Chapter 5-Micah
One thing about nursing a beer?
Nobody bothers you.
People assume you're thinking.
Or tired.
Or enjoying the music.
Nobody realizes you're conducting surveillance.
Not that I'm proud of it.
Hell, I know exactly how bad this looks.
I'm sitting in the same damn corner booth I always take once Benji and Sawyer leave with their wives.
One hand is wrapped around a bottle that's gone warm because I've barely touched it in the last forty-five minutes.
My burger disappeared ages ago.
My fries are now ice cold.
I couldn't tell you what any of it tasted like.
Because I haven't stopped watching her.
Sloane moves through the crowded bar like she's dancing to music only she can hear.
Table six wants another pitcher.
The couple at the high-top needs menus.
Some guy drops his fork.
Before anyone says a word, she's already there.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Checking on everyone.
She remembers names.
Favorite drinks.
Who's celebrating a birthday.
Who just got divorced.
Who likes ranch with their wings.
It's impressive.
No.
It's beautiful.
She's beautiful.
Not because of the way her jeans hug those soft, curvy hips that have invaded more dreams than I care to admit.
Not because every time she laughs I feel something tighten in my chest.
It's the way she makes people feel.
Seen.
Important.
Like they matter.
I know what that's worth.
Because I've spent most of my life feeling invisible.
She hustles from the kitchen, carrying three overloaded plates balanced on one arm.
Patrick brushes right past her.
Empty-handed.
Doesn't even hold the swinging door.
Doesn't offer to help.
Just barks something over his shoulder without looking back.
My jaw clenches.
Worthless.
Absolutely fucking worthless.
He struts around this place like he's lord of the manor while his little sister works herself into the ground.
She's wiping tables.
Running food.
Pouring drinks.
Bussing glasses.
Cleaning spills.
Taking orders.
Answering the phone.
Meanwhile, Patrick spends half his night leaning against the bar talking to his buddies like he’s some kind of big shot.
My fingers tighten around the beer bottle.
They need another server.
Two, probably.
A busboy.
Hell…
They need a manager.
Someone to help.
Something to lighten the load.
Anything so Sloane doesn't have to do the work of four people.
She laughs at something someone says.
Then disappears into the kitchen.
Thirty seconds later she's back carrying another tray.
No break.
No water.
No chance to breathe.
How long has she been on her feet?
Ten hours?
Twelve?
I glance toward the clock.
Nine-thirty.
She was here before six this morning just to start the smokers.
Jesus.
The woman is running herself ragged.
The urge to get up and help her is so strong I actually start to stand.
I catch myself.
Sit back down.
Not my place.
Not yet.
I hate those last two words.
Not yet.
When the hell did I start hoping there'd be a yet?
Alex catches my eye from across the room.
Raises one eyebrow.
I glare.
He grins.
Asshole.
Our youngest hand knows exactly what I'm looking at.
He follows my line of sight.
Looks from me...
To Sloane...
Back to me.
Then silently mouths, Go talk to her.
I answer with one finger.
He laughs hard enough that the woman he’s with elbows him.
Good.
Let him laugh. I’ll pay the fucker back by making him clean out Big Ben’s stall tomorrow.
That old bull is an ornery bastard.
Why will I do that? Because talking to women has never been my strong suit.
Computers?
Easy.
Networks?
Easy.
Cyber attacks?
Hell, I can dismantle a hacker halfway around the world before he realizes I've found him.
One pretty bar owner?
Apparently, that's my kryptonite.