4. Winnie
CHAPTER FOUR
winnie
The storage closet is as humid as a scandal on the fourth of July and three times as cramped.
My knees crack loud enough to make me wince as I squat, trying to leverage my not-so-impressive wingspan behind stacks of generic bourbon to reach the only bottle that matters.
Our good whiskey, which is hidden where it’s least convenient.
“Gotcha.”
I’m still half-crouched, wrist twisted in a way I’ll regret tomorrow, when something lands on my shoulders. Not a hand. Soft impact, unexpected weight, and very much alive.
I imagine a rat as I yelp—no point denying it, I do yelp—and in the same instant my hand spasms. The whiskey bottle launches out of my grip, catches the edge of the shelf, and bursts against the floor.
For a split second it smells like celebration, like the nights when Trouble dared me to drink straight from the bottle on the old train tracks, smoke curling from the bonfire and laughter loose in the air.
I barely keep from flinging the thing on my back into next week. It claws at my hair, and then I see the tail. All black, all judgment. The cat rights itself, perches on the nearest box of wine, and flicks an ear at me as if to say, Well, go on. Pick it up.
“And what’s your name, little furry heart attack?” I ask, squinting to make out the collar. Her tag reads, “Peach.”
Peach blinks, unbothered by the puddle of whiskey and jagged glass. She starts licking her front paw.
“My mama always said animals know everything before we do,” I tell her, nudging the broken glass into a pile with the side of my shoe. “That you don’t have to say a thing, we just have to pay attention.”
Peach purrs, softer than smoke but just as persistent.
“So, was it me you didn’t like, or the whiskey?”
She doesn’t answer, just stretches out on the narrow run of shelf like she owns it.
I start looking for the dustpan, and that’s when the hallway door swings open. Charming leans in, hand on the door frame. “You got a dead body in there?”
“What?”
Charming tips his chin at the brownish streak running out under the closet door. “Looks like you murdered something, is all.”
“No,” I sigh. “Turns out this bar’s got a pet. Scared the daylights out of me.”
“Ah.” He opens a cabinet with his foot. “Mop’s in here. I’ll grab the glass, you take the mop.”
I plant my hand on my hip. “You don’t have to help, you know.”
He flashes a smirk. “I know, but I’m doin’ it anyway.”
He kneels, starts scooping up shards. His forearms flex, and there’s a scar on the inside of his wrist, pale and ragged. I’ve seen it before, but never asked. The whole town’s got scars, but none that you’re allowed to ask about.
“You know your way around the back pretty well,” I say, carrying the mop bucket to the sink in the corner and turning on the water.
“Helped out enough.” He shrugs, glances up. “Honey can’t do it all on her own.”
It clicks—the way he watches her when he’s at the bar, the way he says her name like it’s smothered in chocolate. “Oh my god,” I say, and it comes out more surprised than I mean. “You like her. You like Honey.”
His eyes go wide but only for a split second. He tries to scowl, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “What? Who said that? I’ll kill him.”
“No one,” I say, and I can’t help grinning. He’s so busted and he knows it. “That expression just said it all for you.”
Charming laughs, all the tension draining out of him. “Is it that obvious?”
“No,” I say, “I just read people well.”
He grins, flashing a dimple. “Don’t tell her.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, but… when are you going to tell her?”
Charming picks up the cat, and lets Peach drape over his arm like a scarf. “When the time is right, I guess.”
I shake my head, dunk the mop again. “I don’t like that phrase. Whose to say when the time is right? What if you miss the right time entirely?”
He meets my eyes, and for a heartbeat it feels like he’s weighing something heavier than his own secrets. “You’re a bright light, you know that, Winnie Hawthorne?”
I try not to blush, but I do, which is probably why I pretend to have trouble with the mop wringer. “So are you, Charming.”
He looks down, laughs, and the sound follows me all the way back to the bar. I drop off the next best whiskey option then start to pick-up the empty bottles and glasses scattered around.
I’m backing away from a table of half-finished beers when I turn too fast and run straight into a very solid chest.
“Oh! Sorry?—”
The tray wobbles, but a hand shoots out and steadies it before anything crashes.
“You’re good,” a deep voice says.
I look up—way up.
Shit. Danger.
Before I can even step back, someone at the bar perks up like they just saw a celebrity walk in.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Mr. Seeds from the rodeo committee says, sliding off his stool. “Dutton Stetson in the flesh.”
Danger gives him a polite nod. “Evenin’.”
Mr. Seeds sticks out his hand like he’s meeting the governor. “Man, we’re real proud to claim you around here. That ride last month? Unreal.”
“Appreciate it.”
“You need anything at all—tickets, arena time, space for training, you just call me. We take care of our own.”
I’m still standing there holding a tray like an idiot.
Anything at all. Funny. I asked that same committee for a tiny booth at the rodeo. They told me they were “at capacity.”
Danger gives another easy nod. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Mr. Seeds finally notices me. “Oh—sorry, sweetheart, didn’t see you there.”
Clearly.
I force a smile. “Happens a lot.”
Mr. Seeds claps him on the shoulder one more time. “Seriously, son. You just say the word.”
Then he wanders off like he didn’t just ruin my night.
I adjust the tray on my hip. “Must be nice.”
Danger watches me a second too long. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I say brightly. “Refills?”
But my chest feels tight, and I can’t help wondering if this is just how the world works. Some people get doors held open, and the rest of us are stuck knockin’ from the outside.