9. Porter
9
porter
“Hurricane! I’ve been waiting!”
Quinn holds up a hand that signals for me to stop before I go any further.
Which of course I’m not. It’s cute she thinks I will.
“Are we here to celebrate?”
I get my answer by the way Quinn plops down onto a barstool and drops her head into her crossed arms. George and Harry, faithful regulars and two of my dad’s best friends, look over to her then to me, clearly confused about Quinn’s dramatic entrance.
“Are you going to check on her?” George says.
“I heard she was a bull in a china shop yesterday over at Marv’s,” Harry adds.
“Y’all shush,” I direct, earning me some snickers from my ornery, elderly duo. If that did happen—I mean, I heard about it too—I’m guessing Quinn doesn’t want to relive it right now. At least, I know I wouldn’t.
Though I wonder if Marv has security video of it…
I stare at her for a few seconds to see if she’s going to make eye contact, but after nearly a minute, I’m wondering if she’s just going to stay there for the foreseeable future.
“Quinn?” I whisper, leaning down to maybe a see a sliver of her face. “You good?”
“No.”
The single word comes out muffled and a little sad.
“Want to tell me what happened?”
She lifts her head up just enough so I can see those big brown eyes that right now look like they’re fighting back tears. “I suck.”
In any other scenario, I’d be making some sort of dirty joke. Especially if we were the only two here. But I can read a room, and clearly Quinn is defeated. I doubt she needs me kicking her while she’s down.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I reach into the cooler and grab her favorite beer. “The job hunt not going so well?”
She stares at me, then looks over to the wall where the tequila rests, then back to me again. “Retelling the events of the last seventy-two hours is going to take more than a bottle of beer, Porter.”
I let out a laugh, because somehow, even when she’s likely at one of the lowest points of her life, Quinn Banks still finds a way to crack a joke.
“I think I can make that happen.” I grab a shot glass, the salt shaker, and a lime from the well and set it down in front of her. I barely have it on the bar before she shoots it back—no chaser—and directs me to keep the bottle in front of her.
“Shit…that bad?”
She shakes her head. “Whatever you’re thinking, make it ten times worse.”
Over the next thirty minutes, Quinn tells me, George and Harry, and a few other regulars, the two jobs and one interview she’s managed to fuck up. Every new person that walks into the bar joins Quinn’s story time, each of us hanging onto every word that she says.
Even if every word that comes out of her mouth is more unbelievable than the last.
Take that back—each one of us could believe how the bank turned out. We’ve all met Lacey.
But jaws were on the bar when she retold the furniture story. Apparently, her demolition through the bookshelves was worse than the guys had heard.
And no one, and I mean no one, was prepared for the dog named Dick story.
“Holy shit,” I mumble when she’s done. No one says anything else, because what do you say? Sorry? Better luck next time? Beware of humping dogs?
Quinn is just staring at the tequila bottle like it’s going to give her guidance. I want to say that my job offer still stands, but I know she’ll shut it down. Which fucking sucks. I need help, and I have a feeling, especially after seeing her interact with this ornery bunch, that she’d fit right in with the clientele. But I know this headstrong woman well enough to know that the last thing she wants now is me offering her a job—especially one she already turned down.
I swear she’s just as stubborn as she is beautiful.
And damn if she isn’t beautiful. Today she looks like she went through a tornado. The only makeup she has on is dirt streaked on her face. Her hair is messier than normal. There’s even a little hole in her T-shirt. Yet there’s something about her that pulls me in. Always has. Probably always will. And now that she’s back? I’m going to have to get myself in check so I’m not openly staring at her every time I see her.
I decide to leave Quinn be and go check on my other customers when a hand furiously slams on the bar, making me jump out of my skin. Quinn nearly drops her beer bottle. Before I can figure out who did it, a shout cuts through any other conversations.
“That’s it!”
The cry, and I’m guessing the assault to my bar, comes from George.
“What’s it?” I ask.
“Quinn can work here!”
I can’t help but spit out a laugh. Quinn nearly chokes on the pull of beer she just took.
“Sorry to break your heart George, but Quinn already turned me down.”
“When?” Harry chimes in. “We didn’t hear about it. I thought we were part of personnel decisions.”
“First off, you're not,” I say. “And she did Monday morning. Broke my heart.”
I can feel the daggers Quinn is shooting at me before I even look at her. “What Porter is trying to say,” she begins, “is that yes, he did ask me. And it wasn’t so much me turning him down but rather me thinking I had other options in front of me.”
“Well you did then, but now you don’t,” George says. “Porter needs some help. You need a job. I don’t see a problem with it.”
Oh, if George only knew…
I’ll never admit this out loud to her, but she’s right. We do have a history. If it were one shift, I’m sure I could control myself. I’m an adult and a professional. Then again, I know that after it was over, we’d probably not even make it home before ripping each other’s clothes off.
But if she was working here regularly? I don’t know if I’m strong enough. This is the only woman I’ve slept with more than twice. She’s the only one I’ve ever asked to stay. The only one who can get me hard with just a look. Working with her would be a disaster.
Though it would be worth it to see that perfect ass bending down into the beer cooler…
“Mr. Baskins…”
George scoffs at the use of his last name. “You’re about to start working here, Quinn. You can call me George.”
She smiles at the man who used to own the convenience store in town that every kid in Rolling Hills used to visit for their beverage of choice before school. “George, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But I don’t think I’d be a good fit here.”
“Can you sling drinks?”
“Yeah. I mean, I haven’t done?—”
He cuts Quinn off before she can continue.
“Can you count money?”
“Yes, but that’s not?—”
“Are you going to kick out any assholes who forget the manners their mamas gave ’em?”
“I think everyone knows that I don’t have a problem?—”
“Then that settles it!” Harry exclaims, clapping his hands together for extra emphasis. “You’re working here. Porter! Hire the girl!”
My snickers turn into full-blown laughter as I watch Quinn’s eyes get so big they might pop out of her head.
“What’ya say, Hurricane? When do you want to start?”
* * *
“Jaw up, boy. Can’t be staring at the help.”
I don’t offer a comeback to Harry, though I do make sure to close my jaw, as I watch Quinn gliding around the bar in awe.
In my defense, I think I’d be in a trance even if I didn’t know what she looked like underneath her T-shirt and jean shorts.
When I asked Quinn when she wanted to start, I didn’t think it would be immediately. But when she muttered the words, “Fuck it. Let’s go,” that apparently meant we were starting now.
Luckily, there’s not much to train when it comes to working here. She was quick to pick up my basic POS system, even having a few drinks in her. I told her how to take food orders to get it back to the line cook. Other than that, it’s just a matter of familiarizing yourself behind the bar of where certain liquors and beers are kept.
And she picked it up in no time. Which I expected. It gave me a chance to sit at the end of the bar, catch up on some bills and invoices, while she tended to the Tuesday night patrons who come in for fifty-cent wings.
The only problem now is that I haven’t looked at one number on any of these bills because I can’t take my eyes off her. Which apparently Harry has noticed.
“I wasn’t staring,” I finally say in my defense, making it a point to focus back on the water bill for the month.
“I get it, boy. She’s a stunner,” he says. “A spitfire, from what I remember. But that’s good. You need some of that in your life.”
Harry and my dad were friends since I was in diapers. I think he was The Joint’s first customer, and if he has his way, he’ll die on this barstool. With that kind of history, he likes to give me advice. Usually it’s about the bar and the things that day that are annoying him. Today, it’s about my newest employee.
“I’m just fine,” I grumble, though that’s probably not believable since I accidentally lifted my eyes to catch a glimpse of Quinn reaching up for the top-shelf whiskey.
“You aren’t. But I’m guessing you’re like your daddy and going to tell yourself that until you die alone.”
I don’t bother arguing his point. He’s right. Though I would defend that I’m not as much stubborn as I am determined.
Determined to not go through what my dad did.
Determined to live the life I want. A life that’s going to make me happy and not worried that at any second the rug is going to get pulled out from under me.
And right now, determined to not go behind the bar and press my body behind Quinn’s.
Fuck! No! What am I thinking?
She’s now my employee. I give her a paycheck. I can’t be fantasizing about fucking her behind the bar. Frankly, I shouldn’t be thinking about it at all.
Because Quinn is back. And yes, it may be temporary, but this isn’t like our weekend hookups. She’s going to be here the next day. The next week. The next month.
Which means she can’t be in my bed.
I signal for Jenny, my one and only waitress and the woman who truly keeps this place running, to come and watch the bar.
“Quinn? Can you follow me into the office?”
She gives me a confused look. “Don’t tell me I’m fired already. I need to have one job that goes more than four hours.”
I shake my head. “Nothing like that. Just want you to fill out some paperwork and go over a few things.”
“This feels so official,” she says as we both take a seat—safely apart, as my desk is between us. “Then again, I didn’t get to the point of filling out paperwork for any of the jobs I’ve had so far.”
I chuckle but don’t make a motion to grab the W2s and other tax information I’ll eventually need from her. Instead, I clasp my hands and rest my elbows on the desk.
“You’re right.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “I am? I mean, I usually am. But about what? Just so I know for posterity.”
“This.” I point back and forth between us. “You. Me. We have history. And as much as I know we’re both adults, what we were can’t keep going.”
I don’t know what I expect Quinn’s reaction to be, but I wasn’t expecting a devilish smile.
“You’re smiling about this?”
She shakes her head. “Not because it makes me happy. I’m just basking in the ‘you were right’ glow.”
I lean back in my chair, thankful for Quinn’s humor that will keep this conversation from not getting too heavy. “This is serious, Quinn. I know you said that this was going to be complicated with our history, and I dismissed it. I was wrong to do that. It…well, it hit me today that you’re here. And staying here. At least for a while.”
She nods in understanding. “Now I’m not leaving.”
I see a flash of sadness over her face before the mask she likes to wear reappears. It was quick. If I’d have blinked, I would’ve missed it. But I’ve learned to not blink around Quinn Banks. If you do, you might miss something. And you never want to miss a thing around this woman.
“You’re right,” she continues. “Me leaving is what worked so well for us. Neither of us ever wanted anything serious. Me leaving every time and going back to Arizona made that happen. And now…”
“Now you’re here.”
“In Rolling Hills.”
“In my bar.”
“The complete opposite of leaving.”
The two of us fall silent as our situation unfolds before us. Our eyes are locked with each other, a little sadness in hers, and I’m sure in mine. But both of us are smiling, because at the end of the day, Quinn and I are friends. We always have been. Always will be. It might’ve come over the years in the form of roasts, teasing, and quick fucks, but at the root of everything was friendship.
And that’s what we’ll be again.
Friends.
Boss and employee.
That’s it.
“It was a good run,” she says.
“It was. Eight years is a long time.”
“Longest relationship of my life,” she jokes.
“Mine too.”
We both stand up, and it feels like we should shake hands or something. Never in our eight years of doing this, or even the years before of hanging out from time to time, have I felt awkward around Quinn until right now.
“Let’s not make this weird,” she says, clearly feeling the same thing I was. “We know what we did. But it’s in the past. Officially now.”
“You’re right.”
The biggest smile crosses her face. “Twice in one day? Porter McCoy…you spoil me.”
I know she didn’t mean it the way my teenage brain is taking it. Or maybe she did. This is the woman who once dared me to see how many different ways I could make her come in a three-hour time span.
“Get out,” I say. “Close the door behind you.”
“Whatever you say… boss .”
I don’t miss the extra emphasis she puts on the last word as she exits my office. And I’m going to tell myself that it was my mind playing tricks on me and that she didn’t send me a wink before she made her way back to the bar.
But I don’t follow after her. I know I should, to make sure she’s okay, as it’s her first shift. Instead, I take a moment to close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.
I did need help. Hiring Quinn is what I needed to do. And she’s going to be great.
But I have a feeling this decision might be the death of me.
Because working around Quinn Banks every day—and resisting her—might be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.