Chapter 3 #2
Usually, when I finish a set, I head to the back for a while to cool off.
The lights are hot, making me a bit sweaty, and the crowd still feels entitled to a piece of me.
Tonight, I can’t handle the delay and won’t risk that she might slip out the door.
I wrap up my set, put Betty into her case, safe and sound behind the burlap stage curtain, and hop directly off the stage.
A few people surge forward as if we’re friends, but I bark out, “Move.” They recoil, somehow surprised that I’m not eager to high-five and fist bump them. But I’ve got more important shit to do.
As I’m coming up to the bar, I overhear Olivia, who’s not trying to be quiet at all. In fact, she’s speaking . . . loudly.
“Ooh, look out, girl. He’s on his way over.
Remember, he’s everyone’s free pass.” She’s talking about me.
Not to be arrogant, but I’ve heard that from women before.
Honestly, I find it to be grossly disrespectful to their relationship with their partner, but that’s on them, not me. I’m not interested in shit like that.
What I am interested in is her.
She’s laughing at Olivia’s comments, and it’s a bright, bubbly sound.
I have a twinge of jealousy that I wasn’t the one to make her laugh.
Not that I’m a funny, laughs-a-minute sort anyway, but I want to capture that sound and listen to it late at night when the dark feels a little too endless and the bed a little too empty.
So I stick my hand out. “I’m Bobby Tannen.”
She wipes her hand on the towel stuck through her belt loop and shakes my hand. I feel a shock of electricity shoot up my arm the instant I touch her, but she seems more confused by my direct attention than anything.
“Willow Parker, the new bartender. You seem rather popular.”
An insult or a compliment? I’m not sure.
I shrug, not sure what to say. Olivia is looking between us like the ping pong match of the century has just started.
I raise one brow expectantly, silently telling her to get lost. Olivia taps her tray against the bar.
“Oops! Let me check on table thirteen really quick. I’ll be back for those drinks, Willow.
” She scoots off but must throw a glance back because Willow glares off to my left.
I’m instantly hungry to have her eyes back on me.
Willow sets a large glass of ice water on the bar in front of me, which I drink gratefully.
“Thanks.” I want to ask about a hundred questions at once, but what comes out is, “How in the hell did you get Hank to let you behind his bar?” My voice is deep and rough, nothing I can do about that, but the growl makes it sound accusatory.
Maybe unconsciously, I mean for it to be because curiosity about her sudden appearance is eating me up inside.
She flinches, dark lashes fluttering a little too fast behind those owl-like lenses.
What the hell, man? Fix it.
I flash the smile that’s gotten me out of trouble for most of my life and am rewarded with a hesitant, slow-motion version of one of her soft smiles.
“Right place, right time, I guess,” she answers without giving anything away.
A voice calls out ‘bartender’, and she moves away without another word but gives me the first view of her lower half.
She’s wearing denim shorts that sit low on her hips, exposing a small sliver of her midriff I’d like to trace with my tongue.
Her legs are shapely and tan, ending in black and white Nikes that have seen better days.
I’m lost in every curve, tracing the line of the nape of her neck with my eyes, and flexing my fingers with the urge to reach out and drag her back to me. I want more of her—her words, her smiles—and maybe I can get one of those laughs of my very own.
Richard slides over next to me, lids half-lowered, but I’m not sure if it’s because he’s tipsy or if he’s checking me out. “What’re your intentions with our Willow?”
“Our Willow?” I snap. For someone I’ve never seen before, she seems to have crawled under everyone’s skin pretty damn fast—mine, Olivia’s, Richard’s, and Hank’s. My Spidey senses start tingling in warning. Or maybe it’s jealousy.
His lips quirk in amusement and he drawls out, “That’s what I thought. You wanna know what I know?”
I blink slowly, not sure I like where this conversation is going. I mean, yeah, of course I want to know, but there’s a part of me that wants her to tell me. But given how she walked off without a care, maybe a little intel would do me good.
I tell myself that I’m looking out for Hank, because maybe he’s been taken in by her sweet, innocent looks too. Deep down, I know it’s for my own personal satisfaction. Nobody else needs to know that, though, so I shrug casually, feigning indifference.
“All right, I’ll bite. Whatcha got?”
Richard takes a long, leisurely sip of his beer, delighting in the fact that I’m on his hook.
Desperately twisting and turning in anticipation on it, in fact.
“Willow Parker, Hank’s niece, city girl.
Showed up a couple of weeks ago as a surprise.
Said she needed, and I quote, ‘a change.’ She’s a photographer of some sort, always snapping away on her phone, though I saw her with one of them big, fancy digital ones once.
Thing was nearly as big as she is. And she’s a damn good bartender.
” He winks as if he told me all her deep, dark secrets.
“Be good to her or Hank’ll have your hide, and I’ll be backing him up.
” He moves back to his own barstool several seats away.
Actually, there is some good information in what he shared, answering at least the first of my questions—why the hell Hank had let her behind the bar. If she’s a relative, it makes sense that he’d trust her. Why didn’t she just say so?
Which leaves me to my second question . . . what’s she doing later tonight? Because I’d like to get to know her better.
Maybe I can do something with Richard’s information.
I give him a nod of appreciation and sip at my water, watching and waiting impatiently for her to come my way.
The tension in my body rises with every customer she talks to, every lift of her lips for someone else, making it difficult to keep my ass on this stool.
I want to stride right behind the bar and demand her attention again.
Back and forth she goes, and after a few trips up and down the bar, I realize she’s intentionally avoiding me. She’s not even looking my way, skipping over my barstool as she scans customers.
Fuck that. But I’ve got enough respect for Hank to not pass into the no-man zone of his behind-bar space.
If I did, I would definitely get his Slugger to my knees because this bar is the only thing keeping me from backing Willow up against the long stretch of wood and learning everything about her.
So I make the safe choice, something I’m not always known for.
Waving her down, I see her throat work as she swallows, but she heads my way.
“Another J.D.?”
She thinks we’re keeping this all business. We’re most definitely not.
“Yes, please.” I’m an asshole, but I’ve got manners, especially when I need them, and something tells me I’m going to need every trick I’ve got with Willow.
While she pours, I try to engage her. “Richard says you’re Hank’s niece? That why he let you into the sacred space known as ‘behind the bar’?”
“Yeah, though my years of experience as a bartender probably didn’t hurt.” Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses as she pricks back at my unflattering assumption. Well, if my sister, Shayanne, said that, it’d be a sarcastic snapback. Willow seems to just be stating facts.
“Must be why he also said you’re a good bartender. Actually, his words were ‘damn good’. Which is high praise from him.”
I swear there’s the slightest hint of pink on her cheeks, but it might be the neon lights.
She looks down the bar and scolds with a single word.
“Richard.” He grins and shrugs like ‘whatcha gonna do?’ and she rolls her eyes, any tiny bit of ire already evaporating as she laughs along with him like they’re old friends.
I lean in. “Don’t be mad at him. He’s just trying to help me out.”
She leans in too, elbows on the bar and head tilted my way. “You usually need help? Seems like you’ve got your pick of women to take home tonight.”
That was most definitely an insult, the slight crinkle in her pixie nose clearly showing her distaste as she looks past me.
I can imagine what she sees. Bar bunnies, mostly local girls, who see me as some sort of mythical unicorn-level creature, a dirt-roughened cowboy who sings about love and forever.
The truth? I’ve seen love and I know it’s real, but I’ve never been in love myself.
I figure I’ll know it when I feel it, though.
“Not my style. I’m a pickier sort, and right now, I need all the help Richard can give me because I think I’m in real danger of striking out.” My eyes tick down to her pink lips, which tilt up ever so slightly, letting me know I’m not that close to the danger line.
“What’s your type?” she says, barely louder than a whisper so that the conversation is just between us. “Maybe I can help you out too.”
I scan her slowly. “A blonde with glasses, a nose I want to rub with mine, lips I want to taste, sweet smiles she hands out to everyone she sees, she heavy pours Jack Daniels for me, a new to town city girl I’d love to show around so she can take pictures of anything her heart desires.
” Tension builds in the inches between us with my every word.
I’m coming on hard, and I know it. I pray it’s not too much because this is me holding tight restraint over every caveman urge I have, gentling them for her as best I can.
She ducks her chin for a second before lifting it again. Completely unaffected by my charm, she asks, “Does that usually work?”
She doesn’t believe me, thinks I’m feeding her bullshit like some bar schmuck looking for a hookup. The worst part is that I’m telling the God’s honest truth.
“Not a line. Mean every word.” I move my hand to my chest, feeling the racing thump against my palm. “Cross my heart.”
She nods. “Uh-huh.” But she looks a little less sure that I’m being slick.
Olivia reappears at the end of the bar. “You have no idea how much I hate to interrupt this, but three margaritas or table two is gonna riot.”
The moment pops like a bubble and Willow stands upright. “Oh, sorry. I’ve got them.” She moves down to the other end of the bar, and I feel the loss of her, though she’s only a few feet away, her eyes focused on the mixers in front of her.
“Not used to seeing you like this,” Olivia says, a question laced in the comment.
“Okay.” Words aren’t my strong suit unless I’m singing them, and those take me weeks, or sometimes even months, to get just right.
“Take it slow and don’t hurt her. She’s got something going on, something she’s not sharing.” Olivia follows my eyes down the bar, looking at Willow and seeming more like a big sister than the barely-adult she appears to be.
“What makes you say that?”
Olivia looks at me like I’m stupider than the goat on our farm that keeps getting stuck in the fence when she tries to escape.
“A girl doesn’t up and leave her life for no good reason. So be easy with her. She’s not them.” She looks pointedly at table two, the margarita girls who are dressed up in miniskirts, fancy boots with fringe, and plunging necklines.
“That’s why I’m sitting here and not there.”
Olivia backhands my shoulder, pleased. “Good answer, Bobby.”
Willow reappears, setting down three margaritas for Olivia, but before I can say a word, she’s off again. Back to ignoring me and doing her work.
I get it, she’s busy. And I can wait. I’ve got nowhere better to be than right where she is, gleaning every tidbit of intel I can about this woman who has captured my attention more than anyone else ever has.
And she’s barely said a word to me. There’s just something about her that is drawing me in.
Magical threads pull me into you, and I swirl into your orbit, lost to anyone but you.