Chapter One
Andie
Lord, but I love Sundays.
Not because of church, though I still wake up bright and early to curl my blonde hair and put on my best dress and kneel at the same worn pew I’ve been kneeling at for the past twenty-eight years, right next to my Momma down at the county parish.
No, I love Sundays because they’re my absolute favorite night of the week to be waitressing here at Sam Hill’s Saloon.
Been here just about six and a half years, slinging drinks and cheap eats in the skimpy denim cutoffs and rhinestone-encrusted cowboy boots all us girls gotta wear.
The pay is low, of course, but the tips I get showing off my considerable curves more than make up for it, our fried pickles are real damn good, and Old Sam treats each and every one of his employees like family.
And even though some folks might consider working in a place like this sort of low-class, I couldn’t be happier here—especially on Sundays.
Sundays are the one day a week Old Sam ain't working, you see, and when Old Sam ain't working, we don't fire up Demon. The old mechanical bull gets a well-deserved rest, and so do we—without him, the dingy old barn-turned-bar is much less attractive to folks outside of county lines.
Urban legend would have you believe that firing up that bull on the Lord’s day is like opening up a door for The Devil, but it’s really just an excuse to give us all a break from the tourists and give the community a night to gather.
Locals practically flock to the place after putting in their time with God, eager to bend an ear around the latest gossip and wash away whatever sins they didn’t manage to scrub off at morning service with a frosty pitcher of cheap beer—or three, for some.
But even with Demon powered down, even with the seats nowhere near full and the dance floor less than lively, even with all the smoke and music weighing heavy on the air around me… well, Sunday nights feel sacred, special.
There’s just something about this place, you know?
Something magical.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s sealed into the heart pine floors, old as sin under my feet and gleaming beneath a thick layer of sawdust. The way my boots sparkle as they slap against the wood tonight makes me think I might be right, and I relish the click-clack sound of my steps as I lead Gerald and Cybil Beaumont over to their usual table, settling them in with a warm smile.
“You two getting the usual?”
“Sure am,” Gerald says, leaning back in his chair as he adjusts his big belt buckle around his even bigger belly, looking around the sparsely populated bar. “Sure is nice when that bull ain’t bucking, all quiet like this. But you be sure and tell Hank I don’t want none of that new stuff, just the…”
My red lips curl a bit more at the corners as he rattles off all the same particulars of the same darn things he always orders for the two of them, but I still note everything down on my little pad and politely ignore the way his eyes wander as I do.
Gerald’s a great tipper.
Cybil’s eyes tend to do much of the same, anyhow, and I give her a wink when she requests some shooters for them and the folks at the next table.
She doesn't catch it, as she's already half out of her seat waving over Tracy Thornwood to cluck away about something or the other, but the harmless flirting is all in good fun anyway.
I weave my way through the service area, making sure none of my tables need tending before I head back to the kitchen to drop Gerald’s order on the line.
I bask in the glow of the vintage neon signs and bob my head to the music on my way out of the kitchen and over to the bar, a genuine smile on my face.
Sundays are always perfect.
Well… almost always.
Because as soon as I put in for Cybil’s shooters with Dex at the bar, the front doors bang open and a group of liquored-up city boys stumble into the place—about a half an hour before last call, mind you—swaggering in the pretentious kinda way that liquored-up city boys are wont to do.
My breath catches in my throat because… these boys? These boys look like trouble.
“Hopefully not much,” I whisper to myself, placing my tray down on the bar and tugging down my denim cutoffs a touch so they’re slightly less cheeky—only slightly, though, as shorts don’t get much shorter than these and my ass ain’t like to quit for some time yet.
Lord, why am I so tense?
It’s still Sunday, after all, and these jokers are probably destined for a barstool or the dartboard.
Even if they do grab a table and some eats, a group of rowdies is nothing I can’t handle.
As long as they don’t get too fresh or throw any hands, my space should stay just as sacred as it’s always been.
Right?
“Well it’s a goddamn miracle, but I talked Earl down from another pitcher,” Lila grumbles, setting her tray down on top of the bar beside mine and bringing her fingers to her lips, whistling sharp to get Dex’s attention. “Still swiped his keys and called Hattie, but a win’s a win.”
Dex looks up from the shooters he’s lining up for me, blue eyes crinkling at the corners as they find Lila’s.
She gives him a little pout and holds up two fingers, red polish catching the light while they wiggle.
He nods his head, giving her a salute before setting down the whiskey—my whiskey—and getting right to her drinks.
“Oh no you don’t, Dexter Lee,” I holler, leaning boldly across the bar. “Ain’t no way you’re getting Lila’s while I’m here waiting on mine!”
“You think I can’t service more than one woman at once, Andie Jean?” Dex yells over the music, giving Lila a real particular sort of look that makes her cheeks flush pink as a posey. “And you know I can’t say no to Lila.”
I roll my eyes even as I smile, plucking a cherry from the garnish tray and popping it into my mouth while the two of them make eyes at each other.
Definitely an on week in the on-again, off-again saga that is Lila and Dex, and I’m sure I’ll get an earful of just how on they wind up getting whenever she manages to make it back to our apartment tomorrow morning. So much for getting a ride back home.
“Ain’t fair, the ass on him,” Lila sighs, tilting her head as her eyes rake down his backside, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder in a pleased sort of way. She turns to smile at me, expression changing as she gazes off over my shoulder. “Dear Lord… what’s going on there?”
I turn to see what’s got her looking so sour, and of course it’s that gaggle of goons already acting up, plowing through a group of folks line dancing as they head straight to the six-top in the back just past Demon—the one in my section, of course.
“Trouble,” I say flatly, watching as one of them takes a seat at the table and pulls out a cigarette, lighting the wrong end.
Lila scrunches up her nose as another one misses the chair he was aiming for, falling on his rear and sending the whole group of buffoons into shambles. “God, is there anything worse than a man who don’t realize he’s drunk?”
“Sure is,” I sigh, blowing an errant curl out of my face, turning away to wipe down my tray so I can get this over with, taking care not to press too hard over the rhinestones I hot-glued all around the edge. “Five of ‘em.”
Lila’s already lining up cups and pouring out waters for me to load onto my tray, peering at me out of the side of her eyes in sympathy. “Where those shooters going?”
I offer her a warm smile. Not only is she a great friend and a fine roommate, but she’s also a real thoughtful coworker.
“Beaumonts. Hank just got their order, but nine should be up once you get that whiskey out,” I say, giving my head a little shake before snapping my best service smile on tight and lifting my eyebrows a little too high, making both of us giggle. “Well, wish me luck.”
“Sam should hire a bouncer,” Lila murmurs, passing me my water-laden tray and giving Dex a wink as he sets my shooters and two mugs of tonight’s special—Devil’s Red—on her own waiting tray.
“Wouldn’t that be something?” I hoist my tray up onto my shoulder, bracing a hand on my hip thoughtfully. “Some big sweet somebody I could go home with after work, all tall, strong, and handsome. Someone I could—”
The bar goes dark, sending a ripple of panic through patrons and staff alike before red lights kick on and start shining down from the rafters, bathing the space in crimson. Just like they do when…
“Oh no,” I say, voice coming out in little more than a whisper. “They fired up Demon.”
Time slows as I look back toward the bullpen, just in time to clock one of those boys with his hands around a cord as he’s finished plugging it into the wall.
Another one—the drunkest one, if I had to guess—is already hopping the red velvet ropes, making straight for Sam Hill Saloon’s big attraction.
Time picks back up as I realize that half the locals are spooked as heck, dropping cash at their tables and clearing out as fast as they can, yelling about devils and doors and all sorts of nonsense.
I jump out of the way as folks rush past, barely getting my tray out of my hands and back down onto the bar without spilling everywhere.
Now I may not take religion or superstition particularly seriously, but I do take that silly old bull pretty darn seriously.
Old Sam tasked me with tending to the Saloon’s infamous bull the first Sunday I started, and all these years of doing just that has left me feeling pretty protective of my mechanical ward.
Next thing I know I’m pushing against the flow of the crowd, a hard sort of feeling growing heavy in my chest as I see that old bull’s eyes spark to life.
And my imagination must be getting the better of me because I swear they’re brighter than they’ve ever been before, burning like hellfire.