Chapter 1 #2
“Do I want Powerball tickets?” I echo, making sure I heard correctly.
“Yes’m. There’s a group of us around town who go in together. Want in?” he repeats.
My smile stretches even wider. “Maybe next time. Good luck, though!”
He tips his head in thanks, and I take up my mission, once again.
Directly across the street is the bar, and since this isn’t Dallas, I don’t even bother using the crosswalk. I step off the curb and jaywalk right into the middle of Main Street. There aren’t any cars anyway. I’d be surprised if there’s more than one traffic light.
As I approach, my eyes land on a metal sign that hangs above the wooden double doors. Old Town Tavern. Sounds about right for a small town. I half expect someone to slide open a peephole and demand a password for entry.
Hauling open one heavy door, I spot an empty stage to my left, and a bar directly ahead. My feet carry me straight there to grab a beer. The bartender turns from where she’s cleaning glasses when I climb onto an empty stool.
“What’ll it be, doll?” Her Southern accent is cigarette rough, her smile warm with deep set laugh lines crinkling around her eyes.
“I’ll take whatever IPA you have on draft.”
She pours my beer from a tap on the opposite wall and slides the mug my way. “Starting a tab?”
I glance from the mug of foamy beer, back to her and shrug, twisting one of my hoop earrings round and round. “Sure. Why the hell not.”
While she swipes my debit card, I take in my surroundings.
Above me hang globed light fixtures, their Edison bulbs casting a golden hue on everything.
The decor is eclectic with various taxidermy decorating the walls, including a jackalope and a bobcat clad in a pirate outfit.
From the ceiling hang old beer taps. Craning my neck, I notice two pool tables, a row of pinball machines and one shuffleboard along the furthest wall.
I think I like this place. It’s giving not quite a dive, but also kind of a dive.
The opening chords to my favorite Noah Kahan song start from a speaker mounted in one corner, and I perk up. Alan called my taste in music, “hippie bullshit” with a disdainful eye roll, but tonight I’m my own person, singing along, just because I can.
But when another tune, as familiar as Texas summer’s, drifts above my singing, I’m up without a second’s hesitation, following the melody like a gravitational pull.
Passing four empty booths, I come to the last and find the source. Tucked in the corner, shrouded in darkness, is a guy, harmonica at his lips. Not wanting to interrupt the performance, I stand, quietly listening to a melancholy rendition of “Mr. Tambourine Man.”
In an instant, I’m thrown back to my childhood.
Austin would rather eat glass than admit he got any musical talent from our father, but countless times I’m roused from sleep at the witching hour, memories of my family singing and dancing around the kitchen.
My father had a beautiful voice. I couldn’t have been more than four or five years old, but somehow, it’s one of those snapshot memories that sits vivid against the forefront of my mind.
Good days like that were few and far between, though. It’s a wonder the good memories aren’t all completely overshadowed.
The bar is dimly lit, and he’s lost in the song, which gives me a long moment to study him.
Inky waves tumble into his eyes in a way that looks both unruly and intentional.
He swipes a hand to brush them back, but within seconds they’ve fallen across his forehead again.
An entire sleeve of tattoos decorates one arm, and the numbers 1971 are etched across his knuckles in Old English font.
A pair of silver chains rest against the hollow of his throat where his black T-shirt dips into a V.
Everything about him demands my attention
When the guy isn’t playing the harmonica, he’s singing to himself, just loud enough to be heard. Between verses he pauses, sharp jaw working, deep grooves between his brows. There’s a tension to the set of his shoulders, a restless energy that lies just beneath his skin.
So distracted by my perusal, it takes a second before I realize he’s stopped playing. My eyes lift to his face where his brow is now smooth and an easy expression has fallen into place. His mouth, tilted up in the barest hint of a smile, twists into a devilish smirk.
“Cute party trick.” I nod to the harmonica, ignoring how breathy my voice sounds. But dammit, this man is an oxygen snatcher if I ever saw one. He huffs a short laugh and brings the instrument to his lips again, performing a complicated riff.
“Okay. Well, now you’re just showing off,” I say as he regards me over his harmonica.
“It’s hot, though, right? Crooning out a song on this thing?” He gives the instrument a little shake and waggles his brows. “It brought you over here, at least.” I can’t fight my smile, like an invisible string pulling up the apples of my cheeks.
Brazenly, his gaze travels from my face, charting a path down my body and back up again.
He doesn’t even attempt to hide how his eyes hover a second longer on my chest than anywhere else, while every cell in my body comes to life, heat rising to the surface of my skin.
I know I should feel objectified, but for some reason under this guy’s admiring gaze, I don’t mind it.
“How about you? What’s your cute party trick? I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”
My lips part at his innuendo, and he lets out an amused exhale.
“Wow,” he says slowly, brows rising. “Look who has her mind in the gutter.”
A flush spreads up my neck to my cheeks and I avert my gaze. The words are on the tip of my tongue to tell him I have exactly zero party tricks, make myself smaller, when I remember that behavior is no longer part of my life.
Snapping out of it, I lift my eyes back to his and hold up a finger. “Oh, I’ll show you mine, all right. Be right back.”
Beer in hand, I head to the bar and prop my elbows on the surface to wait my turn.
People have slowly trickled in, occupying stools and high tops.
I feel eyes on me and when I glance over my shoulder, sure enough, the guy is watching with undisguised interest. His lips curve unrepentantly when I pop a hip, sticking my ass out farther.
“Here for another?” the bartender asks, bringing my attention back to her.
“Actually, do you happen to have any cherries with stems?”
“Sure do. How many ya need?” She opens a small refrigerator and seconds later, sets a jar of maraschino cherries on the bartop.
“Two or three will do. Oh, and can you pick the ones with the longest stems?”
With a pair of silver tongs, she plucks several cherries from the jar, drops them into a cup and hands it to me.
“These can go on my tab.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “They’re just cherries.”
I thank her and head back to the booth, the guy tracking my approach.
“Have a seat,” he says when I reach him.
I move to take a seat across from him, but he tsks. “Beside me.”