1
Between this business and her boy, Gypsy Wright was running on fumes. And nothing reminded her of that more than having to man her own bar.
Gypsy grabbed a soda dispenser in each hand and topped off the alcohol-laden drinks with a spritz of soda water, then set them on the tray held by one of her cocktail waitresses.
Customers stood three-deep at the bar and called orders at anyone who would listen. Gypsy focused on a good-looking twenty-something sliding into a recently vacated sliver of space. The smile on his face told Gypsy exactly what he’d order before it came out of his mouth.
Even as the words “Hey, I know you probably get hit on all the time, but you’re so damn beautiful, I couldn’t help myself—” came out, she waved a hand in front of his drunk eyes to get his attention.
Once she had it, she pulled her shirt taut and pointed at the words across the front: I only have room for one man in my life. He’s three years old and not fully potty-trained.
When the guy’s brow furrowed, Gypsy rolled her eyes, reached beneath the counter, and pulled out one of the many signs she and the other female bartenders had created for themselves. With Mardi Gras-type beads for the chain and balsam wood as the message base, they’d painted every rejection they could think of, one for each sign. Of course, they were also decorated with enough bling to make a country girl proud.
“How ‘bout this one?” she said, hands against the bar, giving him one of her I-so-don’t-have-time-for-this glares. The sign read: NO. JUST NO.
The guy mumbled something and disappeared into the crowd. Gypsy immediately pointed at a young blonde woman. “What do you need?”
“One of those signs,” she said, grinning. “But I’ll settle for three white wines.”
While Gypsy worked on filling the woman’s order, she tried to figure out how she’d messed up the schedule so bad that she found herself stuck here instead of home, cuddling with her boy. She knew she was trying to juggle way too much, but she felt like if she dropped one ball, the rest would end up bouncing around her feet too.
With success came a unique set of pressures, for sure.
She needed a minimum of three bartenders to keep things running on a daily basis. She needed four to keep them running smoothly. And when the Grand Ol’ Opry had a grand slam lineup, she needed five.
For the last three nights, the Opry had been packing heat, and tonight, Gypsy was down two bartenders because she’d stupidly given two of her best the same night off.
Now her back hurt, her feet ached, and the live music was bringing on one doozie of a headache. Gypsy glanced at her watch, wondering how much longer it would be until she could shout last call and fall face-first into her pillow.
Midnight? How could it only be midnight? Her shoulders sagged, her eyes closed, and her head dropped back with a groan. On the bright side, she’d get to sleep in tomorrow morning. Her sister, Miranda, was watching Cooper overnight.
Gypsy took a deep breath and pointed at a young man who she doubted was old enough to be in her bar. Fake IDs just kept getting better and better. The kid ordered three shots of Jager, and Gypsy lined them up. Based on the fifty-dollar bill he passed her before disappearing with the shots, Gypsy was sure he’d already had too many.
She tossed the extra cash into the tip-collection water jug behind the bar while taking another order yelled at her from five feet away. Her hands moved automatically to mix the drinks. In her peripheral vision, she saw someone else push to the front of the bar just as she finished up the last order.
“What can I get you?” she asked without looking up.
“You can get me between the sheets, sugar, as soon as humanly possible.”
His voice tugged a familiar heartstring, and her stomach jumped. The drink called “between the sheets” had been around since the 1920s, but the only man who ever ordered it in her bar was Wyatt Jackson. Though, Wyatt could have ordered anything and she would have recognized his voice, along with half of America and untold other countries.
She looked up and found him grinning at her from the other side of the bar. His light-blue eyes glimmered, his perfectly straight white teeth lit up his face, and faint lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes. The sight literally made Gypsy’s knees weak.
She leaned on the bar to keep herself upright until she cleared her head, but the man was a breath of air so fresh, he made her dizzy. She should have controlled the grin on her face, even just a little, but she didn’t seem to have control over a lot of things when it came to Wyatt.
“You need a haircut worse than a drink,” she told him as she slid the wineglasses toward her other customer and took payment.
“I know.” He lifted his ball cap, ran a hand through his golden hair, and resettled the hat, tugging it low. “I’ll get one while I’m home.” He glanced at the sign around her neck. “That kind of night, huh?”
“Oh yeah.”
He reached across the bar and lifted the sign to read her shirt, then dropped his head back and laughed. “Last time I was here, you were jumping for joy he was out of diapers. That was only a couple of months ago.”
Nine weeks, to be exact. Longest stretch he’d been gone since Wyatt’s brother died last year. But she sure as shit wasn’t counting. “Premature excitement, but he’s close. We have an accident now and then.”
He chuckled. “Happens to all us guys.”
She snorted a laugh and flicked a look at his cap. “If you’re trying to go incognito, you might not want to advertise your band on your forehead.”
“It’s reverse psychology. No one would ever expect someone wearing a Fifth of Jack hat to be part of Fifth of Jack. Now, let’s talk about you and me getting between the sheets.”
She wrinkled her nose, pretending the image of their naked bodies tangled in crisp white sheets didn’t make her bones soften. “You know I hate rum. What do you say to a blowjob instead?”
“Sugar.” His voice dipped, and heat slid into his eyes. “Don’t make me embarrass myself in public.” His gaze lowered to her mouth. “I’ll take your blowjob and raise you a creamy pussy.”
All her attention took a direct path between her legs. She wasn’t surprised their banter made her wet, but she was disappointed their meetings were little more than an exercise in frustration. There had been a time in her life when she jumped into bed with men whenever it pleased her. But that all changed four years ago.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and wiped her damp brow with the back of her hand. “Sorry, Rockstar, I don’t stock tequila rose.”
Someone yelled for three cosmos, and Gypsy started mixing the drinks.
“All right, then.” Wyatt’s tongue slid along his bottom lip. “I guess I’ll have to settle for a tight snatch and a royal fuck.”
She’d been fantasizing about him for too long, because snapshots of royally fucking this rock star immediately burned into her brain. “Settle, huh? Is sex on the road getting monotonous? All that hot young flesh boring you?”
His grin grew. Gypsy wished time would stop. She wanted to study that grin, those sparkling eyes, that square, heavily stubbled jaw.
“I detect an edge of jealousy in your voice, sugar.”
“Ha. In your dreams, Rockstar.” She exchanged the cosmos for payment and pulled a lowball glass from the rack. “In your dreams.”