“Is Chigger your real name?” Jorja changed the subject.
“No, it’s not,” Frankie answered for her. “But she says that only her mama—who has been dead for years—and God know what name is on her birth certificate. That’s why she won’t marry me. She’s afraid I’ll find out her real name.”
She raised an eyebrow at Frankie. “My name is Chigger. I gave myself that name when I was a teenager and figured out how much fun sex could be. Until I got a little older, I could put an itch in a man’s britches that made him feel like he’d been in a patch of chiggers, but I could relieve that itch with a romp in the sheets.”
Jorja’s cheeks burned for the second time that day.
“Don’t blush, darlin’.” Chigger giggled again. “I was ownin’ my sexuality long before women figured out they had the right to like it every bit as much as a man. I hear a couple of doors slammin’. Things are about to start hoppin’ in here. Nice visitin’ with you, and anytime you want to get away from here, you just give me a call, and I’ll make supper for you and the cowboy.”
“Thank you.” Jorja pushed the chair back and headed toward the bar.
“You’re blushin’,” Cameron said. “I don’t see that often in women your age.”
“Just how old do you think I am?” She picked up an apron and tied it around her waist.
“You want to bring the ties to the front,” Cameron said.
“Why?” she questioned.
“Because a feller won’t mess with them if they’re in the front. That’s too personal. But if they’re in the back, you’ll spend half the night pickin’ up your apron. They’ll untie it every chance they get,” he answered. “And you’ll want to hang a bar towel out of your hip pocket. It’s a lot easier to grab for it and wipe up a spill than to try to find one,” he told her. “As far as your age, honey, I’d guess more than twenty and less than fifty.”
“I’m thirty as of last October, so you’re right, and I was blushing because of what Chigger said about her name.” She told him exactly what the woman had said.
He turned his back to the bar and laughed so hard that he had to wipe his cheeks with the bar rag hanging out of his hip pocket. “That woman is a hoot. I bet she could tell tales that would fry Lucifer’s eyeballs right out of his head if she’ll tell you that kind of stuff the first time you meet her.”
“Amen to that,” Jorja said. “And she also said we’re going to have a full house because people are bored with this weather, and I get the impression this is kind of like that old television show Cheers, where folks come to drink, visit, and eat burgers.”
“Where everybody knows your name,” Cameron singsonged. “And maybe in a few weeks we’ll know all of them by name.”
“Bet we don’t forget Chigger, even for a minute, though, will we?” she said as the door opened, and half a dozen cowboys came inside. They didn’t even slow down but hurried across the floor to claim the barstools. The two dogs made another race through the bar, their antlers now hanging off to the side.
“It’s colder’n a mother-in-law’s kiss out there,” one of the cowboys said as he hung his coat on the back of his barstool. “Luke’s on his way to get them dogs of his. He shouldn’t have named them Miller and Coors if he didn’t want them to beg for beer every time they get out of their pen. I’ll have an order of french fries and a Coors in a can. I heard Merle had turned the place over to some new owners. I’m Billy Bob Walters. Got me a little spread a few miles north of Mingus. Who are you, darlin’, and can I have the first dance of the evenin’ with you?”
“I’m Jorja Jenks,” she answered, “and thank you for the offer, but rules say that we don’t dance with the customers.” She leaned over the counter and whispered. “That would make all the other folks jealous, and we wouldn’t ever get our work done back here.”
Cameron bumped her with his hip. “What rules?” he whispered.
“I’m making them up as we go,” she told him. “You already know the first one, and the second is that we don’t stop work to dance with customers.”
“What if there’s only one customer in the Honky Tonk, and she’s really cute?” he asked.
“From six to two we are working,” Jorja answered as she helped get bottles of beer from the refrigerator and set them on the bar. “If you want to dance with a bar bunny, then you have to wait until the doors are locked, and just so you know, if you want to keep one overnight, you can use the couch in the office or the floor in the bar. The apartment is off limits.”
“Well, ain’t you the bossy one.” Cameron chuckled.
“Been accused of it many times.” She nodded.
Before either of them could say another word, the doors opened and every table was filled, folks were on the dance floor, and customers were lined up three deep at the bar asking for burgers, beers, and double shots. Jorja was kept busy at the grill, but from what she heard, it didn’t take a rocket-scientist genius to be a bartender. She could draw up a draft beer or take a longneck or can from the refrigerator. She could also pour a double shot of whiskey and even make a daiquiri or a margarita.
“Hey, Red,” a cowboy with a deep drawl said above the normal noise. “You makin’ them burgers for me?” When she didn’t respond, he asked his question again.
Jorja glanced over her shoulder.
“You’re ’bout as cute as a newborn kitten. What’re you doin’ after you close this joint? Want to go look at the stars with me?” He grinned.
He wasn’t a bad-looking guy—a little on the lanky side, and his hat had flattened his thin brown hair. He had a nice smile, but not one thing about him made her want to get out in the cold and look at the stars with him.
“Sorry, I’ve already got a date.” She turned back to the grill. “And don’t call me Red. I hate that nickname.”
The guy laughed, picked up the double shot of Gentleman Jack that he had ordered, and threw it back. In Jorja’s eyes, that alone was a sin and testimony that he was a wannabe cowboy—just a guy who got dressed up in jeans and boots to go to the Honky Tonk with hopes of getting lucky. The next morning, he would put on his dress slacks and go to work at a bank, a law firm, or maybe even an oil company. A real cowboy would sip Gentleman Jack. He would never act all tough and toss back such a smooth whiskey just to impress a woman.
“What are you thinkin’ about?” Cameron asked. “You look like you could go to the apartment, get your gun, and shoot someone. I hope it’s not me.”