by Macy Beckett
Luke lifted his face and watched her legs tremble. Then he reached across the grass for his wallet, found a condom, and rolled it on. He settled between her legs and lowered himself onto June’s warm body, gazing at her flushed face. When she smiled up at him like he’d just shown her heaven, he thought his heart might burst. This was his girl. And from somewhere deep in his brain, he knew if he could only be inside her, he’d tie them together forever. He needed to make them one person, and then everything would be all right.
He kissed her ear and whispered, “Relax,” and gently nudged her thighs wider apart. Then he curled his fingers around one hip, letting his thumb settle into the small dimple there, and he eased into her as slowly as he could stand, pulled back, and then slid an inch deeper. He couldn’t think about how good she felt. Because if he focused on her snug, warm fit or how absurdly slick she was, he might ram into her like a jackhammer. Instead, he concentrated on her eyes, soft and overflowing with emotion. When he pushed all the way inside, he saw pain flash in those brown eyes, but she didn’t make a sound. So brave, just like always.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, stroking her cheek and brushing back her brown curls. He lowered his mouth to hers again and tried to ignore the mounting tension deep in his belly, tried to ignore the urge to thrust harder. He wanted to slow things down—it was too soon to come, too soon to let it end—but the tension mounted and grew and built, until his fingers trembled against June’s face. Then, with one final stroke, he buried himself completely inside her and convulsed in the hottest release of his life. He tried to muffle his cry against June’s shoulder, but it echoed across the pond.
That should’ve been the moment when they cuddled and shared quiet kisses, but while he lay there fighting for oxygen, June said the three ugliest words in the English language. Useless, hurtful words that people tossed around like used bottle caps. They were the same three words his mama had said before walking out of his life without a backward glance. They meant nothing.
“I love you.” She ran her fingers through his hair and said it again. “I love you, Luke. I love you so much.” Then she wouldn’t stop—she kept whispering it again and again, like verbal vomit.
A few other girls had let the L word slip during orgasm, but it had never bothered him before. He knew most people couldn’t control their mouths at a time like that. But for some senseless reason, June’s fevered, emotional declarations turned his belly to ice. Cold fingers snaked around his chest, and he fought the urge to run away. He pulled out of her and moved quickly to the other side of the blanket.
“Don’t say that,” he ordered in a voice harsher than he’d intended. “You don’t mean it.”
“What? Of course I do.” She sat up and touched his shoulder, but he flinched away.
“Just stop, damn it.”
And then the shit really hit the fan. As luck would have it, Deputy Jenks had chosen that particular day to spend his lunch hour fishing, and he’d caught them buck naked and guilty as sin. He didn’t arrest them. Instead, he’d done something far worse: driven them home to Pru and told her everything.
June had run up the stairs crying and locked herself in her bedroom, and then Pru had turned to Luke and yelled so hard he’d worried she might have a stroke. Is this the thanks I get for taking you into my home? she’d said. I raised you like my own, and you defiled my grandbaby! You ruined her! After Pru was done making him feel like the world’s biggest pervert, she’d given him five minutes to dash upstairs and collect everything he could grab before she kicked him out of the house. He’d driven to the recruiter’s office, slept in his car, and then shipped out for basic training the next morning.
Luke had never told anyone, but he’d asked the army shrink about what had happened that day at the pond—why had he reacted that way?—and supposedly, it was linked to his “abandonment issues,” whatever that meant. Either way, it didn’t change anything. He’d written June dozens of letters apologizing, but she’d never responded. And just when he’d thought they’d mended their friendship, he’d learned she was still holding it against him.
There had to be a way to earn her forgiveness.
“Hey, get me the hell outta here.” Trey’s voice brought Luke to attention. “I want a greasy burger and a cold beer. How about we get an early supper and then head over to Shooters?”
Luke stood and pointed to the cast that shackled Trey from hip to toe. “You sure?”
“You bet your sweet ass I am.” Trey tipped his wooden cane in the air like a crotchety old man yelling for kids to get off his lawn. “I can sit down at the bar as well as I can sit down at home.”
“Sounds good to me,” Luke said with a shrug. “I could use a drink.”
Chapter 11
June was no featherweight—she’d worked in dive bars before. But none of them held a candle to Shooters. She glanced at the faded wood floor, coated with some layer of gritty material that slipped beneath her sneakers. Sawdust? Seriously? A cocktail of unpleasant scents—stale beer, cigarette smoke, sweat, and cheap cologne—stung the inside of her nose, and she tried not to imagine how the heat from hundreds of bodies would amplify that odor later tonight.
Pausing to let her eyes adjust to the dim surroundings, June rested her palm on a tall, wooden bar stool. “Ah, gross,” she whispered to herself, yanking free of the mystery-glue that bound her skin to the seat. She hoped to God it was just dried beer. As much as June was tempted to sniff her hand, she resisted and pulled a wet-wipe from her purse. Sometimes ignorance really was bliss.
A few seconds later, she could finally see all the way to the back, where six coin-operated pool tables competed for light beneath a single green, hanging lamp shade. Empty racks lined the wall, while the cues that should’ve hung there lay haphazardly across tables, leaned against the jukebox, and littered the pathway to the restroom. If Shooters looked like this at five o’clock, she shuddered to imagine the devastation at closing time.
Taking a mental inventory, she counted the tables outlining the main room’s perimeter—thirty, each with four chairs—and then turned her attention to the long, maple bar, where she spotted another forty seats, only two of which were occupied at this early hour. Shooters had a halfway decent capacity, and as the only bar between two dry counties, June assumed it stayed busy.
Collecting stray blue chalk cubes along the way, June walked to the far end of the bar, where a stout, gray-haired man with pockmarked cheeks dried shot glasses and chatted in a low voice with his patrons. When the bartender glanced at her, June set the cubes down in a pile and flashed the confident smile she’d rehearsed in the mirror that morning.
“What can I getcha?” he asked in a slow drawl.
June decided to get right to the point. “A job.”
“Sorry, hun. We already got a waitress.”
“I’m a TABC-certified bartender, not a waitress, and my next few Saturdays are free, if you need the help.”
His furry, gray eyebrows rose in appreciation, and he seemed to consider her offer seriously. “License current?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You handle a tough crowd? Things get hectic, and folks don’t like to wait.”
“Why don’t you let me show you what I can do? Then decide.”
“Okay. My last guy quit on me, so you’re in luck.” He nodded slowly, as if still mulling it over. “Tonight’s the one-dollar, well-drink special. If you can survive that, you’re hired.”
June groaned inwardly, giving a mental eye roll. Nothing in her world was more blasphemous than cheap, gut liquor, and she had a feeling well-drink night would become her own personal hell. Damn her clunky, old hatchback and its costly engine parts.
“I’ll warn ya, though,” he said. “Cheap crowd on dollar nights. You won’t make much.”
June laughed and reached across the bar to shake his hand. “Don’t worry. I know how to make tips.”
***
A wall of stench smacked Luke in the face, and he tried to b
reathe through his mouth while navigating the thick crowd of bodies backed up against the bar.
“Smells like ass in here,” Trey shouted while wrinkling his nose. He hobbled closely behind Luke, leaning on his cane, and then hauling his cast forward a few inches at a time.
“No worse than the field barracks.”
“What?” Trey yelled. The noise of laughter, clacking cue balls, and a hundred simultaneous conversations competed against Lyle Lovett on the jukebox. “Can’t hear a damn thing.”
“Never mind.”
Luke spotted Trish balancing a tray of drinks in the crook of her left arm, while holding another fully loaded tray in her right hand. By the look of all those clear plastic cups, it was dollar night, the friggin’ bane of his existence. The cheap drunks came out in droves and took up all the seats. Bastards always puked in the urinals too. Trish caught his eye, and she nodded toward an open, quiet table near the back corner. Luke waved a silent thank you.
Once they were settled, Trish circled back around and pulled an order pad from her black apron. She pointed her pencil at the sticky tabletop.
“I held this one when I saw y’all pull up,” Trish said, mostly talking to Trey. Everyone knew she was sweet on him. “Don’t want you standin’ on that leg, sugar.”
“Aren’t you a darlin’?” Trey took the back of her hand and kissed it. “Bring us a pitcher of Bud, and I’m yours forever.”
Trish blushed and disappeared into the crowd.
“You ever gonna pull the trigger with that one?” Luke asked. “Seems cruel to keep leading her on.”
Trey used his hand like a telephone and pretended to answer a call. “Hello? Yeah, Pot’s right here.” Then he handed the “phone” across to Luke and said, “It’s Kettle. He wants you to quit calling him black.”
“How hard did you hit your head when you fell off that roof?”
“Not so hard I don’t notice how you look at Joooonbug, you hypocrite.” Trey picked up a round cardboard coaster and flicked it at Luke. “Or the way she looks when she talks about you.”
Luke caught the coaster in one hand and shook his head. “Maybe you’re still high on painkillers. June hates me. She thinks I’m trash just like everyone else around here does.” He spun the coaster like a coin across the tabletop and remembered the way she’d looked at him last night, all hurt and angry. A knot lodged in his stomach, and Luke had a feeling all the beer in the world wouldn’t wash it away.
“Who thinks you’re trash? I’ve been here four years and never heard anyone say—”
“Common knowledge. I ever tell you how my dad made his living?” When Trey shook his head, Luke continued. “Moonshiner. And it was no secret, either. When I was seven, he cooked up a bad batch, and it killed him, along with a few other guys.”
“Shit.” Trey’s face contorted like he’d just sucked a lime. “But that’s got nothing to do with you.”
Luke shrugged a shoulder. “June can do better, and I’m sure she knows it.”
“Buddy, no offense, but you’ve got your head shoved so far up your own—”
“Here ya go, sugar.” Trish plunked a heavy glass pitcher onto the table, and amber liquid sloshed over the rim. Then she handed them each a frosty mug. Luke knew Shooters didn’t freeze their glasses, so she must’ve kept these in the back just for Trey. God, she had it bad.
“Thanks, beautiful,” Trey said.
A chant broke out from the crowd of people huddled around the bar, but they were too far away and too drunk for Luke to understand their words.
“What’s going on up there?” Luke asked Trish.
“Oh, Jiminy Christmas.” She placed one hand on her hip and rolled her eyes. “The new bartender’s showin’ off again. Makin’ one of them fancy drinks that you set on fire. It’s not safe. Plus, we don’t have time for that crap. Not on dollar night. I don’t think Burl should allow it, but nobody listens to me.”
Whoever the new bartender was, Trish sure didn’t like him.
“And don’t even get me started on that outfit she’s wearin’,” Trish said with pure poison in her voice. “Showin’ off her”—she held two hands in front of her chest, cupping an imaginary pair of honeydews—“just for tips. Back home, we have a name for women like that.”
Luke laughed harder than he had in a week. He had an appreciation for women like that, but he held his tongue. No use pissing off the lady who freezes your beer mugs.
“Oh, sorry Luke. I didn’t mean it that way. Sometimes I get to rambling, and I—”
“What’re you talking about?” he interrupted.
“I forgot June’s a friend of yours.”
It was a good thing he hadn’t taken a mouthful of beer yet, or he’d have sprayed it all over Trish. This was the last place he’d expected to find June—she couldn’t leave Sultry County. The seed of a wicked idea took root in his mind. If Judge Bea found out she’d violated her agreement, maybe he’d make her stay longer. The thought appealed to Luke much more than it should have.
Before Trish left to take more orders, Trey crooked his index finger at her. “After this cast comes off, I want to take you dancing. What do you say?”
Trish’s face lit up like she’d just opened her front door and found the Prize Patrol standing there with an oversized check. Apparently, she couldn’t speak, so she nodded and backed away.
Trey filled both their mugs and held his up in a toast. “Here’s to pulling the trigger. Now it’s your turn.” He didn’t bother clinking Luke’s glass before taking a long, deep drink.
Luke downed his beer and wiped foam from his upper lip. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time, buddy,” Trey said with a knowing smile.
The closer Luke moved to the bar, the louder and more tightly packed it became. While passing the jukebox, he heard someone say, That hot bartender Trixie wants to hear some Stevie Ray Vaughan, and it relieved him to know June wasn’t giving out her real name. Dollar night brought the sludge of three counties out to play, not the kind of people you wanted looking up your address in the phone book or on the web.
Luke squeezed through one last row of sweaty drunks and wedged himself into position at the bar. Finally, he understood why half of Shooters had gravitated to that spot, and he didn’t like it one damned bit. June had her hair up in a twist that left a few curls dangling around her glistening, flushed face, but that’s not what drew the crowd’s lecherous gaze. She wore a low-cut tank top tied in a knot right below her breasts, exposing her slender waist and flat tummy. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, a lacy, hot-pink thong peeked out from beneath the waistband of her jeans when she bent over to grab a clean dish towel from under the counter. If he’d worn a button-down over his T-shirt that night, he’d have taken it off, hopped over the counter, and wrapped it around her.
But appearances aside, June was in her element. Luke watched her line up a dozen plastic cups, load ’em with ice, tip a bottle of booze upside down over each one, and then top them with Coke from the fountain, all in less than twenty seconds. She pushed the cups forward, money exchanged hands, and her tip jar overflowed with wet, crumpled dollar bills. When Stevie Ray’s “Cold Shot” sounded from the jukebox, June closed her eyes for a few seconds and smiled to herself before singing along and lining up a dozen more cups.
“Bud,” Luke said.
“Bottle or draft?” she asked in a rush, and then sang on. She must’ve been too deep in her zone to recognize his voice.
“Draft.”
Stevie and June sang about letting love go bad while she tilted a glass mug beneath the tap. Luke listened to the lyrics and wondered if June had any feelings left for him now. He could tell she was attracted to him, but anything beyond that? He didn’t know why he cared because it didn’t matter anyway. She’d be gone in a couple weeks. And besides, what did he have to offer a woman like June? But still, that didn’t ease his curiosity.
“That’ll be three-fif—” June froze, eyes wider than silver dollars. T
hen she knocked Luke’s mug over, flooding the counter with beer and foam. For an instant, the cool, fresh scent of Bud replaced the reek of sweat and chewing tobacco from the men around him.
“Son of a biscuit-eater,” June mumbled, snatching a handful of rags and mopping up the mess.
Luke let a smile pull the corners of his mouth, and he tossed a five dollar bill onto a dry patch of wood. “What kind of self-respecting bartender uses a swear like that?” He leaned close enough to smell her warm, orangey shampoo. “I’ve heard you use words that would make a sailor faint. And I’ve met plenty of sailors, so I’d know.”
“Cussing’s not professional.” June ignored his teasing, filled another mug, and set it on the counter with exaggerated care. Then she pushed his money away. “This one’s on me.”
Luke took the five and shoved it into her tip jar. When she started to object, he shook his head and shoved the money farther down.
“Thanks.” She nodded at his Bud. “I’m surprised you still drink American beer after living in Germany. I’d have ordered a nice Hofbrau lager, not that Burl stocks it.”
“Maybe I don’t like the taste of those memories.”
“Ever gonna tell me why?”
“Nope.”
“Hey, listen.” June twirled her finger around one of her curls and studied a thin crack along the surface of the bar. “I want to talk to you, but it’s too crazy right now. Sleep at Gram’s tonight, okay? Then in the morning—”
A familiar voice shouted from across the bar, and Luke glanced up in time to see his best crew member slide off a bar stool. “How long’s he been here?”
