When Mrs. Mercer mentioned the V.F.W was looking for a ‘barmaid,’ her words not mine, and that it paid under the table, I jumped at the opportunity. Those jobs don't come along often, especially in a place like this. I exhale and think this is exactly what I need for now, and I'm hopeful that Allison and I can remain hidden.
Gavin
They call this dump a bar? Every square of the linoleum tile is cracked and I'm certain it hasn't seen a mop in years. The smoke-stained white paint is peeling and it’s leaving behind small piles of paint chips on the floor but that's not even the worst part. The smell is God-awful. I didn't know there was a place in all of the United States where you could still smoke inside, but apparently there is. Don't get me wrong, I smoke when I'm drinking too, but these old men are puffing through cigarettes like it’s their job. My eyes are watering and I've gone into a coughing fit as my lungs scream for some sort of clean air.
“You get used to it,” the elderly bartender says to me. She's got red frizzy hair that sits in nana curls on the top of her head and when she smiles, I notice she's missing several teeth.
Not wanting to be rude, I decide to introduce myself. “I'm Gavin Stone. I'll be working security.”
She smiles again, but this time it's warmer and a little more accepting. She extends her wrinkled hand to shake mine as she introduces herself. “I'm Jean, but you can call me grandma Jean.”
I wink at her and say, “I'll call you Jean, and you couldn't be old enough to be my grandma.”
Rolling her eyes, she lets out a thick smoker's laugh. “Boy, I've worked in bars my entire life and I've heard just about every pickup line you could shake a stick at. I'll go ahead and let you down easy now. I'm a happily married woman and I won't cave. No matter how good looking you are.” She teases.
“Well shit Jean. I had big plans for us.” I joke back before she walks away laughing and shaking her head. I can't help but laugh a little too; it might not be too bad working here.
Mr. Jackson, the man who hired me, is sitting in the far left corner booth so I head over to ask what he needs me to do. After giving me a laundry list of heavy-lifting chores, I walk to the storage shed across the parking lot to grab a few cases of beer.
Nicola
It's a ritual of mine to pray over my car before getting into it every evening and thanking it once I arrive at my destination, it’s a miracle every time I can get that piece of junk to start up. I rub my hand over the faded blue paint on the hood, “Thank you,” I say to the old coupe. I know it might sound silly, but it’s a superstition that doesn’t fail me. Most of the time.
Before I head into the bar, I decide to go to the shed to grab some beer. Jean is in her seventies and she shouldn't be lifting those heavy boxes so I try to stock the bar for her any chance that I get. She's also one to help. If Allison gets sick she always, and without complaint, covers my shift. She's had to give me a few rides home when my car has failed to start. It's the least I can do to show my appreciation.
The closer I get to the shed; I hear a loud rustling noise. It sounds as though it's coming from inside the shed. Stupid raccoons! I'm not afraid of much these days but those things scare the living daylights out of me. It's like they smell my fear and instead of running, they sit and stare me down until I'm the one running. Still, I usually like going to the shed. It gets me some fresh air after inhaling the suffocating smoke from the main building.
I would just leave, but I don't want them getting into the pretzels or hotdog buns, so I square my shoulders and prepare myself for a showdown with those freaky looking things.
Seeing the wooden stick we use to prop the door open leaning against the shed, I quickly grab it and burst through the door.
“Ok, you little jerks. Come on out here,” I call out loudly to make my presence known.
The door slams behind me and it makes me jump. Crap, now I'm standing here in the pitch dark. I hear more rustling noises and it's starting to get closer to me so I back towards the door, hoping to let in a little light. When I get the door cracked just enough to let a small beam of light through, I realize quickly it's not a raccoon. It's a man: a large, scary man. He's at least 6’5” and roughly two hundred and forty pounds. His dark black hair is almost spiked, though the length lets me know he doesn't indulge in haircuts on a regular basis.
Nevertheless, this man is robbing us and all I'm doing is standing here.
“Don't come near me!” I call out in warning, hoping to sound more intimidating than I feel.
He ignores me and continues to close the distance between the two of us, “Stop right there or I'll start swinging!”
I should probably start running I think to myself as he takes another step in my direction.
Gavin
I’ve seen some not so funny things in my life, like the time I was facing the barrel of that black .22 Smith and Wesson that fired a bullet into my chest. But I've also seen some pretty funny things as well, and this woman standing unsteadily on her feet wielding a small stick, trying to threaten me, is by far the funniest.
The closer I get to her, the tighter she grips the tiny stick. I have to give it to her; she's incredibly brave but also incredibly stupid. I'm a foot taller than her and probably a good ninety pounds heavier than she is. You can tell she's not one of those women who works out all the time, she's soft in the waist and her hips are a little wide. But she's strikingly beautiful nonetheless. She has rich, chocolate brown hair that falls around her shoulders and her eyes are shining in the dim light but I think they are beautiful or would be beautiful if I couldn't see the fear in them. Feeling guilty that I'm the cause of that look in her eyes, I quickly step forward and in a second I have removed the stick from her hand.
“You're holding it wrong,” I inform her. She wasn't holding it like a baseball bat, she was holding in more like a baton. Her hands gripped around the middle. Really woman? I extend the stick back to her and she is forced to hold the end of it properly.
I watch as her eyes change from fear to confusion. She clears her throat a couple times then says, “I'm sorry, I thought you were a raccoon and then… when you weren’t, I thought you might be a robber.”
Her voice is quivering and I can tell she doesn’t trust me, but it’s comforting nonetheless. “I didn't mean to scare you, I'm Gavin Stone. I'll be working security and doing a lot of grunt work here for a while.” I tell her as she finally loosens her grip on the stick and lets her shoulders relax.
A small uncertain giggle escapes her and she replies “Well it's a good thing I didn't beat you to a pulp then. I'm Nicola… I work behind the bar.”
I can't help the refreshingly loud laugh that leaves my gut. “Trust me Nicola, I was in no danger of you beating me to a pulp.” Her name sounds great on my tongue.
She rolls her eyes and looks away, but I don't think I've offended her. At least I hope not, it wasn't my intention. I was simply stating the obvious.
“Well again, I'm sorry... I guess I'll see you inside.” She turns on her heels hastily, I assume to go back to the main building. But I notice that she wavers for a moment in the doorway, looking both ways before she walks hurriedly towards the door to the bar and I find myself wondering what it is that she’s looking for. I don't know, maybe there’s a little more trouble here than I thought.
Chapter 3
Nicola
I've been working in this bar for about a year now, and I can say without a shadow of a doubt that no one has ever come through this town looking the way Gavin does. To call him sexy would be a complete disservice. But it's not his sex appeal that has my stomach in knots. The vibe he’s giving off makes me think he might’ve spent time in prison, but for what? My mind is starting to wander. He has holes in his ears and I’m pretty sure I saw a few tattoos through his plain white t-shirt. That t-shirt is grasping onto his arm muscles in a way that has every woman in this bar jealous of the stitching. I can’t help but imagine what the tattoos might be. Dragons and skulls come to mind, so
mething dark. I wonder who has seen them and touched them. I shake my head at the ridiculous thoughts.
Heck, I know he’s got my attention. But honestly, the only reason being that I'm worried about closing alone with him. I know it's a little silly; if he wanted to hurt me, he could've done it easily in the shed. I mean, he had that stick out of my hand before I could crank my arm back to swing. I’m sure my oversized flannel shirt and usual jeans don’t give off the wrong message. If anything, it sends the I’m not interested and don’t mess with me vibe.
Maybe he's turned a new leaf, he could be trying to live an honest life and make a living now; or maybe I'm completely wrong and he hasn't spent any time in jail at all. God, it's driving me nuts, what in the hell brings someone like Gavin Stone to Greenup County, Kentucky?
I quickly realize that I already know the answer to that from personal experience. No one comes here unless they're running. Which makes sense, we all have our reasons. It's the what he's running from that concerns me. The only thing I can say without hesitation is that he definitely isn't running out of fear.
Gavin
There’s no way I'm going to last in a place like this. The only excitement I’ve seen tonight, if you can even call it that, was when an elderly man fell off his barstool and I had to help him to the taxi. He gave me a solid ass chewing when I told him he couldn’t have his keys. There will probably always be a little bit of cop in me. There are too many people in no condition to drive away from this place, and no one seems too concerned.
Thankfully, we're closed now. At least for tonight, I can breathe a little easier knowing there’s no more danger of a broken hip on my watch. I decide to head to the bar to see what I can do to help.
Nicola is counting out her tips behind the bar and by the look of it, there’s not much besides a sorry number of forgotten, crumpled dollar bills left behind by older men who probably think they’re doing her a big favor. I wonder how she can survive on this shitty pay. Maybe she has help, but something tells me she doesn’t have anyone taking care of her.
“What can I do to help?” I question, walking around the corner and she recoils backwards with that same hint of fear in her eyes that I saw earlier in the shed. What's going on with this girl?
“Sorry, I'm just used to being alone at night.” she says. Brushing off her reaction I go ahead and just let it go without a word, frankly I couldn’t care less at this point.
“So, you didn't answer. Do you need any help?”
“Oh, I'm sorry I didn't answer. But no, I'm alright. Thanks though.”
“Nicola, unless you've run over my puppy stop apologizing. It makes you look weak.”
She shakes her head as if trying to get out of her own head, “Right, you’re right, goodnight Gavin.”
I watch as she quickly walks to the door and I notice the way she’s looking over her shoulder in what seems like an instinctive move, as if she's worried that I'm behind her. Did I really scare her that much? I’m definitely not the only person around here that looks a little rough. Old men with nothing to lose on a drunken rant should seem more threatening. For a second, I consider telling her she has nothing to worry about. Instead, I sit down on the barstool, hoping to show her I'm nothing to fear. Or maybe it’s not me that she’s afraid of? When she looks back the final time before walking out, she exhales loudly and with a small smile she says, “See you tomorrow?”
“Sure, see you tomorrow Nicola.”
Well I guess I will be coming back, at least tomorrow, I made a sort of promise I think. For some reason, I have this small hope that I will get to see her again. Ok, I admit she's intriguing all covered up in that big flannel shirt. I can’t help but wonder if it belongs to an ex-lover. My curiosity is a little surprising since lately I haven't felt much of anything.
If I'm going to work here, I’m going to have to spruce this place up somehow. I know it's an old bar and besides giving it a good cleaning, there isn't much else I can do, so I go find the broom and mop. It’s time to settle in for a long night.
Chapter 4
Nicola
I've been working alongside Gavin for about a week now and I still know nothing about him except for what I've been able to observe. He's not arrogant at all, which is surprising for a man as attractive as he is. I've watched women of every generation have their try at him; some of the older ladies have even outright catcalled him, but he smiles and nods the same way every single time. Not in a way that would give these women hope though; I let out a little laugh in the direction of the latest sad attempt and I watch as the defeated woman walks back to the bar. “I’ll have another,” she says and I turn away quickly so she doesn’t see my smile.
He has to be either OCD or a complete germaphobe; he wipes down that bar every couple hours and every single time someone gives up their seat too. I find it a little bit strange because he doesn’t look like he would give two shits. He’s not dirty or anything, he’s just not put together. He does have perfect teeth. I can’t help but notice when he looks at Jean with this gentle smile that doesn’t match his bad boy look. He's always in clean jeans and t-shirts but his hair is always out of place and he must be working on some tattoos because they've started to overflow what the shirt would hide.
He hardly speaks to anyone except Jean. Jean, of all people. I have to admit, I like the way he treats her. She's lived a hard life. Her husband worked the railroad for years before a fall left him wheelchair bound. Jean went to work, sometimes holding three jobs so that Ed could have quality medical care. Her children are grown and to my knowledge, they haven't been back in years. So seeing them laugh and carry on like old friends really warms my heart. And I find myself daydreaming of that kind of friendship. Someone to joke and laugh with and to not be so serious all the time. I haven’t gotten close to anyone here. I just haven’t felt like sharing my story. It might be selfish. I’m not really sure. I guess I’ll just know when I’m ready to talk.
Though Jean seems to be the only one he likes, he really doesn’t speak to anyone else. Not even me. Not that I'm particularly interested in him. I know he doesn’t think I am either. I only wear enough makeup so that I don’t look sick and pale from all of my sleepless nights. I usually throw my hair in a ponytail. I kind of miss getting dolled up, but I don’t want to give any of these customers the wrong idea. I can’t even remember the last time I felt beautiful. I'm more suspicious of him than anything. Every night I count down my register as he sits at the end of the bar and plays around on his phone. Yesterday after I walked out of the bar I realized I left my keys inside, so I walked right back in and he was already cleaning the same counter I had just cleaned seconds before. That little move made my stomach churn; I was married to a man who judged every little thing that I did.
“What are you blind? Look at this!” Jason demanded while shoving my face to our granite countertop. “You better start over and do it again!” With tears in my eyes and my hands sore from the amount of chemicals on them, I started cleaning for the fourth time.
After I saw Gavin coming up behind me I went into a complete panic, I ran to grab my keys and ran right back out of the door and to my car. I quickly open the door and slammed it shut behind me. I let out a deep breath as I tried to calm my quivering body. I’m not even sure why I was shaking. It took me a minute to calm my breathing and get the key in the ignition. I saw Gavin at the front door, looking my way with confusion on his face.
All I’ve learned up until this point is that Gavin Stone is a mystery. Though I don't trust my own judgment when it comes to men, I find myself torn where Gavin is concerned. Part of me wants to get to know him and to hear his story, but a voice in my head keeps saying he's trouble.
Gavin
This old bar isn't as bad as I thought it would be. It's easy work and I've formed an unlikely friendship with the older bartender Jean. Besides my family, I don't know that I've ever had a real friend. But it's easy with Jean, she wears who she is for everyone to see; there isn't an ulter
ior motive behind her kindness and for the first time in my adult life, I feel like I can be myself. Ok, almost myself. I don't go around giving her all the intense details; I don’t really share much about my personal life at all unless it's the easy questions. “Where are you from?” “What's your favorite drink?” She must be good at reading people, because she never asks too many questions that aren’t above the surface.
Outside of that little friendship, it's always the same thing- just a different day, every day. Sleep until noon, go for a run, eat, get ready for work, work, and then from time to time, to break from the norm, I’m off to get a new tattoo here or there. I tell myself the art I chose is random, but I wonder if I’m subconsciously telling a story. Something has to give, waking up every morning and knowing what to expect down to a T isn’t doing it for me. I'm not comfortable in this mundane life. When I was in Chicago, there was always some place to be: family gatherings, work, drinks with my brother and cousins. Laughter. Lots of laughter, all the time.
Gavin (Made From Stone Book 2) Page 2
