11. Porter
11
porter
“All right, Porter. I’m outta here!”
I don’t know if I’ve ever heard George say those words in my life. “Where you off to?”
He points outside as he fixes his trucker cap. “It’s a beautiful day and the lady wants me to go to the greenhouse or some shit. But then she promised steak tonight, so to the greenhouse I go.”
I laugh and wave goodbye. “See you next week.”
He tips his cap to me and walks out the door, leaving me alone at The Joint on a Saturday afternoon.
I don’t know the last time I worked a Saturday day shift. Jenny usually holds down the fort and I come in at night, but because Quinn’s in the fold, Jenny was able to take the day off and after a week on the job, Quinn said she’s ready for a solo night weekend shift. Which left me here for the day.
Alone.
I have some bills and invoices I need to go through, but it feels weird being able to catch up on paperwork during normal business hours. Also, what am I going to do with a Saturday night off? I haven’t had one of those in…I don’t even know. Maybe I’ll get out of town. Grab a drink at a bar that’s not my own.
Or, more than likely, I’ll sit right here at the end of the bar and pretend not to stare at Quinn.
After last night’s shift, I probably need to give myself some space from her, but I don’t know if I have that in me. When she was pressed against me last night—purely on accident on both our parts—after Jenny made mention of Dad’s wake, I could tell we had both been transported back to that night. I was this close to kissing her in front of everyone and not giving a flying fuck.
Over the past week I had to ball my hands into fists to stop from touching her. But last night? Last night was the closest I’ve come to kicking everyone out of the bar, grabbing her by the waist, and fucking her on a barstool.
The worst part is that she’s not affected in the least bit. Hell, she’s barely looking at me, just going about her shift, smiling and talking to every customer that walks in. And there I am, sitting back, staring at her, and wondering how in the world we got here. I also wonder at least five times a night if she’s trying to kill me with those shorts and fitted tank tops that perfectly hug her chest.
It’s probably a good idea that today’s shift is by myself. It’ll give me time to catch up on paperwork, clear my mind, and have a Quinn-free day.
I grab the old ledger book that my dad used to keep the books and start the painstaking process of balancing the ledger. My dad was old school in everything he did. And for the most part, I'm the same way. There are a few things I’ve modernized since taking over—I’m sure he rolled his eyes from the grave that I’m now taking credit cards.
There are a few other things I’ve upgraded since he passed, but mostly I’ve kept everything just like he had it. I still pay everyone by check. The requesting time off is just a piece of paper thumbtacked to a cork board. And when it comes to balancing the books, I still use the same brand of ledger Pops used for thirty years. In a weird way, it makes me feel still close to him. That he’s still a part of this bar. Which I know is silly. But this was his place. His baby. And I’m going to keep his memory alive here for as long as possible.
I grab a pen, open the ledger, and grab the top invoice off the pile without looking.
So much for having a Quinn-free shift. Because why am I staring at the invoice for the chicken wings that were delivered this week?
Thanksgiving Eve in the bar industry is, without a doubt, anyone’s busiest night of the year. And don’t get me wrong, last night was a good night.
But tonight? Tonight is going to be the start of something big.
For the first time in The Joint’s history, I’ve decided to open the bar on Thanksgiving. I splurged for a DJ—also a first in this bar’s storied history, as every song has only ever been played from the old jukebox that Pops bought when he first opened the place. I even came up with a special drink of the night.
Is this my way of avoiding the fact this is the first holiday without my dad? Without a doubt. But I also think he’d get a kick out of me turning a day that I would’ve been moping around into a night of celebration.
At least, I hope he would.
Thanksgiving was our day. We’d watch football, head over to Aunt Peggy’s for dinner, then all of the guys would head to the backyard for some football of our own. As adults, we still did all of that, save for the football playing. These knees aren’t meant for backyard football.
I knew this day was going to hurt more than others, so I knew I’d need the distraction. And what better distraction than making a few bucks with the slogan, “You’ve been with family all day. I know y’all need a drink.”
And apparently everyone in Rolling Hills does. The place is packed from wall to wall—much busier than it was last night and any other night I can think of. I had to bring in two extra bartenders for the night, and none of us have had a chance to stop for hours. Yet, even in the sea of people packing my bar, I can still see Quinn Banks like she’s the only one here. She’s on the dance floor, having the time of her life, her smile a mile wide, drink in the air and looking fucking gorgeous.
I haven't seen her since the day of Pops’s wake. Or should I say the night of? That night was…fuck. What’s the word to describe it? I feel like a teenage girl if I say it was magical. But it was. I don’t know if it was because we were both in vulnerable states. Or maybe because I was finally getting the chance to be with the person I’d been infatuated with for years.
I’d also be a liar if I said I hadn’t thought about that night more than a few times. I mean, how can I not? I can still feel her soft curves in my hands. See the image of her lips around my cock. And when I made her scream? How she threw her head back and shouted my name? It’s a moment I’ll never forget.
I take a peek back out at the dance floor, and Quinn is now holding court like only she can. She might’ve earned the nickname “Hurricane” over the years, but everyone loves her except the ones who didn’t, but that was usually because they were jealous of her or she called them out on their bullshit. So it’s no surprise that she’s chatting away, smiling from ear to ear, nearly glowing despite being in a dimly-lit bar.
I smile as I start pouring another round of shots. I’m glad she’s seemingly bounced back from that asshole who cheated on her. I hope she’s happy now. Maybe she started dating again and he’s the reason there’s a smile on her face.
Except that thought shoots a burning rage through me that nearly has me breaking the empty beer bottle I swipe off the bar. I know she’s not mine. We hooked up once, five months ago. We haven’t even spoken since then. Yet, the thought of another man touching her makes me want to punch a hole through the wall.
“Porter!” Quinn's scream snaps me out of my ridiculous jealousy. I take the extra second I need to pull myself together before turning to her.
“Hurricane!” I greet her like I didn’t know she’s been here for exactly two hours and fifty-two minutes. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
"Thanks," she says, her head wobbling a little bit. I’m guessing she’s drunk, but since she hasn’t been up to the bar, I have no idea how many drinks she’s had bought for her.
“How you feeling tonight?”
“I’m feeling grrreat," she says, her words a little slurred.
“That's good. What can I get ya?”
Instead of asking me for her normal order of a beer or vodka tonic, she leans up on the bar, which I’m sure is sticky as hell on a night like tonight, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I raise my eyebrows at her actions, but she only answers me with a curl of her finger, signaling for me to come closer. I reluctantly do, because I know if I’m that close to her, I’m going to be a high school boy and look down her shirt.
God, her tits are perfect.
“You know what I want tonight?”
Her whispered drunk talk makes me laugh. “What’s that?”
“I want chicken wings.”
My hushed laugh is now full body. “You needed to tell me that you want chicken wings as a big secret? Hurricane, how much have you had to drink tonight?”
“Not that much,” she defends. “And plus, I don’t want chicken wings. I want chicken wings.”
Why is she putting a weird emphasis on chicken wings and now wagging her eyebrows? Also, she’s trying to wink, but I don’t think she can. “Okay… The cook’s still here. I can put in an order for you. What flavor do you want?”
Quinn shakes her head and asks someone sitting down on a barstool if they can move so she can climb on it. Just when I think she’s going to climb onto my bar and start dancing, I realize she’s just sitting on her knees, allowing her to get closer to me.
God, she smells good…
“You. The flavor is you.”
She might’ve whispered the word, but even in the loud as fuck bar, I hear it crystal clear.
I pull back a little bit so I can get a good look at her. I need to make sure that's actually what I heard.
“Yeah?”
She nods slowly, and even though she's drunk, I know she has every faculty about her right now.
“Okay then. Chicken wings. I’ll have them ready at closing time.”
I give her a wink that I’ve given plenty of times to women at this bar over my life, only I know this one’s a little different.
Because that came with a smile. A smile that I’m pretty sure only Quinn Banks brings out in me.
That night I rank in the top three of hottest nights of my life. Our first time together was a little more emotional. A little sloppy. We were drunk and sad and just wanted to feel. The hottest was probably a random summer night about four years ago when we couldn’t wait and I fucked her outside the bar.
But the night I’m remembering? I knew when I walked up to my front porch and I saw Quinn sitting on my steps, a devilish grin on her face and her shirt unbuttoned, that it was going to be a good night.
And it was. Holy shit was it ever.
I smile and move to slightly readjust myself when I’m blinded by the light of the bar door swinging open, letting in the piercing sun from the midsummer May day. From where I’m sitting at the corner of the bar, I can’t see who’s walking in. Once my eyes adjust after the door closes, I can tell it’s a slender woman, but that’s about it.
I get up to walk behind the bar and assume my position. As she comes closer, I’m starting to get a better look at her. Long brown hair that’s slightly covering her face. Even if I could see all of her, I’d know she doesn’t live in Rolling Hills. I know every person in this town, and she’s never sat at one of my bar stools. Yet, at the same time, there’s something familiar.
“Welcome in. What can I get ya?” I ask, grabbing a cocktail napkin.
“Hey, big brother.”
Her words shake me. Because the only person who would call me that lives in Indiana, and I still think of as a two-year-old. That’s when I really look at her—and recognize the emerald green eyes she got from my mother.
“Missy?” I blink a few more times, everything now in focus as I stand in front of my estranged half-sister.
“Surprise?”
I can’t even laugh. I’m speechless. I have so many questions sprinting through my head right now I don’t even know where the hell to start.
I’m not lying when I say the last time I saw Missy she was a toddler, which was the last year I saw my mom as part of court-ordered custody visitation. Funny enough, that was the last time I saw Mom, too.
The divorce happened when I was in eighth grade, and it’s sad that I wasn’t fazed that she didn’t fight for custody. It didn’t matter, though—I would’ve stayed in Rolling Hills no matter what. Pops was my best friend. We went hunting and fishing together. I used to sit at the end of this bar doing my homework while he served drinks to his buddies. We never had a ton of money, but I never wanted for anything. And most important? It didn’t matter the event, he was there. Football games. School functions. You name it, that man was front and center.
As for Mom? I barely remember her at anything growing up. I do remember her complaining for years about being stuck in this “podunk town.” When I was younger, I remember feeling like it was my fault somehow. So when she picked up and left, I felt nothing but relief. Especially when I found out she was never coming back. I did get a good laugh when I learned that even though she despised small-town living with every fiber of her being, she ended up in a smaller town in Indiana. Pops once got drunk and joked that’s as far as she could get on a bus ticket. He probably wasn’t wrong.
But she wanted a new life and she got it. She remarried and had Missy, who is apparently sitting at my bar. I’m guessing she’s still alive? I haven’t seen her since my last visit when I was seventeen. She didn’t bother coming to my high school graduation. The last time I talked to her on the phone was when Pops died. Other than that, I had no contact with her before it was the cool thing to do.
“What are you doing here?”
I feel like that’s the safest question to start with. And frankly, no other answers are going to make sense until I know the answer to that one.
“Would you believe me if I said that I wanted to come visit the famous Joint?”
“No, because I know for a fact this place isn’t famous. I’m shocked you even knew about it.”
“Of course I knew about it. Mom used to talk about it all the time. That it was your dad’s pride and joy. Next to you, of course.”
“Try again. Mom hated this place. Always accused my dad of loving it more than her.”
Not that I blame him…
She lets out a sigh. “I’m in Nashville on a road trip with some friends.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” Though that doesn’t answer why she’s here.
She shrugs. “Felt weird just dropping by.”
That I can understand. “Listen, I know my relationship with Mom isn’t…well, there. But that doesn’t mean I hold you in any ill will. And I don’t know what your relat?—”
She stops me there. “If I never see Bonnie again it’ll be too soon.”
“Oh,” I say, noting she’s using our mother’s government name. “Still mother of the year?”
This makes her laugh. “To say the least.”
I grab a glass from the bar and fill it up with ice water for Missy. She stares at it for a second before taking a drink while I try to study her. Something is off. I’m not sure what, but her short answers are sending warning signals. Then again, I don’t know her at all. The only thing I have going for me is years of bartending experience that’s taught me how to read people.
And I might not know my sister, but I do know something’s not what it seems.
“Okay, so you’re in Nashville. And you thought to take time out of your day to drive down and see your half-brother?”
She doesn’t respond to that. Instead, she stands up off the bar stool and starts walking around the bar. I watch as she looks at every picture. She even goes down the hallway that has the office, restrooms, and supply closet. Does she also moonlight as the health inspector?
“Everything okay?”
She walks back out, eyes still looking around. “This is a nice place. A little empty, though.”
Gee, thanks. “It’s a nice day. Who’d want to be stuck inside when they could be enjoying the sunshine?”
She walks up to a picture hanging on the wall of me and Pops. It’s from my high school graduation. The one my mother didn’t show up for.
“Is this your dad?”
“Yeah,” I say, as we look at the nearly twenty-year old picture. “So you don’t talk to Mom. What about your dad?”
I watch as her shoulders slump, and for the first time since she’s come in here, I think this is a genuine Missy.
“He died. Six months ago.”
“Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks,” she says as I watch a single tear fall from her eye. “It’s been hard.”
“I get it,” I say, empathizing with her more than she knows. “I get it more than most.”
She nods. “Exactly. Actually, there’s?—”
I feel like she’s about to say something else, but at that moment, the front door swings open, bringing in Harry and George. Their eyes immediately take in the sight of me standing next to a much younger woman whom they don’t know.
Oh hell, the town Facebook page is about to go nuts.
“I gotta go,” Missy quickly says.
“Wait. Stay for some food. You’re here. We can catch up.”
She shakes her head. “Maybe some other time. Good seeing you, Porter.”
Missy all but sprints out of The Joint, nearly hitting George and Harry in her exit, leaving me questioning what the hell just happened.
“Who was that?” George asks.
“I don’t know who she was, but she’s the spitting image of Porter’s mama,” Harry says.
“Holy shit!” George yells, looking out the door, then back to me. “Does that mean it was who I think it was?”
I quickly point to their stools. “Get over there and forget about what you just saw.”
“Sorry, Porter. No can do,” George says. “If that girl was your half-sister, Rolling Hills is about to be aflutter wanting to know what she’s doing in town.”
Me too, George. Me too.