Chapter 13 Eeny Meeny
Eeny Meeny
Iwalked through the bar doors ten minutes early to start my first shift.
A burst of rambunctious laughter came from a group of women.
A couple of patrons sat perched, staring blankly at the bar like they expected some kind of answer to arise from the wooden grain.
A few tables of locals watched me walk in like I was a strange creature from a faraway land.
The manager was standing at the end of the bar wiping down the bar top.
“Hi,” I said brightly, too brightly, smiling with the mechanical exaggeration of a clown.
She raised her head and grazed her eyes over me, no warmth on her features. “Put your bag out the back, then you can start at this end of the bar. Grace is working at the other end, and you share patrons in the middle, got it?”
Nodding, I glanced at the computer screen on the other side of the counter. It was the same point-of-sale software we used in Ohio. I breathed a sigh of relief at not having to ask how to use it.
“This way.” The manager turned and walked out from behind the bar, opening the door she’d disappeared through yesterday. I followed her out.
“Put your bag anywhere in here.” She waved her hand around.
“Staff toilets are through there.” She pointed to the back of the room.
“Use what you want in here, but do not touch my desk.” Her desk was as neat as a pin and sparkling clean, with a laptop positioned perfectly straight in the middle.
Two trays sat at the back with a few sheets of paper and unopened envelopes on them.
I popped my bag down on a wooden bench that ran around the wall and followed her back out to the bar. I glanced over at the other barmaid, she was gorgeous, and much taller than my five foot five. She had long brunette hair, an olive complexion, full lips, and a figure any girl would die for.
“Hi, Amy, I’m Grace,” she smiled. “Don’t worry about Shelley—she comes across a bit harsh, but deep down she’s a softy.
That’s Clint.” She indicated to a guy of medium height and medium build, with short, spiky, sandy-blond hair, who was busy chatting to some pretty girls at a table.
“He serves the tables and collects glasses, and we stay behind the bar. Sing out if you need me.” Grace moved off to serve a gray-haired man with a wide, purple-veined nose.
The night was busy. I settled into a routine quickly, pouring a merry-go-round of beer, spirits, and the odd shots.
We didn’t get a chance to chat much, but when we did, Grace was nice, quick to laugh, and bubbly.
The bar began to fill up shortly after six.
All the seats around the bar were filled, except for two at the very end where the man had sat yesterday.
When we got a reprieve in serving, I asked Grace, “What’s the deal with the empty stools at the end of the bar?”
“Everyone knows when Karson and Ethan are in town, they are reserved for them. If you sit there, let’s just say it won’t end well for you.”
“Karson.” His name rolled over my tongue as if I were tasting it.
Grace nodded, leaning in she said in a low tone, “He’s the owner. He looks tough and he is. You don’t want to piss him off.”
The warning washed over me like a cool wave. She must have taken in the look on my face because she patted my shoulder and said, “Just keep your head down and do your job and you’ll be fine.”
Could Ethan be the same guy I met yesterday? Danger seemed to ooze from his pores, so it probably was. Were both men so violent that the whole town was scared of them? I turned to ask Grace, but she had drifted off and was chatting to a man at the bar.
“Amy, come meet Matt.” Grace waved me over. “Matt is the town sheriff.”
I looked across to meet brown, curious eyes. Matt had dark short hair, and a smooth olive complexion. He seemed young for a town sheriff, no more than thirty I guessed.
“Amy, it’s nice to meet you. How are you finding Church Heights?” He spoke in a quiet, steady tone.
“It’s nice. I like it.”
“I heard you like to run.” How does he know I like to run?
“Don’t venture too high up the mountains.
The weather can change in an instant. The mountains can be treacherous, and we get the odd bear.
We’ve had a few hikers disappear over the years.
The last one was a young girl, not much older than you. ”
“Did you ever find any trace of her?”
“No, we searched for days, but we found nothing.” He dropped his gaze to the bar, fiddling with a coaster. “It’s like she just vanished.”
“I’ll be careful, I promise. So far, no bears—just the odd wolf,” I reassured him.
He jerked his head up. “Wolf? Are you sure?”
“Only the one, a big black one . . . why?”
He stared at me. “How big?”
“I’m not sure, I haven’t been too close, but maybe . . .” I held my hand above my waist, “about here. But it seems harmless enough.”
His eyes flared. Grace chuckled as if the height was exaggerated, and maybe it was, everything seemed bigger when it could eat you.
“What?” I said to Matt, ignoring Grace.
He shook his head, relaxing and took a sip of beer. “We just don’t see many wolves around these parts anymore. Most of them were wiped out years ago.”
“It’s not the wolves you have to worry about—it’s the ghosts,” Grace said in a spooky, playful voice.
Matt smiled at her, amused, then gulped the last of his lager down. “Thanks for the beer.” He collected a beige cowboy hat off the seat, put it on, and nodded. “See you around, Amy.”
I watched him saunter out the door and then turned back to Grace. “Ghosts? Really, Grace?”
“Legend has it, Amy.” She grinned and moved back down to the end of the bar to serve.
Vampires, ghosts . . . what was next? Werewolves and dragons? I huffed a laugh and shook my head. Too many bored people with wild imaginations—all par for the course when they spent years in a small town, it seemed.
I was busy serving when a vibration prickled my neck; it was that inexplicable feeling of being watched. I turned involuntarily, like someone had called my name. Crystal-blue eyes hooked mine, the same ones I’d lost brain cells to yesterday.
Apparently, they had the same effect today. My heart fluttered, and my nerves whizzed, a mere look sparking them to life.
That level of hotness should’ve been illegal.
Behind him, the crowd part like a wave, as if a predator walked among them and they scurried out of its way. I dragged my eyes away from Ethan.
The nerves grew wings as Karson moved into view.
Masculinity oozed from him like a potent cocktail.
He was tall, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long legs.
He wore a fitted black T-shirt, and the fabric clung to his muscled chest. His face was almost perfection—a strong, chiseled jaw, silky smooth skin, and lips which were full and soft. The kind of lips begging to be kissed.
He slid in beside Ethan, and his gaze latched onto mine. His wasn’t filled friendliness. He studied me with a question—no, a discontent—in his dark eyes.
My stomach flipped and I darted my gaze away, blushing of course.
I spent the next hour or so deliberately clinging to the far end of the bar.
I avoided looking in their direction, although I was always acutely aware of them, I could feel eyes watching my every move as if he was waiting for an excuse to fire me.
I felt a strange shaky high, that was both perplexing and annoying.
“Swap ends, Amy,” Grace said casually, but she threw me an apologetic smile.
I frowned. I wasn’t keen to be anywhere near either of the men at the end of the bar. I had little option, though; Grace had moved down and was serving at my end. Reluctantly I headed in their direction, stopping around the middle of the bar to delay the process for as long as possible.
A very drunk twenty-something with brown wavy hair and a round face was leaning heavily on his forearms on the bar, waiting to be served. I ignored him and served the two blond girls standing beside him.
“Two raspberry vodkas,” one of the blonds said, revealing lipstick-stained teeth.
I grabbed the bottles, untwisted the lids, and slid them over.
I held my hand out, waiting for the girl to extract her money from a little black coin purse.
Her manicured nails were so long it was hard to use her fingers.
Combined with the alcohol, it was like watching a two-year-old trying to navigate a zipper for the first time.
The drunk guy’s sweaty hand wrapped around my wrist. I should have known better than to hold my hand out. It was a rookie mistake, one of the first things I’d learned in training, and a mistake I’d made once before. It had ended with my palm planted into the bridge of the man’s nose.
I surveyed him; he looked like he’d only just breached the walls of his mother’s birth canal.
His eyelids hung at half-mast, and his pupils struggled to maintain focus.
Even his smile was crooked, as if the alcohol had dulled one side of his face.
I attempted to pull my hand away from his grasp, but he held fast, surprisingly strong for a guy so drunk.
“Let go now,” I demanded.
“You’re hot,” he slurred. “I think we should fff . . .”
His words died on his lips as fingers gripped into the indent below the guy’s collarbone. He cried out and buckled to the side.
“I believe the lady told you to let go,” Karson said. His voice was calm, low and polished, but it left little doubt he expected to be obeyed.
The young man winced, releasing my wrist.
Karson’s knuckles whitened. “Now say sorry.” He spoke each word slightly punctuated with a faintly accented tone I couldn’t place.
The guy whined and tilted sideways. A bead of sweat rose on his brow. “Sorry, sorry!” he cried.
“If you ever speak to her like that again”—his voice dropped to a growl, chilling my spine—“I’m going to tear your tongue from your mouth and feed it to you. Do I have your understanding?”