Morons.
I can’t stop my eye roll. Connor has been trying to get in my pants since he returned home from college just a short year ago. He had a brand-new finance degree, which he thought equaled success and money, and was jonesing to screw the town whore.
“Not going to happen, Jorgeson,” I state bluntly, grabbing a Miller Lite and popping the top before sliding it across the bar and collecting the offered cash.
“Don’t act like you don’t want it,” he replies, winking as he takes a drink of his Jack and Coke.
I shiver, but it’s not a good reaction. In fact, the thought of Connor Jorgeson putting his hands on me causes bile to rise in my throat.
We went to school together, but he barely paid me any attention. I was the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. With my mother in and out of trouble and a father never around, I didn’t have many friends, but the ones I had were loyal. We lived in the same trailer park together, which was why Connor only noticed us on the rarest of occasions. He was town royalty—Daddy owned the bank and Mommy a stay-at-home mom who volunteered for everything—and I was, well…not.
My only slice of normalcy was when I’d get to spend time with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. They often delivered extra meals to make sure I ate. Lord knows my mom wasn’t too worried about making sure there was dinner on the table when I got home from school. It was Aunt Joan who taught me how to do laundry and cook the basics, and Uncle Henry showed me how to change the oil in my old car.
Then there’s Chad and Cassie, my cousins. Even though they’re younger than me by a few years, I’ve always considered them more siblings than anything else. I knew if I ever needed them, they’d have my back. Cassie is away at school, but she still pops in every now and again to catch up and have some chicken wings, and Chad is serving in the army. He’s been gone way too long overseas but just arrived home for a brief leave.
I can’t wait to see him.
Connor, on the other hand, I’d be completely fine if he just up and disappeared.
Once Connor—aka the Golden Boy—moved back home last summer and started working at his daddy’s bank, he took an interest in me. I’d like to say it was because of my sparkling personality and my killer rack, but that’s not true. Well, my rack really is great. What I mean is, that’s not why he’s so enamored with me. You see, I’m a challenge to him. One he’s still trying to conquer.
And by that, I mean sex.
When he returned, the rumors were already flying about my “sexual promiscuity.” In other words, I was labeled a slut. A whore. Lock up your husbands, ladies, because Shayne Danner was on the prowl for a new man, and young Mr. Jorgeson thought he was it.
Unfortunately for him, he most definitely is not it.
Nor is anyone else in this damn town.
So that’s why he—Connor, if you’re not keeping up—is here, again on a random Thursday night, and offering me a quick little romp in the storage closet. A storage closet. Gross.
Never going to happen.
The song changes to some Garth, and the bar starts to liven up as everyone sings about a young couple running off to get it on in the back seat of a car. I run food orders from the window out to a table and refill their drinks on my next pass, all while ignoring the asshole squad at the end of the bar who are leering at my ass.
I head for the pool hall side of the building, where Jet is perched on a barstool beside one of the pub tables. “All good over here?” I ask, collecting the dirty glasses to take back to wash.
“We’re fine, Shayne. You know you don’t have to clean up after us. I’ll get it,” the big burly man says, a fatherly smile on his face.
I wave off his comment. “I know, but I was out, so I thought I’d stop by and see if you guys needed anything.”
“I’ll come get another round shortly,” he replies, keeping his eyes locked on the man circling the table, looking for the best shot.
“Holler when you’re ready,” I state quickly, turning to head back to the front to wash up the dirty drink glasses. I also know he will do no such thing. Jet won’t use me as his personal servant. He’ll make his own drinks, even take care of those he’s playing against.
Jet’s my backup when it comes to needing help. Friday and Saturday nights, he’s behind the bar with me, slinging drinks and pouring drafts. I know he keeps one eye on me and the bar, even when he appears to be completely focused on his game. If I start to get behind, he’ll be there in a second, helping serve waiting customers.
Everyone loves Jet’s. It’s not too rundown, but not fancy either. The stools and counter are marred with age and a little abuse but are in great shape. The lights are low wattage custom-made mini whiskey barrels, and the walls are covered with beer and alcohol signs.
If you play pool or even throw darts, this is the place you do it. Four tables and two dartboards fill the second room. You’ll find all levels of skill too, not just the pros like Jet. He loves taking young guys under his wing and teaching them about angles and English.
But what we’re really known for is our wings. Yeah, there’s hamburgers on the menu too, but that’s not what people come to Jet’s for. Honey barbecue, parmesan garlic, pineapple teriyaki, and Cajun jerk are the most popular. However, if one of those doesn’t strike your fancy, we have eight additional flavors on the menu.
When I first started here more than two years ago, a week after turning twenty-one, we only served food Thursday through Saturday, but as the months went on, and seeing how many orders came through those nights, I worked to convince Jet to add more days. Sunday was first and the most popular, especially during football season. With wings available, I noticed baseball, hockey, and even NASCAR seasons started to see an increase in food orders. Eventually, we went seven days a week and serve enough nightly to keep a cook busy for hours.
Once the patrons at the bar have refills, I turn my attention to washing the dirty glasses. I’m bent over the sink, scrubbing each one inside and out, when the heavy wooden door opens and slams closed. I hear a few offered greetings but keep my focus on finishing my task. Only two more glasses to go…
“How in the hell do you get a drink around this place anyway?”
I know that voice.
It’s loud and laced with humor, and when my eyes fly up and meet his happy hazel ones, I let out a little squeal. Then my legs are carrying me, away from the soapy dishes and the running water and toward one of my favorite people ever.
“Chad!” I bellow, rounding the corner of the bar and leaping into his outstretched arms. He catches me easily, holding steadfast and barely making a grunt as I slam into his chest.
“Hey, Shay,” he whispers, holding me tight against his chest.
After a few seconds, he releases his hold on me and allows my feet to return to the floor. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” I say, my face hurting from smiling so widely.
“Are you kidding me? My feet barely landed on US soil, and I couldn’t wait to rest up and walk through that old door,” he says, hitching a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door.
But that’s not where my eyes go.
Oh, no.
They lock on the tall man standing behind my cousin. Crazily fit body, scruffy jaw, and buzzed dark hair. His alluring green eyes are the perfect shade of freshly dewed grass under warm, rich sunshine. They’re twinkling with eagerness and mischief, and maybe even a promise or two of dirty things. At least that’s the way my dried-up lady parts dissect them. He’s just a hint taller than Chad and sports the same buzz cut and Army Proud green T-shirt.