7. Jensen
7
JENSEN
“We’re out of Budweiser, boss,” says Charlie Raines, who looks panicked and sweaty when I slide behind the bar to check in with him.
He’s new to bartending and only works part-time. I haven’t had the opportunity to train him, much less prepare him for tonight’s madhouse.
“There should be two more kegs,” I say, certain I put in the order.
His dark blond curls flop when he shakes his head, and his glasses slide down his nose. “Nope. Javi and I both checked. We’re out.”
Shit. Did I forget?
I scratch my beard and assess the situation, glancing around to see who drinks that brand of beer. “Only the old guys are drinking Bud. Give them Bud Light on special. If they complain, tell them to come to me.”
Nodding, he pushes up his glasses. “Okay.”
“Good man.” I clap him on the back. “You’re doing great.”
“Thanks.” He exhales in relief before scurrying toward a customer who’s waving us down.
I’ve never had this many people packed inside my bar. To be honest, I’m a little overwhelmed myself. We host karaoke once a month, but the air in Walford shifted after Tatum’s return. An energy sparked in the community with her homecoming, and wherever she goes, the people follow.
People here love her, but not because she’s famous. They love her because she’s sweet, generous, and never exposed Walford as her pre-fame stomping ground. The town promises sanctuary to those who need it, but its protection is only offered if privacy goes both ways.
Tatum’s posse, while few, takes up a lot of space. Her massive bodyguards—dressed for combat in military cargo pants and tight black tees—lean against the wall behind her, their diligent eyes sweeping the bar for threats. It’s impossible for these guys to blend in, but they aren’t the reason everyone is abuzz tonight. No. It’s the Hollywood royal sitting at Tatum’s table.
Graham Kingston. The world’s biggest movie star and the man who won’t keep his manicured hands off of Maisy.
Maisy’s here—in my bar—looking like my wettest dream in red leather pants and a black sweater cut low in the front, her magnificent cleavage on display. I haven’t seen her since our kiss. If she snuck in and out of Walford in the past month, she moved right under my nose.
While working the floor, I steal glances at her. A few times, our eyes meet, which means she’s keeping tabs on me too. She’s aware of my presence and whereabouts. The worst thing about tonight is watching her smile at Graham. God, I love her smile. I want it aimed at me; it’s been too long.
When we were kids, we teased and laughed together often. However, the older Maisy got, the less she smiled until she stopped altogether. I’ve seen pictures of her with Tatum over the years, and Maisy never wore a genuine smile in a single photograph. Not one.
I want to believe she’s unhappy because I’m not there to brighten her day like I used to be. This belief is easier to swallow than the likelihood that I’m the person who robbed her of the ability to feel genuine happiness.
Catching a break between demanding customers, I approach her table. And what does she do? She runs away, leaving me to chat up Tatum and the actor in the green button-down who has everyone’s attention.
While I’m bummed about not talking to Maisy, I earn a consolation prize. Tatum offers to put on a show at Bruno’s, which will be great for business. She hasn’t performed in Walford in over a decade, and people will arrive in droves to hear her sing.
The second our chat ends, I make a beeline for the bathroom to trap a flighty bird. Only, when I get to the hallway leading to the restrooms, a long line of women blocks my path. Guess I’ll add ladies’ bathroom expansion to my research list. Since my mother didn’t raise an asshole, I stop myself from barging through the line. Instead, I spin on my heel and stride toward the bar.
I’m stopped seven times during the twenty strides it takes to cover the distance. Twice, I’m asked if the election rumors are true. Two other times, older women offer to set me up with their granddaughters. The other three people complain that Ainsley hasn’t returned with their drinks.
I peer over the crowd, craning my neck in all directions while searching for my employee. When I don’t spot her anywhere on the floor, I change trajectory and slip into the kitchen, cursing because the chances of Maisy leaving the bar increase with every minute that passes. And I want to talk to her before she escapes again.
Ainsley’s tucked in the corner by the cubbies where the staff keep their personal effects. With puffy pink eyelids, it’s obvious she’s been crying. I keep a safe distance of ten feet because she’s a female employee and I’m not an idiot. Despite being frustrated with the Maisy situation, overwhelmed by the number of customers, and pissed about the pressure to run for mayor, I gentle my tone toward the upset girl.
“You okay, darlin’? Did something happen out there I should know about?”
With an adamant shake of her head, her ponytail swings. “No. I just needed a minute. We’re slammed tonight.” Her dark eyes remain pinned to her beat-up white sneakers as she lies to me.
Ainsley’s been working here for three months, and I don’t know a thing about her other than she’s in college. She only shares information about herself if it pertains to her job, like needing Wednesdays off so she can attend a night class. There’s a small university half an hour away from Walford, and I assume she’s enrolled there.
I’ve never asked because I’m not one to pry into anyone’s business, but people open up to me because I own a bar. Being a good listener comes with the territory. However, Ainsley keeps her secrets, personal life, and past locked up tight. The only person she interacts with, albeit reluctantly, is Brody. His name coming to mind piques my curiosity but also puts me in protective mode.
“Has Brody done something?”
Her brown eyes snap to mine. “Why would you think that?”
“He’s always showing up, watching you like a hawk,” I say, unable to hide the accusation in my tone. “If he’s making you uncomfortable, and I need to put a stop to it, say the word. He’ll be out of your life by tomorrow.”
Brody doesn’t pursue women for anything beyond a good time. For all I know, he has one night only tattooed on his dick as a message to all the ladies, which is why his constant presence in Ainsley’s orbit confuses me. Plus, he’s nine years older than her. My mind can’t wrap itself around the thought of him taking advantage of a twenty-year-old college girl, but there have been several recent moments when I’ve wondered if any of us know the real Brody.
Ainsley supports this theory when she narrows her eyes at me. “Brody’s not who you?—”
“Am I supposed to sink this ship alone?” Javi says while pushing through the swinging door. “Get your asses out here. People want to drown in liquor now that Rock and Lucy’s duet ended. It was a nightmare.”
“All your negative energy is hindering my shadow work,” I tell him with a frown, feigning disappointment. “I’ll have to start from the beginning.”
He’s been preaching to me about the benefits of shadow work , which entails identifying all my worst traits and accepting them as part of my true identity. Yeah, I’ll pass. I’m more than familiar with my grey areas and prefer to keep them hidden.
Javi flips me off on his way out. Ainsley trails behind him, eager to end my line of questioning about Brody. When they’re gone, I revel in a moment of solitude, ignoring the loud music and louder conversation pressing against the door.
Remembering Maisy’s on the other side of said door, I shove it open and enter the fray. Tatum and her bodyguards are gone, leaving Maisy and Graham behind, and he’s trying to help her into her coat.
She’s drunk, swaying and laughing while he works her arm into a sleeve. Someone calls my name, but I’m already stalking toward my girl, annoyed that this good-looking rich dude gets to touch her and take her home and I don’t. As I reach their table, she rises on her toes and kisses him on the jaw. My teeth clench together, so it’s difficult to speak.
“Need some help?” I ask, wishing I didn’t have to address Graham. Wishing I could be the one helping Maisy. Hell, I would’ve never let her get this drunk. At this point, she’s sagging against his chest, half asleep.
“I’ll carry her if you can grab her bag and phone,” he says. I want to carry her .
“Sure.”
He scoops Maisy into his arms. I snatch her purse and phone off the table, then I follow him outside and down the sidewalk.
“Isn’t he pretty?” she slurs, smiling with glassy, hooded eyes as she talks to me. “He wants to fuck me. Most guys do.”
Graham chuckles, but I’m not laughing. Red paints everything in my field of vision because she’s looking right at me but talking about him and other guys.
“He’s such a good kisser. A smooching god. I bet he has a mega dick.”
The smile on her face is so big and beautiful, it’s painful to witness. Seeing happiness touch her face because she’s thinking of another man hurts more than I ever imagined it could.
She tries to whisper in Graham’s ear, but every slurred word reaches me. “Do you think he’ll show it to me?”
He sets Maisy on her feet, and I’ve stopped moving altogether, barely breathing at this point. Is she talking about me? My heart rate spikes. Alcohol acts as a truth serum, and Maisy’s had plenty tonight to loosen her tongue. She’s still smiling at me , and I wish to all things holy she wasn’t drunk right now. I wish I could reach for her and care for her, and she’d remember calling me pretty. And hell yes, I want to fuck her, but I want so much more from her than sex. I want everything.
“Come on, little Maisy. Let’s get you in the car,” Graham says.
She juts out her bottom lip and whines. “I don’t want to leave. I want to see J’s dick.”
Hearing the nickname she used to call me causes my racing heart to slam against my rib cage. The guys I grew up with called me Jenny when they were being assholes, but they never shortened my name to an initial. Only Maisy did. It’s been so long since she’s addressed me by that nickname, and it feels so fucking right.
Graham opens the door of a silver sedan parked at the end of the sidewalk. The car must be a rental they share, because I’ve seen both of them driving it. If Maisy had a car, I wouldn’t put it past myself to place a damn tracker on it. That thought tears my gaze from her gorgeous face to the phone in my hand. The locked phone.
If there’s anyone I know better than myself, it’s her. I tap the screen and enter my birthday as the passcode. The phone unlocks, and I’m internally pumping my fist, thrilled she didn’t forget about me like she pretends.
Staring at the apps, the inner voice that aims to please everyone and be perfect in every way says, “ Don’t do it .” The voice slithering through my grey area, however, reminds me this could be my big break. In the past, I tried to do right by Maisy, but following the rules cost me everything. Cost me her . So I say…
Fuck the rules.
While Graham struggles to situate her in the passenger seat, and she ponders aloud about my dick, my thumb flies over the phone screen. My phone buzzes in my back pocket as I lock hers. Just in time too. Graham shuts the door and turns to me with a serious expression on his face, all his earlier friendliness gone.
“Do you two have a history?” he asks in a stern tone. A protective tone.
I hold out her belongings, my pulse racing when he checks the phone before dropping it into her purse.
“Not really,” I say.
He rubs a hand across his mouth and studies me for a few seconds too long. The mere power of his thinking face reduces me to an antsy, anxious mess, but I’m an expert at hiding my discomfort.
“You know, there’s no difference between acting and lying. It’s all playing pretend, and some people are better at it than others.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t ever try your hand at acting.”
Graham rounds the car to the driver’s side. As he opens the door, I blurt, “Are you with her?” Fucking really, Jensen? Are we in middle school?
A wicked smirk slashes his face, sharp enough to flay me open, and my stomach tumbles to the curb. “Every night, friend. And believe me, you’re missing out.” He winks before climbing in the car and driving away with my girl passed out next to him.
Overheated, I pace on the sidewalk for several minutes while trying my hardest to get images of Graham and Maisy out of my mind. Once my body temperature regulates itself, and the frigid night air reminds me it’s the dead of winter and I’m in a T-shirt, I rush back inside.
For the first time since I bought Bruno’s, I have no desire to work. The next two hours pass at a slow crawl, and Javi side-eyes me whenever I snap at a customer. After everyone leaves and we lock the doors, I head to my office to proceed with my nightly ritual. Or I plan to, but Javi waltzes through the door and plants himself in a chair.
My office isn’t fancy. There’s a black desk and a bookcase with some awards on display. A second door, which leads upstairs, remains locked at all times. It’s off-limits to everyone but me.
Sighing, I drop into my rolling chair and wait him out. He links his fingers together on his stomach and twirls his thumbs in circles while staring at me. He’s in thinking mode, and for Javi, that can sometimes last for ages.
We make quite the pair as friends. I’m a home-gym rat who enjoys heavy metal, tattoos, and a black wardrobe. He’s a hippie who wears earth tones and claims his naturally tan skin should only be inked by rays from the sun gods.
After waiting too long, the life guru speaks. “She got in your head.”
The aching head he’s referring to falls back. I count the ceiling tiles and blow out a long breath. “She’s always in my head.”
“Something happened. You haven’t been this worked up since…”
Since she banished me.
“Yeah, I know. You don’t have to remind me.” I scrub a hand along my jaw, and my gaze drifts to the faded mandala on Javi’s favorite shirt. He’s had it for years. “She’s been in town a lot. Everything was easier when she wasn’t around.”
His thick eyebrows shoot up. “Was it?”
No.
I’m in a lose-lose situation. When Maisy’s out of reach, I feel empty. Helping people and keeping busy fills the void, which creates a host of issues because I spread myself too thin. Javi’s been trying to coach this behavior out of me, but I refuse to put in the work.
On the other hand, when Maisy’s within reach and shunning me, my mind narrows to a single point of focus. Her presence and my need to fix our relationship consume me, and everything else falls by the wayside.
“You’re on edge.” He leans forward and pins me with a cautioning stare. “Don’t go there again, man. You have a lot more to lose this time around.”
My business, he means. I was nineteen when Maisy banished me, and my mind went to a terrible place. A dark pit. The few people who noticed me spiraling thought I was taking Logan’s death hard. That may have been part of the reason, but the primary cause of my descent was Maisy cutting me off a week after the funeral.
Mentally, I crashed because I couldn’t get through to her, and I ended up getting fired from my low-level job at Bruno’s. My boss had enough of my tardiness, absences, and shitty attitude. Thankfully, no one else in town wanted the job, and he hired me back two months later after Javi rescued me from the pit.
“I’ve got it under control,” I say, assuring him.
The skeptical looks he gives me says he disagrees. Standing, he runs a palm across his buzzed head. “I’m here if you need me.”
Need.
I nod to appease him, but we both know I won’t speak up.
After he leaves, I flip to the oldest key on my keyring and unlock the door to the stairs. Most tenants in these old buildings use the second floor for storage or extra workspace, but I use mine to relax and get out of my head. The staff thinks the upstairs area has rotted floors and asbestos, worthy of being condemned by the zoning board. In truth, it’s my hideout.
Using the flashlight on my phone, I check the coverage of the blackout curtains, making sure no one outside can see the glow from my lamp. With the curtains in place, I settle into the papasan chair and eye the stack of journals on the ottoman. I used to spend most days journaling while hanging out up here, but I stopped writing down my thoughts and dreams on my thirtieth birthday. I’ll be thirty-two soon, and one thing hasn’t changed since my first or last journal entry.
I’m still waiting for a stubborn girl to forgive me for breaking her heart.