Chapter 4
Everett
I stare at the papers in front of me, trying for the third time to focus enough to finish filling them out. It shouldn’t be this hard. I fill this kind of shit out daily. I could do it in my sleep if I really had to.
Apparently what I can’t do is do it distracted.
My mind keeps drifting to the bar. We’ve been training Harper, the woman Cash found and decided to help, for a few days now, and I keep finding myself eager to finish up here and head over there.
Which is fucking ridiculous because I’ve got actual important shit to do.
Criminals to process, complaints to check up on, files to…
file. But here I am thinking about some Omega with secrets instead of the reports on my desk.
It’s just that I can’t help but be intrigued by her story.
She gets so evasive whenever anyone asks about her past, even if it’s just to find out where the hell she came from.
There’s a way she holds herself, like she’s expecting a blow, and she watches every exit like she’s constantly planning and revising her escape routes.
I’ve seen it before, with victims of certain crimes, and I can start putting together some of the pieces of the puzzle of Harper, but it’s all just speculation.
Cash’s impulsive decisions usually annoy the hell out of me, but hiring Harper was a good call. She’s taken to the work better than I expected her to, keeping her head down and working with a quiet efficiency that actually gets shit done instead of just looking busy.
Our last bartender, Jessie, was sweet enough, but she would be at the bar until well after closing because she couldn’t manage to get things done quickly. She quit before we had to fire her, and Harper is like night and day different from that.
I remember the morning at Dolly’s when I paid for her breakfast. There was a flash of pride in her eyes when she tried to refuse, and a protectiveness in the way she looked at that little girl. She tried to make herself invisible, but she couldn’t quite manage it.
There’s definitely a story there, and not a pretty one, based on those faint marks on her neck that never heal right. It’s hard to blame her for being closed mouth and jumpy when I think about what that means.
I sigh and rub a hand down my face, shoving away thoughts of Harper.
I have work to do, and sitting here thinking about other shit isn’t going to get it done any faster.
It’s a struggle to get myself back focused on work, but I manage it, keeping my nose to the grindstone until I have a completed stack of reports in front of me.
Some people would have just fucked off for the day, leaving the pile behind to deal with another time. There’s basically no oversight when you’re the sheriff, and if you tell people you’re leaving, they don’t argue.
But I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to be that.
The kind of person who abuses their authority and makes other people clean up their mistakes.
I take this job seriously, with all the responsibilities it comes with.
This town depends on me to be better than the man who came before me, and I’ll be damned if I let them down.
Once I’m finished, I drop the stack on another pile to be filed by the admin, and head out to the bar.
Cash is already there, behind the counter with Harper, giving her a quick test on the taps.
“This one is finicky,” he says. “You have to pull it a little to the left or it sprays everywhere. We thought about replacing it, but it gives the place character.” He grins at her, and she ducks her head and grabs a glass, trying to mimic the motion he just did.
It only sprays a little at the beginning, when her grip on the lever isn’t as firm as it should be, and she wrinkles her nose a little. “Well, fucked that right up,” she says, her lips quirked in a smile.
“But you corrected it,” Cash says. “And you’re still learning.”
“I’m probably going to mess it up at the beginning every time.” She says it like it’s a joke, self-deprecating and amused. Harper has this way of deflecting compliments that makes it seem like she’s not used to getting them. Or at least not used to them being sincere.
She’s gonna struggle with Cash then. Man has sincerity leaking out of his pores.
“You’re not gonna be worse than Jessie,” I say, striding up to the bar.
Harper tenses a little when she realizes I’m there, but she still seems fairly comfortable. Like she’s getting used to being here little by little, but she’s not sure what to make of me yet.
“God, it’d be hard to be that bad,” Cash replies, then winces. “She was nice enough, but—”
“I know,” Harper cuts in. “At least there’s a low bar for me to clear. Be better than Jessie.”
“You’re gonna do fine.” Cash raises a hand like he’s going to pat her on the shoulder, and Harper flinches away minutely. It’s a gesture so small that she might have just been twitching with an itch or something, but I pick up on her discomfort immediately.
Cash either does too or just thinks better of touching her and runs that hand through his hair instead. “We open in an hour,” he tells her. “Keep practicing.”
I keep an eye on Harper while Cash and I do the rest of the work to get the bar open for the night.
She keeps her head down, but there’s determination in the lines of her brow and the set of her shoulders, and by the time we’re ready to open, she’s got the perfect pour almost down completely. A fast learner.
The thing about small towns is there’s not a lot of places to hang out after the work day.
Most businesses close around six, everybody wanting to go home and have dinner and get off their feet.
There’s a movie theater the next town over, and if you don’t mind a drive, the city with its malls and attractions isn’t too far.
But for the locals who just want to unwind after a long day on the ranch or running the feed store or whatever, there’s our bar. They put on the game or whatever’s easy to yell at and switch their brains off and order cheap beers and fried food.
So we fill up fast.
At first, it’s just a few people here and there, but then the ranch hands and field workers come in, and the people who commute to work outside the town and just want a drink before heading home, and before long the bar is humming with the sounds of people drinking and talking.
There’s a baseball game on the TV, and Harper is in the thick of it, making drinks and taking orders, doing her best to keep up.
Most people are curious about her, and I can tell that she can tell. She keeps her interactions brief, but friendly enough that it probably won’t affect her tips too much. She keeps the beers cold and ready, and that’s good enough for most of the patrons we get.
Cash checks in on her every now and then, making sure everything is going smoothly, before disappearing to the back to handle some paperwork for inventory.
Usually I go back and help him with that, but I have a feeling like someone needs to stay out here and keep an eye on things, so I plant myself in a corner and do that.
“What do you have on tap tonight?” an older woman asks Harper at one point.
She rattles off the list perfectly, and the older woman nods, ordering an IPA before going to settle at the end of the bar.
One of the ranch hands from the place up on Morrison comes up to the bar once the woman has cleared off, and he leans on it, taking his time deliberating.
Harper waits patiently and then nods when he orders something bottled.
“And put it in a glass!” he calls. “I want the good shit tonight.” He laughs, turning to see if anyone’s going to laugh with him, but no one really does.
That doesn’t stop him from making conversation with everyone at the bar while he sits there. He puts back three beers, one after the other, and it’s obvious that he’s feeling them. His voice gets louder, his laugh echoing across the bar, even over the sound of the game and people’s conversations.
A few other people look over at him, making faces at the way he’s acting. A couple of the long time regulars come over to murmur to him softly, but he waves them away.
“I’m having fun!” he practically bellows. “Ya can’t stop a man from having fun.”
Several other patrons raise their eyebrows at that, but no one intervenes.
He’s already on the shit list at this point, and I keep an eye on him because I know, I just know there’s going to be a point where he has to get cut off.
You get a sort of sixth sense for this kind of thing if you’re in the business for long enough.
Some people can hold their booze and stay level headed.
Some people definitely can’t, and there’ve been a few nights over the years where someone’s gotten belligerent and ended up getting tossed out on their ass to sleep it off somewhere else.
So suffice to say it’s not a surprise when this dude decides to show his ass.
He’s flagged Harper down for another beer, and she comes over with his choice in her hand.
She reaches across to serve him, but he chooses that moment to laugh loudly at something on the TV.
Harper manages to contain her jump, being careful, but the bottle slips, rolling across the bar and smashing to the floor in a wave of broken glass and cold beer.
The beer splashes up onto the guy’s boots and the bottom of his jeans, and just like that, his good mood is gone.
“Clumsy fucking bitch!” he snarls, jumping to his feet. “Y’shouldn’t be allowed to serve hardworking people if you can’t even keep a bottle in your fucking hand. Fuck!”
Harper opens her mouth, her eyes wide. “I—”
“Worthless,” the ranch hand cuts in. His eyes scan her from head to toe, and there’s a cruel glint in them when he snorts.
“Shoulda figured. Rejected Omegas can’t do anything right.
That’s why you get fucking rejected.” His voice carries over the sudden silence of the bar, getting meaner with each word.
“What the fuck are you staring at me for? Clean this shit up!”
Instead of putting him in his place, Harper drops her eyes to the wood of the bar.
Her head dips, and she moves around the bar quickly, dropping to her knees.
It’s that submissive conditioning kicking in, and it’s sickening to see her kneeling in front of this asshole.
Especially while he stands over her, berating her while she mumbles apologies.
“I don’t want your fucking sorries,” he snaps. “I want a competent fucking bartender. Is that so much to ask? Don’t I fucking deserve that after a long day of work? To be able to come here and—”
Whatever else he was going to say is cut off.
Every inch of the Alpha instinct in me has flared to the surface, erupting from me in a wave.
I get to my feet, rising to my full height.
Every eye in the bar snaps to me, standing there with my badge on my chest and clear intent in my eyes.
I don’t even think about it, just let the instinct carry me.
There’s a joke among the local teenagers who have gotten on the wrong side of me over the years that there’s a tone I can take that makes them wish they’d stayed home that night. “Sheriff voice” they call it, and I feel myself dropping into that register, with something extra lethal on top.
“What you deserve is to lower your fucking voice when you talk to my staff,” I say. My voice is barely above a whisper, but it carries. “And what you are going to do is get the fuck out of here before I do something you’re going to regret.”
The ranch hand goes pale immediately from the combination of… well, everything. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, but he doesn’t argue. He swallows hard, locked in place and trembling just a bit.
I narrow my eyes. “Now.”
That’s all it takes to have him scrambling, practically slipping in the beer in his haste to get away and get out.
When I look down at Harper, she’s still on her knees cleaning up beer and glass, but her eyes are trained on me now. She’s wide eyed and awestruck, that look that definitely says it’s been too long since someone has defended her, and she can’t quite believe someone’s done it now.
Something about that makes my stomach twist, and it’s a struggle to hold myself back so I don’t go after that asshole and finish what I started. I don’t like seeing her cowed, seeing her submissive for some fucker who doesn’t deserve it.
“All right,” I force out, my voice going back to normal. “Back to your drinks, people.”
Gradually, the chatter returns to the bar, and people continue their conversations and drinking. Harper keeps cleaning up, wiping the spilled beer around the glass, being careful. I go get the little hand broom and dust pan and drop down to help her.
Her head snaps up, and she stares at me. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning up,” I reply shortly.
“Yeah, but—” She cuts herself off, biting her lip. “I can handle this. You don’t have to…”
“It’s fine.”
She looks at me for another beat and then drops her eyes back to the mess. We work quietly, and we’re almost done when she reaches forward at the same time I do. Our fingers brush, and the split second of contact sends heat shooting through me.
Harper jerks her hand back fast, like she’s been burned.
“Thank you,” she murmurs finally. “For—thank you.”
I just nod back because I don’t trust myself to say the right thing here.