Chapter 3
3
Jake
“He won’t be back.”
Kitty watches me with those big, tragic eyes and for a handful of seconds, I consider going after the little prick and finishing the job.
“Did you hurt him?”
I shake my head, walk to the door and hold it wide, waiting for her to go through before I pull it shut behind me.
“Did you somehow know he was coming tonight?” she asks. “Is that why you stayed late?”
Another head shake from me. She doesn’t move, just stands there in the shadowed hall, craning her neck to look up at me, probably waiting for more of an answer.
“Just fixing the shelves.” It’s not a complete lie. I’m working on the shelves. But I also stuck around last night and fixed the baseboards in the kitchen. The night before, I installed the extra lock back here. Then when she was about ready to leave, I went out and waited in my car until she drove away.
Her stare moves from me to the door and back. “Did you install that? The dead bolt?”
After a beat, I nod.
“You knew he was coming?”
“No. Figured it’d be good to keep an eye out. I wasn’t leaving you to close up on your own.”
“I always close up alone.”
“I don’t like it.”
“What are you, my bodyguard now?” She doesn’t seem thrilled. She’s got that look she gets when people act like idiots. Like when the Circo guy tried to deliver twenty boxes of melons or when a table of frat boys harassed one of the waitstaff. Brow wrinkled, lips pursed. “Seriously. Are you, like, watching over me or something?”
I let my gaze flick down to that pouty little mouth and back up again. She looks soulful. Pissed. Fucking beautiful. “Someone has to.”
“Did Frank put you up to this, too? Did he tell you to play bodyguard?” Clearly pissed, she lifts the baseball bat she’s still clutching and points it at my face. “That’s bullshit. I hired you to cook, not to?—”
“You gonna hit me with that?” I don’t know why I’ve got to tease her. Poke her. Make her a little mad just to see what she does next.
“I should,” she says, her voice losing the brittle edge.
“Or you could give me a shift drink.” I inhale, long and slow. “Shot of that bourbon I smell on your breath.”
She blinks and I figure she’ll back up a step. We’re standing awfully close here at the dark end of the hall. “You never stick around for a shift drink. I thought you didn’t do that.”
“Don’t mind the occasional beer or whatever. Mostly, I prefer vices I can control.”
“Vices you can…” Her voice trails off to nothing and ends on a hoarse, “Oh.”
I’ve got no idea why I’m playing with fire like this.
Ah, hell. Who am I kidding? I know exactly why I’m egging her on, tonight of all nights.
But it’s a bad idea. For every single reason. Mostly because Frank would kill me if I made a move.
Doesn’t stop me from telling her that I’ll be right with her. I point up at the light fixture. “Gotta replace that.”
“Oh. Thanks. The stepladder’s right through…” She looks at my head, which is maybe four inches from the ceiling. “Right. Guess you don’t need it.”
“I’m good.”
Slowly, maybe a little shocky after everything that’s happened, she turns and walks away and, though I shouldn’t be a creeper, I allow myself a quick sweep of her body.
Fuck, the woman does things to me, messes with my settings, spins everything inside me fast and hard, like a compass at the Pole.
It’s not her overblown curves that get to me or all that soft-looking pale skin. It’s not even the juicy, ripe mouth I can’t stop thinking about or the handfuls of dark red hair I picture wrapped tight around my fist. No, it’s her eyes that flipped my switch the first time I saw her—dark, melting, and also somehow catastrophic. Painful to look at.
I grab a new bulb from the supply closet and replace it, check the back door again to make sure that sniveling little pill popper won’t be an issue, then make sure the office is all shut up tight. I swing by the head, where I wash my hands, not bothering to look at my ugly mug in the mirror. I know what I look like: big and mean.
By the time I make it out front, Kitty’s behind the bar, all business. There’s a glass sitting in front of an empty stool.
“Where’s yours?” I stay standing.
“I’ve had enough.”
I nod, noting that she’s turned off the speakers and all of the many twinkling chandeliers that give this place its atmosphere. As soon as I slug back this drink, she’ll make sure we’re out of here. Obviously, she’s anxious for me to go.
I spin my glass, not ready to pick it up and end this. “You all right?”
“Great. Good.” I’m guessing she can tell how little I believe that from the way she cringes at my expression. “A little rattled, I guess.”
“Understandable.”
“I thought he was a friend, you know?”
“Addiction changes people.”
She nods. “Listen, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But, I didn’t ask you to stay late.”
“I know.” I watch her, waiting for her eyes to meet mine again, for that little zap I get every time.
“I didn’t budget for?—”
“Clocked out ages ago.”
“Well, I can’t let you work and not?—”
“You know I don’t need the job.”
“Yeah.”
“Any luck finding someone?”
“No.” Her shoulders drop under what seems to be a whole lot of pressure. “I don’t get it.”
“Small town,” I say.
“I guess that must be it. Because who wouldn’t want to work here, right?”
She holds her arms out as if to show off the space. And it’s nice. A lot of old, glossy wood, warm lights set to low, the kind of cocktails you couldn’t get when I was a kid. Full of smoke and umami and some shit called shrub. It suits her, though, in an old-timey way. A sort of ageless feel that goes with those bombshell dresses she wears and the bright colored hair. She’s somehow classy and sexy and deep all at once. “You tell Frank I’m struggling?”
“Course not.”
She searches my face for a second and, apparently satisfied, says, “Thanks.”
“Sure.” I spin my glass, enjoying the sweet smoke smell without tasting it yet. Enjoying the weight of her full attention. “It’s the truth.”
Her quiet “Yeah,” is doubtful, her narrowed gaze fixed on me. “So, who are you? Who is Jake Brand? You met Frank in prison? What were you in for?”
“You haven’t looked it up?”
She shakes her head. “Not my business.”
“And yet you’re asking.”
“Forget it.” She nudges my drink toward me, the message loud and clear. Drink and get out.
Rather than tower over her, I finally sit on the stool and take a sip. “Maker’s.” I flash her a surprised look. “Top shelf.”
“Not quite.” Her smile is apologetic. “Sorry.”
“Better than rail.”
“You know what? You’re right. Hang on.” She’s shaking her head when she reaches for my glass. “I should have poured you the good stuff after what you did back there. It’s the least I can do.”
“It’s fine,” I finally tell her. “I like Maker’s.”
Her fingers wrap around mine. Instead of relinquishing the drink, I let her hold it, and me, for a few quiet seconds.
“You deserve the Knob Creek. Or this local distillery’s latest?—”
“I’m good.” I put my other hand over hers, sandwiching it on the glass and holding her still. “Thanks.”
When she looks at me, she’s breathing hard enough to move her chest up and down, quick and somehow dramatic, reminding me of those old black and white movies my dad played in the diner when I was a kid.
“Okay.”
“Sit and have a drink with me.”
She eyes me another minute, her gaze searching my whole face for some answer she seems to find before she gives in with a sigh and a quick, brittle lifting of her lips that looks nothing like a smile. “I could use another, I guess.”
I hold off on drinking until she’s strained up to grab a sealed bottle from the literal top shelf and blown the dust off, then served a glass for me and another for herself. She keeps the bar between us.
Even if you don’t know exactly what I’ve done, I suppose I can be a scary fucker.
“You all right being here alone with me?” I ask, then watch closely as she considers how to answer.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
Her eyes spark in the warm, dim light above the bar. “On what it is you want exactly.”
“What makes you think I want something?”