2. Brooks
TWO
Brooks
E ven with the jukebox’s music flowing through the bar, you could hear a pin drop as a regular—John, who runs Sonny’s Hardware on the corner of Main—catches the spritely redhead who just caused an absolute ruckus on my bar.
Towel in hand, I glare at her as John helps her stand. She blows her wild waves back away from her face as she tests her weight on the ankle she twisted in her attempt at a wild night in Abaline when she’s clearly not from here.
Her Hazel eyes narrow at me as she wobbles a bit in John’s arms. He’s trying to keep his composure, but everyone knows he’s having the time of his fucking life. The damsel in distress landed right in his arms. His curling, drunken grin says he thinks it’s going to sway her in his direction at the end of the night. If John wasn’t in his mid-sixties with a drinking problem and no front teeth, I’d be liable to agree with his assessment.
“You could’ve at least helped me down!” she shrieks as she shrugs out of John’s hold and pins her hands on her hips.
She’s in tight jeans, a little wet now from sliding across the bar, sopping up everyone’s condensation and spilled drinks, and a lacy undershirt that’s slipping a bit too low.
“Helped you down from my bar, where you were about to strip naked for all my patrons?” I toss back, unable to believe her audacity.
Fucking city girls.
They whip through here like F-5 tornados, leaving chaos in their wake.
“I was not stripping naked!” she counters, and a lovely little rouge fills her cheeks. She already had one from her explicit dance, but now it’s deepening.
“Oh? What was all this...” I toss the towel I’d been shining glasses with onto the bar and shimmy a little, pretending to open my buttons with my tongue hanging out.
A crowd has gathered around us, and a few of them chuckle. A couple of her friends have rallied around her and shoved John out of the picture. He gives a backward glance before sliding back onto the barstool. He won’t remember it in the morning.
“That is not what I looked like.” Her eyes roll as she leans on her ankle again, this time with more confidence.
It doesn’t seem strained— not like I fucking care.
“Listen, I could go ten rounds with you, but it’s not even worth my time, so save us both the trouble and go back over to your wedding party or bachelorette party, or whatever it is, and just stay off my bar, alright?”
Her head tilts as her mouth falls open, as if she can’t believe what I’ve just said. “Excuse me? It’s a bar; it’s meant to be danced on.”
She earns a few whoops of agreement as the song changes to “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey.
Even the booties she has on are pretentious and likely cost more than my entire bar.
“It’s not meant to be danced on by the likes of you,” I grind out before thinking.
John winces at me from where he’s looking on from his stool.
She steps into me, her finger flying in my face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
All the regulars perched behind her, and her friends, who look like they’re going to throw their very expensive bags at my head, are shaking their heads and giving signals to fall back.
Fuck that.
I step closer, looking down at her. “I mean, that you’re clearly not from around here. You’re here for some fun girls only event that has you acting out of character and throwing confetti all over my table and floor, which I’m certain is shaped like penises. I also mean that if I let you stay on my bar, flash all my customers, and continue to carry on, it wouldn’t matter much to you. It would be another story in your long list of drunken soirées, I’m certain you have. But this is my home. This is my place of business. Which means I have to carry things like insurance for when girls like you tumbleweed through town and decide to trash the place or get hurt falling off the bar. The thing is, red, I don’t want to do an insurance claim. So, while what I’ve said ruffles your feathers, it’s nothing you won’t forget about by morning if you just hobble back over to your table and go on with the rest of your evening.”
While I can see rage waving at me in her otherwise gorgeous eyes, she drops her finger out of my face and shakes her head.
Backing up a few paces, she looks me up and down with disgust. “You don’t know shit about me.”
I shrug. “Well, first impressions aren’t everything, but they are telling.”
Her friends tug on her arms and urge her back to their table, and I pick up my discarded rag and sigh.
“That was fucking harsh, B,” Travis says as I walk behind the bar.
I know it was, and I don’t need him to tell me. It’s not unusual for me to be surly, but I’m usually friendly to the tourists, accommodating even. But after the day I had fighting with the bank over the money owed on the second mortgage and the two hours I did groveling for the extension, I’m over niceties.
“It was the truth. The truth sometimes tastes bitter,” I mutter, turning and grabbing a glass I’m not even sure needs shining as I run my rag over it.
“Take them a round of shots,” I tell Travis, closing my eyes and trying to get my heartrate to simmer.
“Hah! I’m not going over there. Look at ‘em! It’d be like walking into the lion’s den after you stole a fucking cub.”
My eyes open and fall on the redhead who started all this. Not only is she looking in my direction, but she’s seething.
Her friends are in her ear, likely rebuilding her confidence, no doubt.
“I’ll be in my office if you need me,” I tell Travis, tossing the rag down and handing him the glass.
He huffs as it connects with his chest. He fights a grin as he nods. “Got it, boss.”
S itting back with my hands steepled on my head, I eye the clock. Eleven-thirty. I sigh as I lean forward and eye the paperwork spread across my desk. Five grand in back rent still owed.
Fuck.
This was necessary, of course. I had to do what I did, and I’d do it again, but man, losing The Place would kill me. This place was my dad’s.
I was doing good, too. Until the bank decided my time was up and asked for the last payment in one lump sum, threatening repossession if I didn’t pay. The extension I weaseled out of Walter down at the bank is for another two weeks, but fuck, if I can’t figure out where to pull five grand out of my ass, I’m screwed.
As if summoned, Nick’s number pops up on my phone—the entire reason for all the paperwork on my desktop.
“Hey, man,” I say, answering.
“Hey. Feel like some dinner?” he asks.
I narrow my brows. “Why? You haven’t been trying to cook again, have you?”
He laughs, which tips my own lips up in a rare smile. “No. I haven’t, you asshole. I was going to drop by and bring pizza.”
I open my mouth to let another smartass remark, but he beats me to it.
“I was thinking Joe’s, so it’s edible.”
I laugh, which feels even rarer than the smile was. “You know when last call is, but I don’t have any stock or paperwork to do tonight, so like two-ish,” I tell him.
“Cool. Be there then.”
“Sounds good.”
When he hangs up, I feel lighter while looking down at the paperwork I’d been mulling over. That is until I hear yet another melee from within the bar filtering down the small hall leading to my office.
“Godfuckingdamnit!” I growl, standing.
My chair hits the wall behind my desk as I grab the bat by the door, ready for the worst if it’s a fight.
Storming into the room, I find the pain-in-the-ass redhead from earlier standing in front of Butch, her arms crossed and a hellish smirk on her face.
“Did I hurt you?” she asks.
Butch’s face is typically red, but now, it’s the color of the sweetest apple. “I didn’t say you fucking hurt me. I said you need to keep your hands to yourself.”
Fuck me, I don’t want to go toe to toe with Butch.
Butch Eddy leads one of the few biker clubs in the area, The Black Skulls, and he’s a big motherfucker.
It seems this city girl came to stir Abaline up tonight.
“Oh, grow up, it was a little stroke!”
This has my full attention as I lean against the bat and watch the exchange with a rowdy group of onlookers laughing their asses off. This night has been off since her raucous group walked through the door, but it’s nothing compared to when the hurricane that is her arrived later on, joining them and choosing violence.
“Do I even want to know what you’ve done now, red?”
Her eyes turn angry as she swings them in my direction. “Fuck off, I wasn’t on your bar.”
“Mmm, but you’re still standing in my bar. So, tell me what bullshit you’ve caused now. I don’t want to bounce you out of here.”
She laughs. “You and what army?”
I nod my head toward Butch, who looks over his shoulder at three tables of bikers eyeing the entire exchange.
She swallows, but her face doesn’t show an ounce of fear. “All I fucking did was touch his beard. But big baby here couldn’t handle it, apparently.”
Confusion whacks me over the head as Butch growls, “You left out that you didn’t ask fucking permission to touch me!”
“Oh, come off it!” she yells back.
I can’t deny the tick in the corner of my lips, or the urge to laugh.
“Why is it you touched Butch’s beard without permission?” I dare to ask.
“Butch?” She laughs. “Come on, could you be more on-brand?”
Her eyes are a bit glassier than before, and I can tell she’s been having quite the night. And being that last call is a ways off, I’m assuming it’ll only get worse from here.
“Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t ask permission to stroke your beard,” red says, and I have to clear my throat at the laugh I staunch.
Butch tosses his hands in the air. “When you say it like that, this all seems silly.”
She laughs, and the melodic sound drowns out every bit of the jukebox and the dull chatter of those uninterested in what’s happening here.
Butch steps forward, and for a moment, I catch my breath, hand gripping my bat in a tight choke.
“All is forgiven, beautiful,” he tells her, slapping her on the shoulder.
She wobbles a little on her feet but recovers, a full smile on her lips as she looks back over at me and bares her teeth before turning and heading toward her table. The same table surrounded by the gaggle of girls who are dying of laughter.
“What are they playing at?” Travis asks, coming up and grabbing the bat from me.
“I don’t know, but I’ll bet it isn’t over. Keep your eyes on them.”
He waves his hand toward the bat my fingers are laced tightly around. “What were you going to do to her, boss? Bat her into the outfield?”
I growl, muttering to myself as I storm back into my office. I don’t know who this girl is, but I’ll be glad when the night’s over and my life returns to normal.