Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
RAVEN
I t’s nine p.m., and The Wandering Raven is in full swing.
The pool tables and dart boards have a queue, and every table is full.
The bar has a solid wall of bodies surrounding it, waiting to place drink orders, and Benny has yet to give up his seat.
Griffin is filling the role of waiter, running food orders all over the room.
The jukebox is getting a good amount of use, and some customers have created a dance floor while they two-step to artists like Garth Brooks and Brad Paisley.
Most of the men are wearing their nice flannel, cowboy hats, and boots, while some of the women wear a more feminine version of the same attire.
There are a few women with jean shorts, cowgirl boots, and cute tops that Griffin seems to be purposely paying little attention to. Their hair and makeup are flawless, and they keep shooting come-hither glances in Griffin’s direction.
The Wandering Raven is clearly the place to be on a Friday night.
I don’t know how Griffin and Knox did this before by themselves. It’s a madhouse in here. Kat had mentioned the people in town treating Griffin and Knox differently, but from what I can see, they’re more than accepted.
“Two Bud Lights, please,” a kind middle-aged woman orders.
“Coming right up!” As I fill two glasses with beer, I spot a couple walking down the back hall. “Here you go,” I say with a smile as I hand the drinks over.
My eyes go back to the hallway. Throughout the evening, I’ve seen people wander back there, but not a single one has returned. Sometimes Griffin walks out the front door, but I have no idea what he’d be doing out there in the parking lot.
Should I be worried? Kat said this place was run-down.
She didn’t mention sketchy shit going on in a backroom.
Although I haven’t the slightest clue as to where they’re going.
I’ve been down that hall. There’s a men’s restroom, a women’s restroom, and an office.
I want to take another look, but I can’t while the bar is in full swing.
“Excuse me?”
“What can I get you?” I ask the next cowboy in line, who looks like he barely started shaving last week.
“Five Budweisers and open a tab,” he answers.
“Can I see some ID, please?”
He sets his elbows on the counter, leans in conspiratorially, and lowers his voice. “You don’t need to see my ID, sweetheart.” He finishes off with a wink that I’m sure he uses often.
I mimic his position and respond in kind, “Yes, I do, sweetheart . No ID, no beer.” Ending my sarcasm with a wink, just like he did.
His expression flips to annoyed. “Griffin and Knox serve me all the time without having to see my ID.”
“You shouldn’t lie. My mom always said that liars go to hell.” I actually don’t know for sure if he’s lying. Griffin didn’t explicitly say, “Don’t serve minors” when I got my brief training earlier, but I figure it was implied.
“Listen here, my business has never been refused before. I don’t know why you gotta act like a bitch with a stick up your ass. I got rights, you know.”
Shaking my head, I respond mockingly, “Whew. Such big words for such a little boy. But my answer is still the same. No ID, no beer.”
His hand whips across the counter and wraps tightly around my wrist, pulling me toward him. “What did you just say to me?”
Up close, I can see the spots where he still can’t grow facial hair. His behavior speaks to his entitlement.
His hand squeezes even harder, but I don’t let the bite of pain show in my face. If he wants to make me hurt, he has to work harder. I’ve had worse than this.
I ball my other hand in a fist, ready to send it flying right at this punk’s nose. Before I can carry out my plan, a shadow falls over me, and a large hand encircles my fist, blocking me from breaking any noses.
The complex scent of deep soil mixed with falling rain overwhelms my senses, like vetiver, but richer.
The kid across from me releases his hold immediately, and his lips become slack as terror enters his face. Everyone around him takes a step back, giving the kid a wide berth.
Following his line of sight, I almost have to break my neck to find the face of the shadow hovering over me.
My eyes glide up a sculpted chest and strong neck.
I have to blink a few times when I see his face.
It’s identical to Griffin’s except for his eyes and a couple of scars decorating his face.
His eyes are an enchanting meadow green that swirl with tempered rage as he directs that anger at the kid trying to manhandle me.
Knox Montgomery.
The scars slicing through his lip and brow draw me in, and I have to physically stop myself from reaching up and tracing the discolored skin.
I want to know more about him. I want his light green eyes to consume me. I want to know what it feels like when he runs his rugged hands over my skin.
My pussy throbs as I imagine what it would feel like to be with him. Would it be soft and sweet or hard and punishing?
He growls at the boy in front of me. “Did you just lay hands on my bartender, Huck LeBlanc?”