Chapter 2-Sloane
It isn't even eight o'clock, and Patrick's already got a giant stick up his ass.
He's been barking orders since he finally rolled in twenty minutes late, acting like he's the only one who's done a lick of work today.
Never mind that I'd already unlocked the bar, counted the register, started the coffee for the dinner crowd, unloaded the produce delivery, hauled two cases of liquor into storage, and was halfway through stocking the walk-in cooler before his pickup ever pulled into the alley.
Nope.
Apparently, I'm the problem.
“Sloane!”
I bite my tongue and keep carrying the crate of potatoes toward the kitchen.
“Are you listening to me?”
Unfortunately.
“Yep.”
“Then move faster.”
I set the crate down beside the prep table a little harder than necessary before turning back toward him.
“What exactly would you like me to do faster? Because I've been here since six.”
He waves a dismissive hand.
“The fryer oil ain't changed.”
“I changed it yesterday.”
“The beer cooler needs stocking.”
“I stocked it before you got here.”
“The bar's sticky.”
“I wiped it down twice.”
He opens his mouth.
Then shuts it.
Because he knows I'm right.
Doesn't stop him from scowling, though.
Patrick's always been like this.
If something goes wrong, somebody has to catch hell for it.
Usually me.
I sigh and tie my apron around my waist.
The kitchen was my idea.
Patrick fought me every step of the way.
“Nobody comes to a bar for food,” he'd insisted.
“They do if the food's good.”
“They'll eat peanuts.”
“They'll eat wings.”
Turns out I was right.
Which I usually am when it comes to business.
Having a few enthusiastic customers with a ton of social media followers making reels that went viral about this place didn’t hurt either.
Now people drive from three counties over just for our mango habanero wings and smoked brisket sandwiches.
On Friday nights, we're standing room only.
On Saturday afternoons, we sell out of pulled pork before dinner.
The money's coming in better than either of us expected.
Enough that I should probably feel good about myself.
Instead, I mostly feel tired.
Because every extra dollar just seems to give Patrick another reason to spend it.
Or hand out free drinks to his buddies.
Or buy another television he doesn't need.
He's not good at this.
He's good at looking like he's good at this.
There's a difference.
Still, he's my brother.
And I owe him.
At least that's what I keep telling myself.
After Dad got sick, everything changed.
The medical bills came first.
Then the second mortgage.
Then the collection notices.
I was halfway through my business degree when Patrick called and told me the bank was coming after the house.
I remember sitting on my dorm room floor with the phone pressed to my ear, crying so hard I couldn't breathe.
He handled everything.
Paid what he could.
Worked double shifts.
Took out another loan.
Eventually, Patrick lost his own place trying to keep ours.
By the time Dad passed, there wasn't much left to save.
But Patrick manages to remind me of it every chance he gets.
“I kept this family afloat while you were off getting an education.”
“I sacrificed everything.”
“You wouldn't have this place if it wasn't for me.”
Maybe he's right.
Maybe I do owe him.
Which is why I let him become my partner when I opened The Watering Hole.
Even though he didn’t give me a cent.
Even though everything is in my name.
Even though the bank approved me for the loan.
Even though the business plan was mine.
I guess guilt has a funny way of making smart women do dumb things.
“Sloane!”
I close my eyes.
Count to three.
When I open them again, I smile.
“What now?”
“Where the hell is Milly?”
I glance at the clock.
Seven fifty-eight.
“Probably running late.”
“Again?”
“Probably.”
Patrick throws his hands in the air.
“I swear that girl—”
“You hired her.”
“I know I hired her.”
“So fire her.”
He looks offended I'd even suggest it.
“No.”
“Why not?”
He clears his throat.
“It’s your job to manage the staff, Sloane. Now, she's trying to do her job, but she can’t if you don’t do yours!”
Did he actually just blame her tardiness on me?
I snort.
“You’re so full of it,” I mutter.
“What did you say?”
I roll my eyes, but I keep my mouth shut.
Patrick can be mean when he wants to be, and the night is only just starting. I’d much rather it goes peacefully.
Besides, I know why he’s acting like this with our new waitress.
Milly's pretty.
Long dark hair.
Big blue eyes.
Tiny little thing.
The kind of woman who laughs at everything Patrick says, like he's the funniest man alive.
She's also late four days out of five.
Disappears whenever there's actual work to do.
Can't carry a keg.
Burns boiled peanuts.
Hell, she can’t even pour a beer.
And yet...
She still has a job.
Funny how that works.
Meanwhile, I haven't had my hair professionally done in almost a year.
Can't remember my last pedicure.
The calluses on my hands would make a rancher proud.
And as for my love life?
Well...
Let's just say it's about as busy as the bar on a Tuesday afternoon.
The last real date I went on?
I honestly can't remember.
College, maybe.
Back then it wasn't really dating, anyway.
It was frat parties, cheap beer, loud music, and boys more interested in getting me into bed than getting to know me.
The couple of times I let myself believe one of them might be different?
Let's just say disappointment comes in many forms.
Nowadays, if Miley Cyrus starts singing Flowers over the speakers, I laugh because the woman's got a point.
I can buy my own flowers.
Take myself to dinner.
Hell, thanks to my trusty little Pebble tucked safely away in my nightstand drawer, I don't exactly need a man for certain things.
The thought makes me snort as I wipe down the bar.
Pathetic?
Maybe.
Practical?
Definitely.
Still, there's a difference between being lonely and being alone.
I don't miss sex nearly as much as I miss having someone.
Someone to come home to after a fourteen-hour shift.
Someone who'd wrap their arms around me while I smell like fryer oil, barbecue smoke, spilled beer, and exhaustion.
Someone who'd tell me I look beautiful even with my hair shoved into a messy bun and flour dusting my shirt.
Someone who'd choose me.
Not because I own a business.
Not because I can cook.
Not because I pay the bills.
Just because I’m me.
I want what my parents had before life got hard.
The way Dad looked at Mom when he thought nobody was watching.
The little touches.
The private smiles.
The certainty that no matter how rough the day had been, home was wherever the other person was.
Maybe it's silly.
Maybe romance novels and reality TV shows with happily-ever-afters have ruined me.
But I still believe my person is out there somewhere.
I have to.
Otherwise, what's all this hard work for?
The bar.
The long hours.
The sacrifices.
The dreams I keep putting off until next year.
One day I'd like a family.
A little house with a wraparound porch.
A vegetable garden I'd probably kill because I'm hopeless with plants.
A dog.
Maybe two.
Kids.
A husband who'd steal fries off my plate and kiss me when he thought nobody was looking.
Simple things.
Big dreams.
The kind that feel farther away with every birthday that passes.
The bell over the front door jingles, and my fantasies give way to reality.
I glance through the pass-through window into the bar.
It’s the usual Friday night crowd.
A couple of regulars.
A trio of women I don’t know.
Then another group walks in.
Big men.
Boots.
Jeans.
Cowboy hats.
And I pause because these are my favorite people in all of Barren County.
The Jersey Iron Ranch crew.
A smile blooms before I can stop it.
I don't say anything.
Don't let Patrick catch it.
Because he wouldn't understand.
He'd call me sentimental.
Na?ve.
Truth is, watching them feels like watching the family I always wanted.
Sawyer can't keep his hands off Bit.
Benji looks at Esme like she hung the moon.
They tease each other.
Laugh together.
Show up for one another without keeping score.
It's easy.
Natural.
Real.
Sometimes Bit texts me just to ask how my day is going.
Esme sends me links to products she thinks I'd like or funny videos that remind her of me.
They don't ask me for something in return. They don’t need anything at all from me.
They're just kind
It shouldn't mean as much as it does.
But it does.
Because for the first time in a very long time, I think I might actually be making friends.
Real friends.
The kind who stay.
The kind who don't disappear when life gets messy.
The kind I secretly hope might save me a seat at their table.
I know.
It's ridiculous.
I'm a grown woman.
But every Friday when the Jersey Iron Ranch crew walks through my front door...
A tiny part of me wishes they aren't just here for burgers and beer.
I wish...
Just a little...
That maybe someday I might belong with them too.