2. Jensen
2
JENSEN
“Why can’t we hold the special election before September?” asks Tom-Tom Lee, who lets us shorten his name to a single Tom. He waves down my new employee even though I’m standing three feet away.
A guy sitting farther down the bar answers the question Tom asks every Friday night. “Idiots rule, idiots’ rules.”
A collective murmur of amens follows the statement as all eyes shift to the drunk man at the end. Walford’s interim mayor and former high school principal, Larry Olson, hiccups. I should cut him off.
It’s a mystery to everyone how the town drunk became the stand-in when the previous mayor died of a stroke three months ago. Walford’s bylaws allow the citizens to call for a special election before the end of the current two-year term, but it won’t take place until September. We’ll have to survive under the nonexistent leadership of Mr. Olson until then.
Ainsley Monroe’s chestnut ponytail swings when she comes to a stop in front of Tom. She brushes aside the long bangs stuck to her reddish-orange lipstick and shouts, “What can I get you?”
Tom taps a finger on his empty bottle in response, dismissing her to continue his conversation with his buddies.
I hired Ainsley when she rolled into town before Thanksgiving with impeccable references and a plucky attitude. She’s young, but she’s a hard worker with enough exuberance to make up for my lack of verbal skills. I’m the type of bar owner who’s better at listening than talking, but my customers don’t seem to mind.
Leaning against the backbar, I fold my arms over my chest and enjoy the grumbles and banter coasting through my kingdom. I love owning Bruno’s. I’ve worked here since I graduated from high school, and I jumped at the opportunity to buy it when the previous owner, Gerald, retired.
A chunk of my parents’ life insurance money went into the many renovations that turned the smoky dump into a clean, high-end gathering place. I installed a small stage for entertainment, stained and polished the concrete beneath the old hardwoods, and replaced the mismatched tables and chairs with modern bar-height sets. The only two things I kept are the long brass and wood bar—which took a week’s worth of elbow grease to bring to a shine—and the name. Gerald named every pet bulldog he had Bruno. The bulldog is also Walford High School’s mascot.
Texas is football country, and school spirit flows thicker than blood in these parts. Unfortunately, our school’s football program took a nosedive a few years ago, so spirits remain low after tonight’s penultimate game of the team’s losing season.
“The town’s falling apart,” Tom grumbles to the old guard perched around my bar top. This group of grandpas spends every Friday night complaining and gossiping over a round or two of beer, and Tom’s next words get their geriatric veins pumping. “We need a new mayor and a new football coach.”
“They need to make Rock the high school coach.”
“Shame he’s not in the NFL right now. Bad luck, that injury.”
“He and Logan would’ve made us proud. Damn shame.”
I leave the old geezers to reminisce about the past and pop into the kitchen to catch my breath. The topic of Logan’s glory days resurfaces every season, but hearing it never gets easier. Especially since I’m the reason that he’s no longer with us. No one has outright blamed me for his death, but I’m responsible for putting their hero in the situation where his life ended.
“You good, man?”
I glance at my friend, Javier Barrera, who’s shaking a basket of wings over the fryer. “Logan,” I say.
At the mention of that one name, he nods in understanding. The two of us—along with our buddy, Trevor Evans—were with Logan on that fateful day at the lake. Four rowdy boys left for a Spring Break trip, and three of us returned home as changed men.
Trevor withdrew from everyone and buried himself in his college studies. Javi embarked on a spiritual journey which entailed world travel, meditative yoga, and a relentless search for his dream wife. And me? I hunkered down in my guilt and began repaying my debt to Walford.
My buddies and I struggle when hearing stories about Logan, but we can’t ask others not to keep his memory alive. The town remembers the exceptional football star. We remember the body we pulled from the water.
“Give them two minutes and they’ll be bitching about the mayor again.” Javi’s stack of chakra-bead bracelets clacks when he raises an arm and points at me. “And don’t let them talk you into doing anything. Your journey of self-care ends with rewarding yourself for your hard work, not rewarding others.”
As a life coach, he makes a hefty income from seminars, private sessions online, and royalties from the bestselling book he wrote. He only works at the bar when I need him, but I suspect the real reason he hangs around is to keep an eye on me. These days, his mission is to guide me on a self-care journey to manage some of my tendencies, like my willingness to help anyone who asks without question.
A splatter of grease lands on his tunic-style shirt when the basket lands in the fryer tank. Bruno’s offers a small menu—burgers, a club sandwich, wings, and fries—and I keep the kitchen open for a few hours a day. Unfortunately, I don’t have a cook right now, so Javi and I take turns manning the fryer and grill. He’s helped me with every aspect of renovating and running the bar since the day I bought it. If something happened to me, and I could no longer manage things around here, Javi could easily slide into my combat boots.
I nod, knowing he’s right about the upcoming topic change, and inhale another fortifying breath before shouldering the swinging door. “Put on a hairnet.”
He shoots a middle finger in the air, and I chuckle. Javi’s had the same buzz cut and baby-smooth chin since kindergarten. I’m certain we’ll never know what his dark hair looks like grown out in either area.
Sure enough, the guys are complaining about Mr. Olson when I rejoin them even though the man’s still sitting here. Several minutes pass when Brody Carpenter, one of my brother’s friends, strolls in wearing slacks and a button-down shirt like he’s returning from a business trip. The shaggy blond hair and suntanned skin, however, give him a washed-up-on-the-beach look. He’s a dichotomy: third-grade teacher and Walford’s most infamous manwhore.
He nudges Mr. Olson off his stool and claims the seat for himself. The mayor slams his empty glass on the bar and grumbles on his way out the door. He lives a block behind Main Street, so he’s able to walk home rather than drive drunk and endanger others.
Brody’s eyes lock on Ainsley and track her movements. He’s dropped by most nights since I hired her, and I worry his constant presence will discomfit her.
I pop him with my rag. “No.”
Hands raised in surrender, he says, “Look, but don’t touch. I know the rule.” The fake smile he flashes with his signature wink makes me want to punch him in his pretty face.
“New rule. No looking.”
The smile stretches into a real one. “You calling dibs on that, bro?”
I huff and rake a hand through my hair. “Grow up, Brody. And show some respect. If you mess with her or run her off, I’ll kick your ass.”
Something in my statement changes his demeanor, and his expression becomes solemn as he straightens in his seat. “Noted.”
“Good.” My narrowed gaze remains fixed on his for a second to confirm our mutual understanding. His shoulders slump, ceding the loss of our staring contest.
Brody’s not a bad guy; he has a bad reputation. Plus, he’s not the sharpest tool in the toolbox and gets away with behaving more immaturely than any of us should allow.
“What are you having?” I ask, ready to bury the hatchet.
“Water.”
I shake my head and snag a bottle from the fridge. Some days, he orders a drink and food. Others, he sips on water until closing. And I often wonder if he doesn’t like being at home alone. If he’s ever alone without a different woman in his bed most nights.
To my surprise, Brody leaves after finishing his water, and the conversation drifts from football back to the mayor. They’ll ping-pong back and forth between the two subjects all night, and I’ll only halfway pay attention.
“A mayor should be reliable,” one man muses.
“A mayor should be sober,” another guy says, lifting a pint of beer to his thin, wrinkled lips.
“I nominate Jensen,” Tom declares, banging a meaty fist on the wood.
Everyone goes silent, then a chorus of voices erupts with exclamations like “great idea” and “why didn’t we think of that before” and “the right man for the job . ” Meanwhile, I’m standing in front of them, wide-eyed, with my stomach at my feet. Beads of sweat gather on my neck, and I pray for none of them to speak either of the magic words, sure to seal my fate.
Of course it’s Tom, the leader—the man with a ring of white hair shaped like the donut on his shop’s sign—who dooms me when he hits the secret passwords to gain full access to my brain. “We need you, Jensen. You’d be perfect.”
Need.
Perfect.
I swallow my instinct to grant their request for a savior and force out an appeasing response. “I’ll think about it.”
They congratulate each other as if they won the political lottery. Thankfully, the conversation returns to the matter of who should coach football.
Javi warned me not to let them talk me into anything. My insightful friend knows me better than most people, and he’s aware the lack of town leadership bothers me. Walford’s needs aren’t being met, and I have the power to rectify the situation.
You see, I’m a resolute man. And resolute men appreciate resolution. I like to see things through to the end, no matter if that end results in a schedule, a pattern, an expectation to be met, or a finite outcome. Words such as pending and open-ended and interim are like nails on a chalkboard to my ears. The desire to make other people’s lives less complicated and find solutions drives me forward, and my only acceptable stopping point is always perfection.
As a kid, I cared about the orderly state of my room and being the perfect son. As a teen, I strove to be the best football player and teammate. When I was eighteen and my brother, Jake, was fifteen, my parents died. I became his guardian and checked out books on parenting and finances at the local library so I could keep him on a successful path. Failure in any aspect of my life isn’t an option.
I recognize that my perfectionism masks a crippling fear of disappointing people. My troubles run deep, and I take great pains every day to combat them and keep them hidden from everyone, including my brother and friends.
Only one person knows the true depths of my fears, but she cast me out of her life when I profoundly disappointed her. So color me surprised when that very woman storms through the door of my bar like she’s on a warpath.
Hello, my elusive little birdie.
Maisy wedges herself between two gentlemen and slaps a hand on the bar like she doesn’t already have my undivided attention. “We need to talk.”
Need.
These are the first words she’s spoken to me in twelve years, eight months, and twenty days. I battle the urge to close my eyes and soak in the sound of her voice as it travels from my ears to the tips of my toes. It’s a little bit deep. A little bit husky. But the most accurate word to describe her low tone is sultry.
Matching her indifference, I sling the rag over my shoulder and fold my arms across my chest. “So talk.”
Huffing, she aims her eyes at everything but me, as if the sight of me will burn her retinas. “In private.”
I hum and rub my beard, assessing her. “My mother taught me never to go anywhere alone with a stranger.”
My petty comment sets her on fire as intended. And damn, how I love her fire. I adore the faint blush on her cheeks when she’s happy or a little embarrassed. But when she’s pissed? They turn a deeper shade, a muted magenta like the hue in her colorful curls. Even with the permanent scowl on her pixie face, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Tonight, nothing stands in way of my eyes drinking her in. Of imagining all the fantasies I can turn into reality if I ever get my hands on her delectable body. While her height may have stalled when she hit the five-foot mark, her tits and ass did not get the memo to stop growing.
But her looks aren’t even what I admire most when I think of her, which I do daily. The friend I remember and greatly miss has a sweet smile, a caring heart, and a wry sense of humor. She’s strong, fiery, and loyal to a fault. To me, she’s more than the pretty face and sinful curves the rest of the world admires.
To me, she’s the incomparable Maisy Donovan—thief of a young boy’s heart.
“Forget it,” she mutters before blowing out the door like the little cyclone she is. Because I’m weightless in her vicinity, I’m sucked into her powerful vortex and follow her to the silver Toyota parked across the street.
“Maisy,” I say, catching up with her.
She reaches for the door handle, but I place a palm on the driver’s window to prevent her escape. When I crowd her against the car and breathe in her familiar coconut scent, my skin vibrates with my last memory of being close to her.
“I miss you.” My deep voice coaxes a shiver from her.
When I brush the soft curls off her neck, exposing her skin—smooth and shimmery like the golden sands of a beach—she jerks away from me.
“Don’t,” she says, her tone sharp.
The fact that she doesn’t want me touching her kills me. What seems like centuries ago, I found little ways to physically connect. A swipe of my knuckles along her back in support. A teasing nudge on her chin. I even wiped a few tears away when I was around to catch them.
When she threw me out of her life, I hoped my banishment was temporary and she’d put aside her anger at some point. I began counting the days, praying she’d find it in her heart to forgive my mistakes and let me back in. I thought I’d have a chance to say all the things I couldn’t say the day I ruined our friendship.
Unfortunately, she left town after she graduated from high school and never looked back. She changed her phone number, made all her social media accounts private, and hid herself in a tight, protective group of people. She became inaccessible to me, wrote me out of history, but I never stopped counting the days.
“Birdie,” I plead, letting my eyelids fall shut and balling my hands into fists.
I ache to feel this woman. Her skin, her hair, her breath. Hell, a punch in the face would feed my insatiable longing for her.
“Don’t,” she says again, but the anguish in her eyes tells me everything she’s not saying aloud.
Please don’t touch me.
Please don’t call me birdie.
Please don’t miss me.
Clearing my throat, I step back and give her some breathing room. My best strategy for making peace with Maisy is to hand her all the power. I’d offer her the world in exchange for a few extra seconds in her presence.
With a little space between us, I allow my gaze to sweep her from head to toe, appreciating her confident style. The black leather motorcycle jacket, black leggings, and low-cut top. The floral Doc Marten boots and the diamond stud in her nose. She’s edgy, and all her rough edges fit mine perfectly. Like we’re two halves of a whole, ripped apart and desperate to find their way back to each other. If only she would accept the fate of us.
“What did you want to talk about?” I ask.
Golden-hazel eyes flecked with tiny green diamonds bounce between mine. My gaze drops to her mouth when she chews her bottom lip, considering her words. I sway on my feet, compelled to bend down and steal a kiss. She’d probably slap me if I did something so stupid, and I’d ruin any flimsy shot I have at reconciliation.
Suddenly, she blurts, “Tate’s coming home.”
The organ in my chest pounds a wild, staccato beat as my excitement skyrockets from the shocking news. If Tatum returns to Walford, Maisy might also return because they’re glued at the hip. She’ll finally be close to me.
I attempt to keep the glee out of my voice, playing it cool when I ask, “Really? How long is she staying?”
Maisy opens the car door and looks over her shoulder, melting me with her pretty eyes. “A few weeks, then she’ll move on.”
The step I take forward comes with a barrage of follow-up questions. “What about you? Are you staying in Walford? Can I see you again?” I’m not above begging. This brief interaction isn’t enough. I need more of her, anything she’ll allow.
She pauses with one leg in the car, offering me her stiff back and denying me another look at her beautiful face. “I’ll be gone first thing tomorrow.”
With that, she slams the door and drives away, leaving me on the sidewalk like an abandoned dog, hoping his owner will soon return. A few days later, my luck changes when Tatum Wakefield shows up in my bar and informs me that Maisy’s living in Austin for the next few months. She’s sixty miles within my reach.
Heeding Javi’s advice, I decide to embark on a self-care journey and earn myself the only reward I’ve ever wanted.
It’s time to catch a bird.