by Brogan Riley
Stop it.
You wanted to be a woman. Forget it. You’re a mom and you’re very very busy.
And old. Too old to hit on such a young man. He just made you aware of that fact.
I huff out. “Everything’s clear.”
“Indeed, it is.”
I realize Sally is not standing here. “Maybe we should step into the bar?” I point my finger to the saloon door.
He nods and gestures for me to go first. I don’t hesitate. I feel awkward and dream of having the ability to evaporate.
I immerse myself into the homey atmosphere of the bar as the smell of old wood and moonshine brings peace to my mind.
I already love this place. I don’t know why. It’s like I belong in here.
Sally winks at me from across the bar. I pull back and forth.
I arrived at this bar merely three hours ago. I was very determined to get a job here even though the owners hadn’t posted any job offers.
I’m desperate.
I moved into a cramped flat on the outskirts of a town situated twenty miles away from here two months ago. The town is dying—the younger inhabitants keep leaving it; the older people keep aging and passing away. There are only two thousand inhabitants at the moment, but that town is perfect for me and my family. I’m nobody there. I’m forgotten and anonymous there.
I asked for a job in town, but nobody wanted to employ me. An old lady told me about this bar. So, here I am, starting as the new bartender.
It’s just that I’m a seamstress.
Tyce
I wish I were older.
I wish I could move back in time.
I wish I were a human not a monster.
Rhue is absolute perfection.
Right. I’m absolute imperfection. I’m absolute grumpiness, and I’m absolute assholeness. I guess, thing number two and thing number three happen when you lose trust in people and face an explosion.
I don’t want any bitch to wreck me again, so fuck all the bitches of the world.
I shake off my jacket and climb the stairs that lead me onto the wooden stage with thick vinyl floor and navy velvet curtains. I pull the chair toward the centre of it. Sally stands beside me as I drape my jacket over the backrest.
“Nice, isn’t she?” Sally says.
My eyes dart over to the bar top. Rhue is trying to pour a glass of beer.
“She hasn’t got a clue about being a bartender,” I say.
“She’ll learn.” Sally leans toward me. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
I grab my acoustic guitar. “She is.” I check the stainless steel strings. “One of many. The world is full of pretty chicks.”
Sally sighs, shaking her head, and then she runs her knuckles up and down my scarred cheek. “A glass of orange juice?”
“A shot of vodka would do me good.”
Her eyes fill with concern but she says nothing. She walks down the stairs and then strides across the bar. I focus on my guitar.
The clink of glasses diverts my attention. I see Rhue wiping the bar top with a cloth. Orange juice starts dripping from the edge so Sally grabs another cloth and squats down. Her energetic hand sweeps over the orange puddle spilled on the floor.
Rhue is the worst bartender I’ve ever seen, but fuck me does she have the most delicious tits I’ve ever seen.
Our glances meet. Rhue freezes. I freeze.
Fuck no.
I’m done with bitches.
Rhue
He sits down and puts the guitar on his thigh. His fingers sweep over the strings, pulling and stroking them. My jaw drops open as his music fills the bar. My God, he’s really good. The wood in his hands is like his lover. The strings produce sensual chords that reverberate throughout my body and touch my soul. It’s like I’m standing on the bank of a wild river and the sun is dying on the horizon. A mysterious reality envelops me as the darkness and heat in my veins cause my heart to beat faster.
Ethan is a natural. He’s all instinct, all talent.
He looks so tempting with his guitar.
I push up the sleeves of my top and the scars on my forearm remind me that I’m done with men. Hell yeah, my husband was a talented lawyer, but he loved to hit me from time to time.
I was such a stupid bitch.
Charlie was rich. I was poor.
Charlie was so charming…
“I want to dance with you for eternity,” a husky voice says into my ear.
I turn to face the owner of that alluring voice. “I don’t dance with strangers.” I blink and drown in the grey ocean of the young man’s eyes.
He has short light brown hair as a few unruly blond wisps obscure his eye. His lips? So full. So perfect. So… kissable.
“Charlie,” he says. “And you are?”
“And I’m busy.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “A snow queen. I see.” He leans toward me. “You’ll be my wife soon, you’ll see.” There’s such a hot passion in his voice that my thighs quiver.
I dropped out of university when I got pregnant. Charlie slapped me on the cheek for the first time after I’d given birth to my daughter Diana.
He bought me an expensive bouquet of roses and took us on a trip to Majorca three weeks later.
He threw me at the wall when Caspar was two years old and a week later, I found out that he’d cheated on me. He bought me an expensive necklace and a red sports car. He was sweet and charming for a while.
I wanted to fill out divorce papers but the ossified caricature who was his mother threatened to take my kids away from me. I was like a wild animal in a trap. Charlie’s family had money and power. I was a poor nobody.
Charlie slapped Diana on the cheek when she was twelve. I punched him in the face. He gave me a broken arm and concussion in return.
Charlie drunk himself to death, topping the alcohol with various drugs, four weeks later, and I escaped from the marble prison of our house just after his funeral. I sneaked out of the cemetery and got into the car. I drove until my kids awoke from the shock and demanded that I feed them.
I realized I was in a town centre. The day was about to dawn. An old man asked if we were okay. I said we weren’t. He nodded and offered me a roof over my head. Just like that.
Tears prick my eyes. I rub my palms on my face and huff out.
I’m done with men.
Chapter 3
Tyce
I wipe down the strings with a microfiber cloth. I do this after each session to remove grime and sweat. I lean the guitar against the wall. My eyes sweep over the customers seated at three round tables. Adrian with a bald head. He’s sixty-seven and his wife Moira is a sixty-three-year-old curvy brunette. Then there’s Damien who has long silver hair and is ninety-two, and his son Thomas who has short silver hair and is sixty-eight, both of them are widowers. Caroline is a talkative, helpful lady. She’s also a fifty-nine-year-old widow. Pain and beauty fill my heart as my glance trails over their wrinkled faces. They try to enjoy life out the best they can. They’re not afraid to die though. They’re wise heroes and heroines.
They clap their hands and the men emit hoarse, weak roars as though they’re a horde of very old hairless lions.
Rhue is clapping her hands too. Her genuine enthusiasm is visible in every bounce of her tits. She must be jumping behind the bar top.
Fuck me. This woman is so full of life.
So full of sex.
Heat rushes to my dick, my eyes glued to her fuckable body. I imagine her on all fours. I’m pounding her from behind and her tits are bouncing with each hard thrust.
I’d slam on her cervix with each push. She’d whimper and plead for more. I’d give her more. I’d plow her until she screamed in satisfaction. She’d said she loves me.
Her eyes meet mine. She freezes with her hands folded as though she’s praying.
I avert my eyes.
No fucking way.
Rhue
Ethan grabs a bottle of vodka from the shelf of the antiqu
e liquor cabinet, shooting me a hostile glance, and I watch him disappear into the kitchen.
“Go home,” Sally says behind me. “You know everything you should know and your kids are waiting for you.”
I turn to face her. “Thanks. Tomorrow as agreed? Four in the afternoon?”
“Yes, and give me your address.”
“I’ll write down all the details and give them to you tomorrow.”
Sally looks at me sternly. “I want to look after your kids when you’re working. Tell me your address.”
“Mr. Auborgio can check on them. And Diana—“
“Damn, woman, you’re so stubborn. I want to help. Give me that damn address.” Sally puts her hands on her hips. “I’m gonna look after your kids and Mr. Auborgio can go fuck himself.” She nods several times.
I freeze in shock but then warmth washes over my heart. Sally is all pure goodness in a very unique packaging.
“Thank you so much,” I say. “54 Daisy Close, Tulnito.”
“You’re living in Tulnito?” She winces in disgust. “Those old pricks will strip you of energy. They’re ancient and grumpy and so stiff. You can’t live among them. Caroline has a nice guesthouse she doesn’t need. Wait for me here. I’ll talk to her.”
I open my mouth to protest but she rushes over to the woman with shoulder-length blonde hair. They discuss something feverishly for a moment and then the blonde woman waves her hand at me. A smile plays on her lips.
It looks like I’m going to move house.
Tyce
Sally is talking about something. I wish I were like my brother Cole. I’m not. My brain starts to hurt even more as I try to decipher the code in her feverish words.
I emptied a bottle of vodka yesterday. I can’t remember how I got to my room. Sally must have helped me. That’s why she’s so pissed off with me today.
“Go take a shower,” she hisses. “Rhue will be here in twenty minutes.”
“So what?” I growl.
“You reek.”
“I like to reek from time to time.”
“You don’t. You’re the cleanest young man I’ve ever met.”
“How do you know this, huh?”
“Your kitchen sink is always clean and you put your dirty socks into the laundry basket.”
Yep, she’s my momma, my grandma, and my best friend. Every morning, she’ll come to my room, holding a tray with breakfast. She’ll pull the curtains away and complain about her painful joints. She’ll flash me a warm glance.
I sometimes cook dinner for her in return. I entertain her friends, playing the guitar six times a week.
I’m renting this one-bedroom apartment above her bar. Well, I haven’t paid for it yet so I’m actually Sally’s guest not her tenant.
Sally and Brian live in the extension at the back of the bar. They argue a lot, but that’s normal among siblings.
“She’s moving into Caroline’s guesthouse,” Sally says.
“Who?”
She growls as her eyes shoot lightning toward me. “Rhue. I told you, Tyce.”
“Alright.”
“She’s a single mom. She needs help.”
“Alright, I’ll help her.”
Sally nods and draws in a deep breath. “Did you think about your future, boy?”
“I didn’t. And it’s better this way.”
“Like hell,” she snorts, shakes her head, and leaves my apartment.
I walk over to the bathroom, rubbing my palm on my chin. It needs shaving.
I stand by the washbasin and look in the round mirror. My monstrous reflection glances back at me. Fuck it. I don’t need shaving. I don’t need anything. Anyone.
The images of Rhue’s tits fill my mind. My cock grows hard. Driven by my dark needs, I plunge my hand into my boxer shorts and expose it. A drop of precum emerges from the tip. My fingers close around the base.
That woman is driving me mad. I can’t get her out of my head.
I can’t get her ripe tits out of my head.
My boxer shorts slide down, wrapping around my ankles, and I step out of them. I tumble into the ancient shower cabin, stroking my cock up and down. Tingles run from my lower back to my toes as the muscles on my thighs tense. I stroke myself harder, my breath heavy.
Fantasies enter my head as I turn on the hot water. I’d drive my rock-hard cock between those full tits of hers.
The water streams down my body. Steam fills the bathroom.
I stroke myself faster.
I’d drive my cock into Rhue’s mouth. I’d wind her hair around my fist and gag her with each hard thrust. She’d obey. She’d swallow every drop of my cum.
Heat shoots down to my toes. My balls tighten. A silver explosion fills my mind and I cum with a feral growl.
Rhue
Why am I wearing this shamelessly tight lavender top?
I don’t know.
He said he wasn’t interested.
I like lavender tops, that’s all.
Brian’s good eye sweeps over my cleavage while his glass one remains lifeless, and he smacks his lips. I wink at him and he laughs like an old toad, giving me his thumbs-up.
He is old and harmless. I guess, he has the right to like my boobs.
Sally’s looking after my kids at my flat and is probably arguing with Mr. Auborgio.
I stand behind the bar top. Right. Now I’m going to pretend that I know what I’m doing. I grab a glass and move toward the red-black beer dispenser.
“Hold the glass at an angle,” a husky voice says.
I raise my eyes and they meet the green intensity of Ethan’s.
I nod and pull the faucet handle.
“Not like that,” he says with irritation.
I stop pouring the beer. Ethan walks toward the end of the bar top, arcs the ornate curve of it, and strides over to me. He stands behind me. The smell of shower gel and woody cologne invades my nostrils and mind like a cloud of intoxication. He covers my hand with his and tingles run down my spine.
He tilts the glass. I pull the faucet handle again as his other hand guides mine. The glass is half-full. Ethan tilts it upright and we pour the rest of the beer.
I put the glass on the bar top. His massive frame is still behind me. His nearness is tantalizing. God, I want him to kiss my neck. I want him to grow hard for me and rub his hard on up my ass.
I want him to be interested in me but he’s interested only in saving Sally’s bar from the disaster I am.
He pulls away and it feels like he’s taking my breath and heartbeat with him.
“Thanks,” I say as we face each other.
“Anytime.” He puts his hand on the back of his neck. “I thought… I’ll help you with moving house.”
“Oh? Thank you so very much in advance.”
“When exactly are you planning to do this?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
He nods and walks off. My eyes chase his smooth predatory movements as he climbs the stairs and stands on the stage.
A woman in her twenties walks into the bar. Her long red hair waves as she moves gracefully toward the bar top. She’s of medium height and is curvy in all the right places. She sits down on a bar stool. Her blue eyes fix onto mine, as cold as the Arctic’s sky.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asks as one of her thick dark eyebrows rises.
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask with a defiant smile. I prop my elbow on the bar top.
With her eyes widened, she chuckles. “I’m the waitress here.”
“I’m the bartender here.”
She holds out a hand. “Emily, Sally’s granddaughter.”
We shake hands. “Rhue, Sally’s employee.”
“Like hell. You became her family the moment you stepped into this bar. But you already know this, don’t you?”
I like the cheeky flickers in her eyes. “It’s a very unique place, indeed.”
“It is.” She looks over her shoulder. “Ah, our tormented hero from a romantic poem.�
�� She puts her elbows on the bar top. “He’s so sweet,” she whispers. “Sometimes.” She nods to herself. “When he forgets to be rough and reserved.”
She flops from the bar stool and walks over to Ethan. She hugs him like they’re in a relationship and my jaw drops open. A needle of jealousy pricks my heart. Emily looks his age and from his expression, I can read that he likes her.
My heart sinks. I shake my head.
I’m a stupid old woman.
Chapter 4
Tyce
Emily starts burbling about her vacation and I want to twist her neck.
“I met a girl,” she finally says.
“Cool.” I pull one of the strings and the guitar emits a low-pitched chord.
“She’s nice.”
“Cool.”
“You’re not listening to me.”
“No, I’m not.”
She slaps my arm playfully. “Listen to me. I’m in love.”
“With whom?”
“With Dumitra. She’s from Romania.”
“Fuck me. You’ve met a vampire and she’s compelled you.”
Emily rolls her eyes for fun. “She looks like a vampiress.” Her face softens. “She’s so fucking beautiful, you know. Long dark hair, dark eyes. But that porcelain skin of hers? Stunning. I’m telling you she’s a real gem.” She slaps my arm again. “Where are you?” She looks over her shoulder. “Ah, over there.”
“Get lost. I’m busy.”
She raises her hands in a warding gesture. “Where’s Sally?”
“With Rhue’s kids.”
She emits a few oh’s and ah’s. “She’s a single mom, right?”
“Right.”
She puts her hands on her hips and looks like a younger version of Sally. “She needs help, Ethan.”
“I fucking know it.”
“She has really pretty boobs.” Her mouth lets out a quiet moan.
I shoot her a furious glance, evoking her laughter. She throws her arms around my neck and kisses me on the cheek.
“Time to get back to work,” she says.
Rhue
I want to kill her.
No, I don’t. I like her. Why would I want to kill her? I’m a civil person.
She kissed him.
She has no right to kiss him.
He is… mine.
