Comb-over laughed with a sudden burst of glee. “Woo wee, that a doozy.”
“My favorite kind of story,” she said.
Another laugh. “See, one night enemy fire pinned in the boys and me. When we ran out of bullets, Coot decided to use twigs to make a crossbow.”
Silver almost—almost!—cracked a smile.
“This I’ve got to see. Will ink pens work?” Genuinely intrigued, Ryanne handed him two of the pens she kept beside the cash register. “Because you’re not leaving until you’ve proven your claim, pollito.” Little chicken.
“All right.” Coot nodded. “But I’m gonna need you to fetch me a rubber band, too. Unless you want me to cut the elastic out of my underwear?”
With a snort, Comb-over pounded him on the back. “Go ahead. Give her the show of a lifetime.”
“And let Coot get more tips than me?” she said with a shake of her head. “No, thanks.”
Coot guffawed and even blushed, making her smile. She’d had little to smile about since Jude had bailed, which rankled! Her happiness would never depend on a man. She would not become her mother. But...she couldn’t deny how badly she missed Jude.
As she searched for the necessary rubber band as slowly as possible without rousing suspicion, the old guys drank their coffees and, thankfully, started to sober up. Steady again, Coot taught her how to make the crossbow, and danged if the weapon didn’t actually work.
He bit off the lid of one of the pens, creating a groove at the end.
“Don’t hurt yourself!” Ryanne exclaimed.
“As if.” He wrapped the rubber band around the other pen and pulled, anchored the other pen in place, then aimed at a postcard behind her. The missile soared overhead and embedded in wood. “See? Easy as pie.”
Wow! “You could do serious damage to someone’s eye with one of those.”
The threesome beamed with pride.
One of the bouncers Jude had handpicked—Bobby Beaudine, a guy she’d met in junior high—stalked across the dance floor, a scowl darkening his face. Her stomach twisted. Something was wrong. Again. Perhaps another visit from Blueberry Hill PD. A pack of officers had come by three times this week to check customer IDs. Among them each time? Her nemesis, Jim Rayburn.
The night Lyndie had ended up in the hospital with broken ribs, admitting her husband had done the damage, Jim called her a bitch and a liar and accused her of paying someone to rough her up in order to make Chief Carrington look bad.
Ryanne had been there, and refused to leave her friend’s side. She’d asked Jim why in the world Lyndie would want to make her own husband look bad if he wasn’t, in fact, bad, and his response had shocked her.
“Chief Carrington explained the situation. Lyndie wants a new car, but he doesn’t have the money to buy it for her, so she decided to punish him.”
Bastardo!
He wasn’t even the worst of Ryanne’s problems. Yesterday, a masked man disabled the cameras in her parking lot and slashed over twenty tires; she wished she had hired a night watchman, as Jude had ordered. It was just, she’d hoped to save a little cash by relying on the security cameras to pick up any problems. Though Jude was alerted and had arrived a mere ten minutes later, the damage was already done, the slasher gone.
The constant harassment had begun to affect her bottom line, fewer and fewer newcomers showing up. Her regulars remained constant, at least.
“To thank you for teaching me a trade secret skill,” she said to Coot, “I’m going to give you and your friends a plate of my world famous nachos. Anyone have any dietary restrictions?”
“Dietary restrictions?” Comb-over rolled his eyes. “Do we look like sissies, young lady?”
“No, sir. You surely don’t.” She winked and walked away without revealing a hint of her inner turmoil. A difficult feat.
By the time she met Bobby at the end of the bar, tremors racked her. “What’s wrong?”
“Officer Rayburn is back. He’s alone this time, wearing plain clothes, and he’s hiding in back, but I have a feeling he’s hoping someone, anyone, will cause trouble. Also, there’s a homeless guy at the door. He wanted in, but I told him to wait in the alley with the others, that you’d pass out food when we close. He said he has the information you asked for. That—I quote—a flesh peddler with blond hair just snuck into the bar through the back alley entrance.”
Well, crap. The alley door had a brand-new coded lock, and only a handful of people knew the numerical sequence. Ryanne, Jude and the employees.
The homeless man had to be Loner. “If the homeless man wants in, you let him in, any time, every time,” she said, scanning the area for the “flesh peddler.” The blonde from the van, she assumed. Why sneak in? Unless Blondie meant to drum up business...while Jim was here?
If Jude was watching the camera feed as diligently as he watched Ryanne, he would have spotted anyone doing anything illegal and texted her the details.
Maybe Loner was mistaken.
“Are you sure?” Bobby asked. “There’s no way the guy is going to spend money in here. He’s filthy and he smells. Customers will be—”
“Let him in,” she interjected with a firm, intractable tone. “Respectfully, of course. And quickly.”
He looked at her as if she were a crazy person before dashing off to collect Loner, who he escorted to an empty bar stool.
Sweet Loner kept his gaze down. He wore the same clothes he’d worn last week, only the garments were dirtier, speckled with bits of grime and...dried blood?
Heart aching for him, she reached over and patted his hand. “Thank you for keeping me informed.” Would he spend the night at the Strawberry Inn if she paid for the room? “I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me nothing, Miss Ryanne,” he replied softly, still not looking up.
“I do, and I’m going to pay up. I’m giving the guys at the other end of the bar a plate of nachos, and you’re getting one, too. No protests,” she added when he shook his head. Later, she would mention the room at the inn.
“You shouldn’t, and I should go before I hurt your business.” His voice remained soft, barely audible over the thundering blast of music now spilling from the stage. The band had just started its first set of the evening.
“Stay. You’re welcome here.” Before Earl had met her mom or owned the bar, he’d been homeless. Briefly, but even twenty-four hours was too long. In his grief over his wife’s death, he’d gotten involved in drugs, lost his job and his family, and ended up on the streets. The best man she’d ever known had once felt less than human—and he’d been treated that way, too. “You are always welcome here, Loner. I mean that.”
He nodded reluctantly, then asked, “You going to sing tonight?”
“Not tonight.”
“Oh.” His features fell with disappointment.
“But one day soon,” she added, “and I’ll be sure to let you know beforehand, so you can make plans to be here.”
On her way to the kitchen, she jotted down a mental To Do list. Fetch the food, speak with Jim, find the flesh peddler.
A few days ago, she’d bitten the bullet and hired a “snack specialist.” And she used the word specialist lightly. In order to continue serving food to her patrons while she traveled, someone had to know how to prepare every item on her menu.
Only two women had applied. Caroline Mills from Strawberry Valley, who once worked in the big city as a masseuse, and a pretty young girl from Blueberry Hill, who had been far more qualified. Maybe too qualified?
Some of Jude’s suspicious nature must have rubbed off on Ryanne, because she’d wondered why the girl would want to work at the Scratching Post when she should be opening up her own restaurant in town. So Ryanne hired Caroline instead. The sassy brunette spoke her mind but couldn’t boil a cup of water. Still, she’d known
Caroline most of her life.
While they’d never been close—Caroline’s mom, Edna, had disapproved of Selma—they’d been friendly.
Caroline sat behind the counter, typing into her phone.
“Order up,” Ryanne said.
“One sec. I’ve got to send this text to Pearl. She’s in the middle of a crap storm.”
Pearl Harris was Caroline’s best friend, the owner of Secret Garden, and Lyndie’s cousin. The two looked a lot alike. Both had strawberry blond hair and alabaster skin, though Pearl had freckles and Lyndie didn’t.
“If you like your job, Caroline, you won’t tell me one sec ever again. You’ll put your phone down and fix two plates of nachos.”
“Nachos?” Her new employee jumped to her feet and pocketed her phone, her cheeks flushing. “Slight problem. Hardly worth mentioning. But, uh, I kind of made burritos with the refried beans...and ate them. I’m sorry!”
Deep breath in, out. Ryanne soaked those beans overnight, and let them simmer for an entire day before frying them the next. The entire bag had cost less than three dollars, but customers spent ten on a single plate of nachos. Not that Coot or Loner would have paid; the food was a gift. But without beans, the nachos would suck, and there was no way Ryanne would serve sucky food.
Forget the time and money, though. Caroline had just cost her coveted customer satisfaction.
“Your actions have made a liar out of me,” she grated. “I promised two of my favorite customers nachos.”
“I’m sorry,” Caroline repeated, cheeks reddening further. “Can we, I don’t know, turn the bacon-wrapped fries into a type of nachos? Maybe top them with the hamburger meat and cheese sauce?”
Not a bad idea. “Yes, we can and we will. But if there’s a next time...” Ryanne took a page from Jude’s playbook, letting the threat hang in the air, unspoken.
The imagination could be far crueler than reality.
Now the color drained from Caroline’s cheeks. She nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
Ma’am? Ma’am!
Never been so insulted in all my days.
They made the “nachos,” and Ryanne left Caroline to deliver the plates to Loner—he’d stayed, as requested—and the former marines, so she could deal with Jim.
She searched the entire bar, but found no sign of him.
All right. She would deal with him later—
Her gaze landed on the prostitute who might or might not be here to cause legal trouble. Blondie had a scarf wrapped around her neck. Hiding a fresh bruise? Having lived with Lyndie and her dad, Ryanne knew all the tricks of batterer-batteree.
Her anger turned to pity. Poor Blondie.
What was the plan? Turn a trick or two, so Officer Rayburn could say he’d witnessed the crime?
Would Blondie claim Ryanne had approved of her trade, had even taken a cut of the profits?
Great!
Blondie sat at a table in back, partially hidden by shadows. She wasn’t alone. Two guys who looked like they’d come from a frat party laughed at something she’d just said. Definite city boys. Ryanne recognized the type; they sometimes ventured into small towns to score “easy country chicks.”
She did another search, this time on the lookout for Cigarette or Snake. Maybe they were waiting outside? Or maybe they were with Jim? Either way, Jude would tell her to send a bouncer over—that was what she paid them for, after all—and lock herself in her office. No, thanks. Her bar, her problem. If she needed backup, she had her trusty .44 sheathed in her boot.
Spine rigid, she marched to the table. Blondie spotted her and gulped.
“Hey, guys.” Ryanne faked a carefree grin. “You having a good time?”
“Look who decided to stop by. Senorita bartender, the hottie with the body.” The speaker had a piercing in both of his brows—brows he wiggled in her direction as he reached out to pat her butt. “We’re having a better time now that you’re here.”
As she latched on to his wrist and held his arm as far away from her body as possible, without wrenching her shoulder out of its socket, her smile never faltered. “The first touch is free, cabrón.” Player. “The next one will cost you a finger.” A threat and a promise, rolled into one.
Grabby McGrabbyhands ran his tongue over his teeth. The other guy snickered; his belt buckle had a display screen that flashed the words Do Me in neon red letters.
Not in this lifetime.
Blondie watched the exchange with eyes as wide as saucers.
“Why don’t you boys head to the bar.” A statement, not a question. She released Grabby to wave in the direction of the bar in question. “Sutter, the guy with the knives tattooed on his arms, has recently been promoted to manager. He will give you both a mug of our infamous moonshine, no charge. Just use tonight’s magic phrase, ‘No means no.’”
Her words were met with another snicker from Do Me and a glare from Grabby.
Alienating her customers was foolish, but stress had removed her filter.
“I’m happy where I am,” Grabby said. “Why don’t you be a good girl and fetch the mugs for us, hmm?”
A wave of heat suddenly rolled across her back, the scent of spiced rum filling her nose. A scent she knew well.
Her heart raced, goose bumps breaking out along her nape. Her breasts ached, her nipples beaded and her belly quivered. Need and heat pooled between her quaking legs.
Jude was back.
“You have five seconds to leave,” he said, his voice soft but filled with pure menace. “When I get to six, I start whaling.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
JUDE SHOULD HAVE stayed home.
He’d gotten the vasectomy eight days ago. After letting his doctor know he’d be having the surgery one way or another, he was worked in right away. Brock had driven him and lectured him about lifelong mistakes the entire time.
Jude would never regret it.
Of course, he would never again hold a son or daughter against his chest, either. Or watch with amazement as his children took their first steps. Or hear the sweetest word on God’s green earth spoken with unfettered joy. Daddy.
But then, he would never attend a funeral for babies too young to have truly lived.
He ignored the hollow sensation in his chest. Carrie had sent the baby book as promised, but he’d cracked the spine only once. After a single peek at the photos glued to the inside cover, he’d cried so hard he’d vomited.
So, yeah, he’d made the right decision. Now he could be with a woman without worry.
A woman...or Ryanne?
Both. Neither. He didn’t want to be with anyone, damn it! He’d gotten the vasectomy as a just in case.
So why had he counted the days until he would be cleared for sex?
With Ryanne’s hair flipping, butt patting, full body shimmying, cleavage showing, finger licking, bra-and panty-forgetting ways, counting had been...hard. Very, very hard.
Day one, he’d found himself staring at a calendar. Day two, he’d nearly kicked his own ass himself for being so desperate. Day three, he’d come close to showing up at Ryanne’s apartment, to hell with everything. Days four, five and six, frenzied frustration had set in. He’d paced, wondering when time had slowed to such a crawl.
Eventually, he’d broken down and texted her, asking how she could be so at ease while Dushku was causing trouble. Her response had stunned him. How could she focus on good things? And what did she consider good? Jude? She couldn’t possibly.
Deep down, he’d begun to question whether or not she was a cosmic punishment for all of his misdeeds. A man forever doomed to desire the woman he should despise.
Had any man ever desired his punishment more?
Days seven and eight, he’d rationalized. Did he really need to hold out all eight days? W
hat was the worst that would happen if, say, he had sex now? Still he’d resisted. If he opened the incisions, minute as they were, he would have to wait to have sex another few weeks.
Waited two and a half years. What’s one more day?
Finally day nine arrived. Today. D-day—dick day. The small incisions had fully healed, and a record number of hard-ons said, You’re ready.
He could have sex.
He could have Ryanne.
Damn her! She tempted him as no other. Two and a half years equaled thirty months. Or 130 weeks. Or 913 days. He thought he’d go the rest of his life sustained by memories of Constance, but Ryanne Wade had proven him wrong. Giving in to her appeal would be...
Delicious.
Wrong.
Perfect.
Now that the fear of impregnating a woman was gone, temptation proved stronger than ever. For Ryanne, only Ryanne. Was this his new normal? Growing hard every time he thought about her? Driven by unquenchable thirst and gnawing hunger?
Possessive instincts demanded he stand in front of her to shield her from the gaze of other men. She’s mine.
This was crazy! His craving for her should have waned. They’d had no physical contact. Nor had he breathed in her sweet strawberry and cream scent. Or looked into her dark, magnetic eyes and drowned over and over again. Or listened to her phone-sex-operator voice and wished they were in bed, their limbs intertwined.
Maybe his craving for her would have waned if he hadn’t watched her on camera, but Ryanne TV had become his favorite program. He hadn’t been able to get enough, had had to know what happened next. It was more than her incomparable beauty and her innate sensuality. More than her attempt to drive him insane. She wasn’t just kind, as he’d thought; she was generous, giving and compassionate. She genuinely loved her customers and remained as vigilant about their protection as their enjoyment. She had a secret code: ordering an angel wing alerted her and her staff that a patron felt unsafe and needed help.
Can't Let Go--A Bad Boy Romance Page 10
