Chapter 7 Jamie
Jamie
My hands are busy wiping down glasses, but my head keeps replaying Miles’s words, the sharp edge in his tone when he told me to stay the hell away from the hottest girl I’ve ever seen.
Never in all the years I have known him has Miles ever stepped between me and a woman.
Never. Not once. He does not give a shit who I fuck, who I flirt with, or how messy I make it.
He just looks the other way and smirks because he knows I will figure my own shit out.
But tonight? He looked at me like I was about to stick my hand in a fire, and for the life of me I cannot stop wondering why.
I glance over at him now, my best friend hunched on his stool, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
Smoke curls lazily around him, fogging the space, softening the hard lines of his jaw, but nothing hides that haunted look in his eyes.
Whatever happened before he got here is sitting heavy on him, dragging him under.
And me? I am fucking curious.
Because all I know is that she is the girl who walked in the bathroom while I had that flute girl on her knees.
The only thing I can remember about that moment, beyond the obvious, was her face.
Her eyes. Wet and wide, rimmed red like she had been crying.
She is too pretty for a place like this and she looks equally as out of place in my family’s dive bar.
Too soft, like someone who belonged in a painting, not on a barstool in The Crest.
And now Miles has stated she is off-limits.
What the fuck did she do to him?
“Jamie.” Bella’s voice cuts through my thoughts, high and sweet, pulling my gaze away. She bounces up to the bar, ponytail swishing, lips still swollen from earlier. She leans forward, elbows pressing her cleavage together, and beams at me. “We need shots. For me and the girls.”
I toss the rag aside and reach for the bottles. “How many?”
She taps her finger against her chin, pretending to think. “Five. No—six. No, make it seven. You know what? Just line up the whole damn tray.”
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head as I start pouring. Tequila splashes into the row of glasses, clear and sharp. Bella watches me like I am the entertainment, her smile bright and careless.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her glance toward Miles.
He is still hunched, cigarette burning low, shoulders tight.
Bella smirks and nudges him with her hip.
“What about you, big guy? You should come join us. Maybe we’ll let you do some body shots.
” Her tone is teasing, sing-song, deliberately provocative.
Miles does not even look at her. He exhales smoke, eyes locked on the floor and ignores her.
The silence stretches long enough that even Bella, who thrives on attention, falters. She turns back to me, brows raised. “Who the hell pissed in his beer?”
I bark out a laugh, shaking my head as I lean over the counter. “Don’t worry about him, baby. He’s in one of his moods.” I brush my lips against hers in a quick kiss, playful enough to make her giggle. “And you’re being greedy. Didn’t I just get you off? I’ll bring the shots over in a minute.”
She rolls her eyes, but the sparkle is back, and she winks as she scoops up her hair. “Fine. Don’t take too long.” Then she spins on her heel and struts back toward the girls, her skirt flashing thigh with every step.
I finish pouring and reach for a clean glass, sliding it across to Miles. “Here.”
He lifts his head, just barely, and takes it. No words. No thanks. Just tilts it back and downs it in one go, the amber catching the light before it disappears.
I study him for a beat. His jaw works, muscle tight, but he does not say a thing. Whatever storm is brewing inside him, he is not letting me in.
So I slap the counter lightly and grin. “I’ll be right back.”
The tray of shots is heavy in my hands as I lift it, weaving my way through the crowd. Voices overlap in drunken laughter, music rising louder as the girls squeal at something by the jukebox. When I reach them, the cheerleaders cheer like I just delivered salvation itself.
“Finally,” Bella says, grabbing one before I even set the tray down. “What took you so long?”
“Perfection takes time,” I shoot back, setting the tray on the table with a flourish.
They giggle, gathering around, each girl plucking a glass, lime wedges and salt at the ready. Their perfume mixes in the air—sweet, floral, cloying.
But the blonde isn’t laughing like the others.
Not squealing or batting her lashes. She is quiet, perched on the edge of her stool, her green eyes glinting in the dim light.
Her dress is short, red, clinging to her, but she wears it with sneakers, casual, almost defiant.
She takes the shot with steady hands, and when she lifts the lemon wedge to her mouth, my eyes catch on her lips.
Christ.
Soft. Plush. The kind of lips a man imagines wrapped around him when he is alone in the dark. She bites down on the lemon, and I swear to God my throat goes dry.
I should not be looking. I should be thinking about Bella, about the tray, about literally anything else. But Miles’s voice is still in my head, a warning I do not understand.
Stay away.
Which only makes me want to know more.
Why the hell do I feel this innate pull toward her, like gravity itself has shifted? I do not even know her name, but I want to. I want to know why she looked like she had been crying, why she is sitting here with these girls like she belongs, when everything about her screams she does not.
One of the girls shoves a shot into my hand, laughing. “Drink with us, Jamie!”
Bella cheers, already licking salt off her wrist. “Yes! Drink, drink, drink!”
I grin, because I am not the kind of man who says no when the crowd is chanting his name. I tip the glass back, the tequila burning hot down my throat, and the girls shriek like I just scored the winning goal.
But even as they crowd around me, even as Bella throws her arm over my shoulder and plants a kiss against my cheek, my eyes flick back.
To her.
She is watching me now, expression unreadable, lips still glistening with lemon juice. When our eyes meet, something sharp twists in my chest. Something I don’t have words for.
I look away first.
If I keep staring, I am going to do something stupid.
After another round, I set the tray down, laugh off Bella’s demand for me to stay, and make my way back to the bar.
My pulse is too fast, my head buzzing, not from the tequila but from her.
From the fact that I cannot shake the image of her lips, the heat in her eyes, the way she looked at me like she could see straight through the cocky grin I always wear.
I slip back behind the counter, grabbing another rag, busying myself with the glasses because I need my hands moving, need something to do before I give myself away.
Miles is still smoking, his silence heavy, the ashtray filling by the minute. He does not look at me, and I do not look at him.
Because if I do, he will see it on my face.
The curiosity. The hunger.
The truth that I have no fucking idea why, but I cannot stop thinking about her.
The night rolls on like it always does at The Crest, messy and loud, music blaring from the jukebox, people laughing too hard, drinking too much, pressing against each other in every corner where the shadows are thick enough to hide things.
I have been working this bar since I was old enough to lift a keg, and nothing here surprises me anymore.
Not the cheerleaders doing body shots, not the old timers falling asleep on their stools, not even my best friend sitting there with a storm behind his eyes.
I am drying a glass when one of the bouncers, Tony, leans over the counter. His voice is low, meant only for me. “Jamie, X is here.”
Of course he is. He always shows up eventually, same time, same routine. I sigh, toss the towel over my shoulder, and nod. “Tell Kyle to man the bar while I step out.”
Kyle, the other kid working tonight, looks up from the end of the counter, wide-eyed but eager. He loves feeling important, loves being trusted. I wave him over, point to the taps. “Keep it simple, beer and whiskey, nothing fancy. Don’t fuck it up.”
He grins like I just knighted him. “Got it.”
I reach under the counter, pull out the envelope waiting for nights like this, thick with bills. It’s not my money. It is the bar’s, my father’s. But I am the one who hands it off. That’s my job.
Outside, the air is cooler, the sound of the bar muffled once the door shuts behind me. The parking lot is half lit, a broken bulb flickering overhead, throwing everything into a jittery strobe. And there he is—X.
His real name is Detective Maxwell, but around here he is just X.
Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, the kind of man who keeps his hair trimmed military short even though he has been off duty for years.
His shirt is tucked in neat, his badge clipped to his belt, like he wants everyone to see it even when he is supposedly off the clock.
He is the kind of cop who pretends he is better than the people he shakes down, but we both know the truth.
He usually brings his partner, a brunette with sharp eyes and sharper teeth. I’ve fucked her on more than one late night when she was bored enough and drunk enough to let me. She never complained. Neither did I.
But tonight he’s alone.
I hold the envelope loosely in my hand and nod at him. “Where’s your partner? She finally get sick of your face?”
His mouth twitches, but he does not smile. “Transfer. She caught a better posting uptown.”
I click my tongue, genuine disappointment cutting through my sarcasm. “Sucks. She was good company.”
He lifts his brows. “She told me.”
I grin, slow and shameless, because I know exactly what he means. “And?”
“And I don’t swing that way.”
That earns him a full laugh out of me, loud enough to echo against the brick wall. “Jesus, X. As if I was offering. Don’t flatter yourself.” I shove the envelope into his chest, still laughing. “Here. Keep the lights off us another month.”
He takes it, tucking the cash away with the kind of practiced ease that says he has been doing this for longer than I have been alive. His eyes narrow slightly, scanning the parking lot, the bar, the shadows. Always on edge, always watching.
“You still letting kids drink in there?” he asks, voice casual but lined with warning.
I shrug. “They’re old enough to walk in, old enough to pay. Who am I to check IDs?”
He snorts, but he doesn’t press. As long as that envelope keeps coming, The Crest can burn itself to the ground for all he cares.
“What about your old man?” he asks finally, eyes flicking back to me. “Haven’t seen him around in a while.”
I lean against the wall, light a cigarette, and take a slow drag before answering. “He’s busy.”
X nods, like that is all the answer he needs. “Tell him I said hello.” Then he straightens, glancing at his watch. “Listen, patrol is running through this area around midnight. You don’t want them walking in and finding half the university passed out on your floor. Clear the place out before then.”
I exhale smoke, slow, steady. “Got it.”
“Pleasure doing business,” he says, and then he turns, walking back to his cruiser parked down the street.
I watch him go, flick the cigarette butt to the ground, and grind it out under my boot. My phone buzzes in my pocket as I pull it out, already typing a message to my father.
Cops swinging by around midnight.
It takes all of ten seconds for the reply to come through. Two words.
Last call.
That’s it. No explanation, no wasted letters. Just orders.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, roll my shoulders, and head inside.
The Crest feels louder now, like the air is thicker, the heat heavier. I slip back behind the bar, Kyle already flushed from trying to keep up. I clap him on the shoulder, send him off to the back, and grab the mic we use when we want to cut through the noise.
I raise it to my mouth, the feedback squealing just enough to make people flinch. “Alright, listen up! Last call.”
A chorus of groans, boos, complaints. “It’s too early!” someone yells from the back. “Come on, Jamie!” another whines.
I grin, leaning over the counter, voice smooth. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. Patrol’s swinging by tonight, and unless you want to get cuffed for underage drinking, I suggest you finish your drinks and get your asses out of here.”
More groans, but people start shuffling, gathering their stuff. The regulars know better than to push it.
Miles looks up at me, one brow raised. “Last call already?”
“Yeah,” I say, setting the mic down. “Cops are sniffing around. Better to shut it down now than deal with a raid later.”
“You guys should just renew your license, so you don’t have to deal with the pigs.”
I lean in so he is the only one who can hear me. “You and I know that that liquor license is the least of our problems. I’m pretty sure half of the people here would be caught with something illegal in their pockets. If they actually raided us, most of us would end up behind bars.”
“Yeah.” He nods slowly, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. His movements are deliberate, controlled, but I can see the exhaustion dragging at him.
“You heading out?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, standing, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”
“You okay?” The question slips out before I can stop it, softer than I meant, edged with something like concern.
He pauses, looks at me, and for a second I think he might actually tell me what is chewing him alive tonight. But then he just nods once. “Yeah.”
And that’s the end of it. He slips out the door, leaving me with unanswered questions and a bar full of drunks.
Ten minutes later, the place is clearing. The cheerleaders are giggling, clinging to each other as they stumble out into the night. Bella blows me a kiss.
The new girl lingers just a step behind the others, red dress catching the light, sneakers scuffing against the floor. She glances back, and for a heartbeat her eyes lock with mine.
Green. Bright. Burning.
Fuck.
She is pretty. Too pretty. The kind of pretty that makes you forget how to breathe, makes you forget warnings and rules and common sense.
And as she disappears through the door, I realize Miles might be right.
She looks like trouble.
The kind I cannot stop myself from wanting.