Chapter Two
Harlow
"Hey, doll," a drunk cowboy in muddy boots and a beat-up hat slurs, leaning halfway over the scarred bar to leer at me. "How's about putting yourself in that there glass and lettin' me have a sip?"
Why are men? That's it. That's the whole thought. Just…why?
"Sure thing," I chirp, batting my lashes at him. "Let me just squeeze into it for you. You want the swamp ass and tit sweat special? I'll have to charge you extra for it, but we aim to please around here."
"Uh…no?" He blinks bleary eyes at me, like he isn't quite sure what's happening. Of course he isn't. They never seem to know exactly what to do when you serve their bullshit right back to them, do they?
"I didn't think so." I grab another glass, placing it under the spout to pour Johnny Grisholm's beer before sliding it down the bar to him.
"Unfortunately for you, Cowboy, that's the only thing on the menu tonight since I haven't stopped moving since I got here.
So unless you want to drink the sweat from between my cheeks, you're out of luck. "
"I'd like to drink somethin' from between your—"
I slam a glass down right next to his pinky, startling him. He reels backward on his stool, damn near toppling off backward.
"Hank, fuck off and leave her alone," a familiar voice drawls before I can tell him where he can stick his unwanted comments.
I don't make a habit of sleeping with men I serve at the bar, and I definitely won't be making a habit of sleeping with the ones who think being gross is a compliment.
I'd rather my vagina shrivel and die, thank you very much.
I glance up, right into Danny Palmer's steely blue eyes. My stomach clenches, and not in a good way. I'd rather deal with the drunk cowboy than…whoever or whatever he is. Not good news, I know that much.
He's been at the Spur every night since I started, holding court at a booth in the corner like he's someone important. He's handsome, I'll give him that. Except he gives me shady vibes, the kind that scream that I wouldn't want to be alone with him anymore than I would with the drunk cowboy.
Oh, don't get me wrong. He says all the right things. He pretends he's chivalrous. He tips well. But he looks at me with this gleam that says I'm less person and more property to acquire.
No, thank you.
"I had it handled," I say, a little annoyed when Hank wobbles off the stool before stumbling off with a muttered apology—to Danny, naturally.
Danny just lifts one dark brow in response, a hint of a smirk curving his lips upward. "Of course you did. But it never hurts to have a little backup, right?"
"Right," I say, my tone flat. I'm not trying to be rude, but I don't want to encourage him, either.
The fact is, I need this job, and part of keeping it means staying on Danny Palmer's good side.
He knows the owner, Redd. I think he knows everyone in Silver Spoon Falls.
That doesn't mean I like it, though. "Well, thanks. "
"No problem." He tips his hat to me, and I barely suppress a groan when he slides onto the stool Hank just abandoned. "Mind getting me another beer when you get a minute, darling?"
"Sure thing." I immediately spin away, putting my back to him to take a deep, calming breath. Why won't he just go away already? Every night, he's here, flirting, staring, making my skin crawl.
"I've been meaning to ask you…"
My entire body clenches uncomfortably.
No, please do not.
I glance down the bar, looking for an escape. Unfortunately, there isn't one. The few men lined up on stools are engrossed in their own conversations or looking for clarity at the bottom of their beers. They aren't paying me a single bit of attention.
When I need a rescue, I'm on my own. But when I can handle it myself, someone is always ready to swoop in. It's frustratingly ironic. And par for the course.
Bartending at a cowboy bar is not for the weak.
If I didn't need the job, I'd have quit already.
But bills don't pay themselves, and while starving artist is a whole vibe, I could really do without the starving part of the equation.
Unfortunately, my art hasn't taken off yet, and the loans to cover my mom's medical care won't pay themselves. So…here I am.
I finish pouring Danny's beer and reluctantly turn back to him, mentally preparing the "I don't date men I meet at work" speech. Except, I never even get to say the first line. As soon as I open my mouth, a giant steps up beside his stool, his soft brown eyes locking with mine.
"Hey, beautiful," he rumbles, his lips tipped into a smile that's all trouble. "I missed you."
"I…" I gape at him, pretty sure he has the wrong person. Believe me, I'd remember if I met Tall, Dark, and Sexy before. I haven't. But he's looking at me like he's trying to tell me something, and I'm not sure what it is.
Is he drunk? Mentally unstable? Confused?
Just plain weird? No clue. He is beautiful, though.
Unlike most of the cowboys here, there's a gentleness in his eyes that's surprising.
Most cowboys are hard. They're built from the mud on their boots, the pain they endure, and the sweat they spill.
They're rough and tumble and full of this swagger you can recognize a mile away.
This one is…different, like what he does isn't who he is. Oh, he's all cowboy. It's in the way he stands—hands on his hips, feet planted, wearing that hat like he was born to do it. But you could put him in a suit or a military uniform or scrubs, and he'd fit there too.
That's new.
Whoever he is, Danny seems to know him. As soon as the man speaks, Danny's entire demeanor sours, his lips pursing, his broad shoulders tensing. He turns slowly, scowling up at the man.
"Jessup," he growls. It's not really a greeting.
"Palmer," the man—Jessup, I guess—says without even looking at him. "I see you've met my girlfriend, Harlow."
Girlfriend? What the—?
Danny recoils visibly. "You're dating?"
"Yes." The word spills out before I can even consider it.
I don't know why I say it. Perhaps because the tension between these two is obvious, and out of the two, this man, this Jessup, seems like the safer bet.
Or maybe it's because I'm just curious enough about him to want to know what he thinks he's doing.
Danny mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like an insult. Whatever it is, Jessup doesn't seem to appreciate it.
His whole body tenses, his grin slipping. "Unless you want the same problem you had last time we crossed paths, you'd best be watching your mouth, Palmer," he says, a dark warning in his voice.
Danny bristles, his eyes narrowing on Jessup. "How about you fuck off back to your bunk and watch how you speak to me, ranchhand?"
Jessup's gaze flicks from him to me. "You mind taking a step back for me, beautiful?"
"I…what?"
"Take a step back," he murmurs.
I frown, stepping away from the speed rail toward the back bar, though I'm not entirely sure why.
"Appreciate that," Jessup says with a wink that makes my stomach flutter.
It immediately sinks into my shoes when he clamps his hand down on Danny's arm, yanking him up from the stool hard enough to send it toppling.
Danny whirls with a grunt, already swinging.
The entire bar goes silent before erupting into a chorus of shouts and cheers, like this is an elementary schoolyard.
I gape in shock as a full-on brawl between them erupts in two seconds flat. Danny is stockier, but Jessup is faster. I can't even process the way they throw their weight around, but there's no mistaking the sound of fists landing.
Several cowboys wade in to break them up, but they don't seem very interested in stopping. They're all muscle and aggression, fueled by alcohol, though I never saw Jessup drink a drop.
It's so loud, I can't even hear myself think.
So I do the only thing I can think to do, instead.
I grab the water sprayer from the sink, aiming it directly at the two of them.
Cold water sprays in an arc, soaking them, the cowboys trying to break them up, the bartop, the floor…everything.
Jessup and Danny go down in a heap, taking two other cowboys with them. For a moment, shocked silence ripples across the bar.
"That's enough!" I shout, the water still trained on the two of them. "If you're going to fight, you aren't going to do it in here."
"Good god, woman," a middle-aged cowboy splutters, trying to shield his face. "Quit drownin' us!"
"You done fighting?" I ask, my eyes on Jessup and Danny.
Danny's eye is swollen. Jessup is bleeding from a tiny cut on his cheek.
They're both soaked and panting for breath.
Danny's expression is thunderous. But Jessup?
He's sprawled on the floor, legs crossed, his weight on his elbows, just grinning at me, not even trying to shield himself from the water.
"That's enough," Danny growls.
"Guess we're done," Jessup says with an amused shrug.
I reluctantly let my finger off the trigger for the sprayer, breathing like I just ran a race.
The place is a disaster. Danny's beer is spilled across the top of bar, running in rivulets down both sides. Water is pooled on the wooden floor. A table and several chairs and stools are overturned.
Redd is going to lose his mind when he hears about this.
"You two, get out," I growl, pointing a shaking finger toward the doors. "Right now."
"You're going to kick your man out now, beautiful?" Jessup says, smirking as he hauls himself to his feet with the grace of a big, brawny cat.
I narrow my eyes at him. "I'd kick my own mother out if she made a mess like this," I snap at him. "Get out of my bar right now."
Jessup glances around at the mess, his expression sheepish. "You want me to clean it up for you?"
"I want you to leave." I level a glare at Danny. "You, too."
"Already on my way," he mutters, allowing two of his buddies to haul him up. "You ruined my hat."
"And you made a mess of my bar."
"He started it."
I aim the water sprayer at him again. "You want me to spray you again?" I ask sweetly. "Because it kinda sounds like you do."
The way he looks at me with pure venom glinting in his steely eyes confirms my suspicions about him. Danny Palmer is not a good man. He just cosplays as one.
But he holds up his hands in a show of surrender before stomping toward the doors with his hat in his hands, leaving a trail of water in his wake.
Jessup waits until he's gone to look at me.
"Out, Jessup," I order. "Now."
"Yes, ma'am." He tips his wet hat at me with another grin before sauntering for the doors. Unlike Danny, he doesn't seem to mind that he's drenched from head to toe. He just strolls out, humming to himself.
I wait until he's gone to drop the sprayer back into the sink, my heart pounding a million miles a minute. What the fuck just happened?
"Uh…Harlow?" Johnny Grisholm says from the far end of the bar. "Is now a bad time to ask for another beer?"
I shoot him a death glare.
"Right," he mumbles, hunching down on his stool. "I'll just…shut the fuck up already."
"Excellent choice," I growl.