Chapter 3
three
The sound of people shouting and laughing, music blaring, and beer bottles clinking is like a dopamine rush for me.
From my position behind the bar at Pop’s, I can see people steadily filing through the front door.
It’s a busy Saturday night, especially since we don’t have live music tonight.
I’ve been bartending here for over a year now, just waiting on the old man to decide he’s ready to hand over the keys.
When I first came to Jack Winston, I had a cocky attitude and a fat wallet.
I was so sure he was going to drop the keys in my hand and just walk away.
Fuck, was I wrong. Instead, he told me this place had been his home for nearly thirty years.
He said the legacy he left behind in this town wouldn’t be tarnished by some punk kid willing to throw money away on a hole in the wall bar.
He told me he would teach me how to run this place if I was willing to learn.
He let me move in above the bar, and I’ve been here ever since.
After getting my hands dirty slinging kegs, cleaning bar lines, wiping down tables, and playing crowd control nearly every night, I understand what he meant.
This place is a well-oiled machine, and it only runs smoothly because he is an amazing operator.
I want to be that man, want to be the leader this place depends on.
Hopefully, I’ve done enough to convince Jack I’m ready for that responsibility.
“Iris, can I get three Revelry’s on draft and a vodka tonic?” Megan, a server who started around the same time I did, asks.
“Got it, babe,” I tell her, pulling three pints and mixing her drink in record time. I set them on her tray and she’s gone without another word. We continue on the same way, back and forth, for the next three hours.
I feel the exact moment the air shifts in the bar.
I wish I could say the woman has no effect on me.
Lord knows it would be easier if she didn’t.
But the oxygen is literally sucked from my lungs the moment Magnolia Monroe walks through the front door.
She’s a five-foot tall fire storm, all dark red hair and forest green eyes, curves that go on for fucking years .
She’s so damn beautiful it hurts, and so far out of my league.
Her eyes look sad as she pushes through the crowd and takes a seat at the end of the bar. Immediately, I want to decimate whoever or whatever put such a miserable look on her face. I clear out the few orders in front of me before sliding down the bar to catch her attention.
“Magnolia Monroe, to what do I owe this pleasure?” I say, using the flirty tone that always makes her blush.
“Hey,” is all she responds, barely lifting the corner of her lips in a smile.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, immediately serious.
“It’s nothing. Just family drama. Trust me, you don’t wanna hear it,” she says, picking at the edges of her perfectly manicured nails.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her not completely put together.
I’m desperate to see her pretty rose-colored lipstick smeared from my kiss.
To see her mascara run from the tears streaking down her face as she begs me to let her come.
Fuck, I want to taste this woman, to erase every trace of any man who’s ever touched her before me.
I’ve never been a possessive man before, never held anything worth holding so tightly.
But Magnolia? I would possess her, body and fucking soul.
“Tell me anyway,” I say, leaning across the bar and pulling her hands apart so she can’t pick at them anymore.
She may think nobody sees her, but I’ve watched her spiral into her own mind before.
I’ve seen her pick at her fingers until they’re bloody, or chew on the inside of her cheek until she winces.
Self harm isn’t always obvious or visible, sometimes it’s just that subtle.
“Do you ever feel like you’re letting everyone in your life down, and you’re not even trying to?” She says, not meeting my eyes but not dropping my hands.
“Yeah. All the time. I think my parents expected me to be married with a few kids by now, but obviously that’s not where I am,” I tell her honestly, rubbing my thumbs back and forth across the backs of her hands.
My parents have never told me they were disappointed in any of my decisions, but I know they worry.
She nods slowly, letting my words sink in.
“Why can’t it be enough to just be happy with your life?” She asks, more to herself than to me.
“Well, are you?” I ask, and she finally meets my gaze. Her green eyes shine with unshed tears and it rips me apart.
“Aw, fuck. Come on,” I tell her, rounding the edge of the bar and pulling her off the barstool.
She comes with me willingly, no fight left in her as I direct her towards the hallway in the back of the bar that leads to my upstairs apartment.
I may not know Magnolia as well as I want to, but I don’t think she wants to have an emotional breakdown in such a public place.
Before I can even close the apartment door behind us, she turns, throwing her arms around my waist and sobbing into my chest. The dam she’s been trying so hard to hold finally breaks, and for a moment, I’m frozen.
I’m not sure how she wants to be comforted here, and I don’t want to make anything worse for her.
So I just let her cling to me, her fingers twisting in the back of my t-shirt as she drains her mind and heart of whatever is dragging her down.
Slowly, I wrap my arms around her, and she leans into me harder.
Trailing my hands soothingly up and down her back, I hold her like I’ve always wanted to.
I hold her like I would if she were truly mine.
It can be so fucking exhausting to wear a mask in front of everyone else, especially when you’re struggling just to keep your head above water on the inside.
So tonight, right here in this moment, I’ll be whatever she needs me to be.
“Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay. Beidh an ghrian ag taitneamh arís, a aingeal ,” Comforting her comes so naturally to me, like I’ve been doing it my whole life. She stills, sniffling a few times before stepping back. Reluctantly, I let her go.
“You dont know that. You don’t even know me ,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. “What does that mean?”
“What does what mean?” I ask, studying her delicate features.
She’s not beautiful in the societal definition of the word.
Honestly, 99% of women in the world aren’t magazine beautiful.
But she’s beautiful in the way that makes grown men weep.
She’s the kind of woman wars were waged over in medieval times.
“What you said… what language is that?” She asks, and I smile, reaching out and brushing her thick auburn hair out of her face.
“Gaelic. It means the sun will shine again. My mom says it to me when I’m feeling down about life,” I gesture to the photo hanging on the wall behind her of my grandparents, my parents, my sister and I in front of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin.
It was taken after my first communion. Even though I was just a boy, I was already a head taller than my mom.
“This is your family? You all look so happy,” she says thoughtfully. Her smile is small and doesn’t reach her eyes.
“We’re a pretty happy bunch, yeah. Is that what’s bothering you? Your family?” I ask, hoping I’m not prying.
As if my mentioning of her family is the final nail in the coffin, her eyes shutter. Shock registers on her face for a moment before she starts furiously wiping under her eyes, turning to face away from me. She’s not the type to break down in front of anyone, least of all a guy she hardly knows.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean… I just… I’m sorry,” she whispers, tripping over her words.
“For what, Magnolia? Being human? We all have emotions, angel. Some are just too heavy to carry alone,” I tell her, walking into the kitchen to get her a glass of water.
“Can you give me a few minutes to go check on the crew downstairs? It’s getting close to closing time and I don’t want to leave them hanging. Dont leave. Just… wait, please?”
She nods slowly, her eyes trailing over the bookcases lining an entire wall.
I leave her in my apartment, running downstairs.
It’s nearly two in the morning now, and most of the bar has cleared out.
Megan is bouncing from table to table, picking up empty bottles and glasses and wiping the tables behind her.
“Hey, sorry for disappearing like that,” I tell her, taking the trashcan from her hands and helping her clean up.
“It’s okay. I saw you head to the stairs. Figured you were gonna be busy with the pretty redhead.” Even though I’m sure that’s what it looked like, it bothers me that she assumed I would leave my job, mid-shift, and fuck somebody upstairs.
“She’s just a friend. She’s having a rough night, so I didn’t want her to be stuck crying in her beer down here,” I tell her, and her features soften.
“You’re a good guy, Iris. No matter what they say.” Winking at me, she wipes the last table.
“Thanks, Megan. Go on, I’ll lock up,” I tell her, dropping the dirty glassware into the sink behind the bar and starting my nightly closing routine.
I count the register, sweep and mop, and toss everything in the dishwasher faster than I ever have.
Snagging a bottle of tequila from the behind the bar, I drop a fifty in its place and head back up the stairs.
When I swing the door open, she’s standing in front of my bookshelf, paperback in hand.
The light from my dim corner lamp outlines her perfect body, her curly hair falling so perfectly over one shoulder as she reads the back of what I know to be the first book in a dark romance series centered on the Italian mafia.