and sweat fills the air, it's almost enough to overtake the stale beer and pub food smell.
We’re packed full tonight with a bunch of townies and it’s only 9:30. Some off-duty cops are huddled in a big group in one corner, lit up by the neon glow of vintage signs my parents have collected over the years, and a good-sized group of locals are line dancing to Luke Bryan in the back corner. The bar is lined up with a lot of people I’ve known most of my life. I make my way to a few tables, taking orders to help Lou out then venture back behind the bar to fill my tray. Lou always stays behind the bar. He’s just plain faster than I am after doing this for so many years and he knows the drinks inside and out. I’m still learning, so server duty it is.
I’m just placing the last round of whiskeys down at the table closest to the door when it opens with a ding. I can smell them before I see them and grief swells in my chest. It’s not their existence that hits me. It’s that smell . Smoke, and the diesel mix that fuels their drip torches and…dirt. I’d know it anywhere. I take an extra few seconds placing my last whiskey down on the table in front of me, willing the tightness in my chest to subside, reminding myself I can always cry another day. I throw a silent prayer up that he’s not here, then take a deep breath, turning to face the group of hotshots I know are waiting for me.
I immediately come face to face with those deadly navy eyes. Shit.
Rowan Kingsley. My other ghost, the living one I wish I could avoid.
His nickname is King to all of them, and he was my brother Jacob’s best friend. He was also the guy who absolutely decimated my heart when I was eighteen.
His six-foot-three frame looms over me. He wears his greens and a black Sky Ridge Crew T-shirt. He’s much more muscular than the last time I saw him and of course, he's still gorgeous. Rowan has always had an all-American team captain vibe about him, like he was ripped right from the pages of Men’s Health Magazine and dropped onto our local hotshot crew. His jaw is wide, strong, and right now, scruffy. His features are straight and rugged, and his right arm is entirely covered in ink. I notice a hawk, with its wings spread wide. They wrap entirely around so I can’t see where they meet. It’s the largest piece on his rippled, corded forearm. I spot the date above it. The date Jacob died. It’s front and center and it hits me square in the chest. A wave of grief washes over me so hard I have to look away.
Fuck.
Before I can even say anything, or the tightness has a chance to set in, I’m swept up by one of them in a crushing hug. It takes me a second to realize the man hugging me is Mike Opperman.
Jacob loved him, he called him “ bear” on account of his big, burly appearance. The guys call him Opp. He gives me a little spin and a “Fucking Christ, Little T, what the hell are you doing here waiting tables?”
I laugh, putting on my best brave face. It’s been a long time since I’ve been called Little T. Little Taylor.
“Just living the dream, Opp.” I laugh as Opp sets me down, gesturing to my serving tray. I’ve known him my whole life. In fact, I’ve known most of these guys my whole life. The image of their faces at my brother’s funeral flashes through my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut to push the vision away. It was a lot easier to bury those memories when I wasn’t here. But sometimes, it still feels like yesterday, not five years ago.
“Welcome home, Violette, your dad said you were working at Bakersfield?” Xander says, giving me a friendly side hug and a kiss on the top of my head. My eyes flit to King’s for all of one second. The look he’s wearing tells me he didn’t know I was even home until he walked in here and saw me.
I look back at Xander. “Yeah. Almost a month now.”
“That explains why we haven’t seen you yet, we’ve been going non-stop for five weeks,” Cal Woods, their captain, says, leaning in to give me a friendly hug too. “Anyone fucks with you in here, we’ve got you, lil’ sis,” he says patting me on the head.
I nod, knowing he means it.
That’s how they all look at me, like I’m their little sister.
“I think I can handle them, but I promise, Sky Ridge’s very own hotshots will be my first call.” I wrinkle my nose. “Y’all could probably kill them with your stench,” I say, letting my eyes move to King’s again.
“Told you all it was a shit move to come in here so dirty,” King says, looking at Xander. His deep timbre is as smooth as I remember it. My traitorous body must not recall that he’s an asshole because as soon as he speaks, I get those familiar tingles up my spine.
“No time for showers when we’re celebrating, ‘sides it’s gonna take at least two to get us clean anyhow,” Opp says with a wide grin. He headlocks King and rubs his knuckles into the wavy dark blonde hair at the top of his head. They’re the same height and almost the same size. “This one’s making squaddie,” Opp says proudly to me with a wide grin.
“Fuck, the whole bar doesn’t need to know,” King says, pulling away from him.
Another punch to the chest. That was what Jacob talked about before he died, and now he’ll never have the chance. That pain I’ve really been good at holding in sifts like ashes through my carefully built walls. Talking to these guys is too close to home. Seeing all of them healthy and happy.
This is why I do my best to avoid these hotshots at all costs.
King pushes his messy dark blond locks back off his forehead and looks at me.
“Got a spot where we won’t dirty up your bar too much?” he asks with the half-smirk that used to make my heart race. I look away and gesture to the corner.
“The back tables are open. I’ll send Lou over for your order,” I tell them, secretly hoping Lou will actually do it for me. I don’t want to spend my night serving him of all people.
They follow my suggestion and take up a few tables near the only window in this place.
I make my way back to the bar, trying to shake the way King’s deep blue eyes stood out under his tan, or the way his wide jaw ticked when his eyes met mine. Someone with no heart shouldn’t look like he could easily steal mine. It really isn’t fair, but then, I guess life rarely is. If it was, I never would’ve been attracted to Rowan Kingsley in the first place, and my brother would be sitting at that table with them.