by A. S. Teague
My eyes well with tears, but I swallow hard and, forcing the moisture back, refuse to give in to the pain of the past.
“You sure you don’t want a cosmo? A martini that I’ll probably make incorrectly?”
Sarcasm drips from his voice as he plunks a glass of water on the bar in front of me, the liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass. I jump back to avoid being sprayed by the liquid. There’s barely any ice at all, and I cut my eyes to the man in front of me, irritated that he’d obviously not listened to my request.
“I’m sorry,” I tell his back. “I was lost in thought. That was rude of me.”
Kill him with kindness.
His broad shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t respond, so I continue rambling.
“Really, I have better manners than that.” I force a stiff laugh and push my sunglasses to the top of my head.
He runs a hand through his dark hair, his bicep flexing, and sighs. Turning to face me, he freezes, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before giving a quick shake of his head. When his gaze meets mine, I suck in a breath and hold it as he pins me with a dark stare. My irritation melts away as I study his face, the troubled look in his eyes reminding me that we all have our demons.
His jawline is sharp, something the stubble fails to conceal, and I can’t help but notice that his bottom lip is ever so slightly fuller than his top lip.
My heart pounds as I meet his bright blue eyes, a sharp contrast to his dark hair, and match his intense gaze.
He hasn’t so much as blinked, his eyes stormy, brooding. A scar cuts through one of his eyebrows and I’m intrigued to know how he got it.
His face is as hard as his body, and I squirm under his appraisal.
I scramble for the right thing to say, but fail to come up with anything, telling him lamely, “I really am sorry.”
He lifts a shoulder, but his demeanor doesn’t change. “No worries. Can I get you a menu?”
“Uh, sure. That’d be great.”
He slides a laminated piece of paper across the bar. “I’ll check back on you in a minute.”
I watch him stalk away, miffed.
I glance down and try to see myself through his eyes.
My makeup is pristine, something it always is if I’m awake, my hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. A vintage pearl necklace hangs loosely at my throat. Red-soled heels, which he probably couldn’t see, finish off the tailored suit I’m wearing.
Groaning, I realize I do look like I should be ordering a frilly drink.
If only he knew the truth.
“So, what can I get ya?” he asks, propping a hip against the bar. He’s drying his hands with a bar towel, and my gaze lands on his tattooed forearms. I study the images, curious as to what they represent.
The sound of him clearing his throat pulls me out of my trance, my cheeks pink from the embarrassment of being caught staring at him.
I hold up the plastic paper. “Uh, I didn’t even look at the menu.”
He raises his eyebrows, clearly unamused.
“What do you like?” I ask, once again trying to lighten the mood, hoping that he’ll finally accept my apology.
I’m not sure why I even care what he thinks of me. I didn’t move here to make new friends, I have plenty back home.
This is home for now.
He tilts his head to one side and his eyes roam my body, studying me carefully. I try to sit up straighter, hoping that he doesn’t notice, but he smirks, and knowing I’ve been caught I let my shoulders slump.
His sharp burst of laughter catches me off guard and I jump.
His lips still tipped up, he tells me, “I’m a fried fish platter kind of guy. With a tall glass of our local IPA.” He pauses, and his eyes roam my face once again. “But you look like a shrimp pasta with a glass of white wine kind of girl?”
My cheeks heat under his appraisal of me, and I shake my head. “Why couldn’t I like fried fish, too?”
He smirks. “Not sure I’ve ever worn pearls to The Crab Shack.”
I press my lips together. He’s got a point. It’s just not accurate. I grab the glass of nearly tepid water from the bar and take a sip through the straw, making a point to maintain eye contact with him the entire time. Lifting a shoulder, I tell him, “I don’t see why not. They’d really complete your outfit.”
His face splits into a grin and my belly flips. He’s handsome pissed off, but that grin makes him ten times more attractive. He glances down at his shirt, and then his eyes come back to me. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He swallows and I’m entranced by the way the muscles in his neck work. “So, you gonna order?”
I nod. “I’ll take the shrimp pasta.”
“Good choice. Glass of wine?”
I pick up my water glass. “Water’s fine. I don’t drink.”
His eyes widen. “You don’t drink?”
“Nope. Not a drop.”
He looks around the nearly empty patio and then back to me. “You don’t drink, but you decided to sit your fancy ass at my bar?”
Unsure if I should thank him for the compliment or be irritated by the obvious judgment, I wave my hand at the waterfront to our left. “I wanted the view.”
He glances to the side, then nods and asks dryly, “Not from around here, huh?”
I press my lips tightly together and cut my eyes away, shaking my head.
My Nana’s face flashes in my mind, her look of disapproval at my lie still able to make me squirm even when she’s not around. “You?”
He gives a quick nod of his head, throwing the towel over his shoulder. “Born and bred.” His face registers disgust. “It’s like a different world around here.”
I want to ask about his obvious disdain, but don’t. “At least this world has beautiful views.”
He shakes his head as he mutters, “Definitely come from different worlds.”
“What was that?” I ask.
A young couple take a couple of seats at the end of the bar and he pulls the towel from his shoulder.
“I’ll get your pasta order in. Enjoy your view.” He smiles this time, not wide, but enough that it lightens his dark features and my breath catches. “Name’s Bronn. Holler at me if you need anything.”
I watch as he makes his way down to the guests and lament the fact that I won’t be enjoying the view of the water like I’d hoped. Instead, I’ll be spending the rest of my lunch trying not to get caught ogling the bartender.
I should have gotten her name.
Mentally kicking myself for being such an asshole, like always, and then letting her slip away, I take a long draw from my beer.
The cold brew is just what I need after the shit-show that was today, and I take another pull before setting the glass on the bar.
I’d assumed that she was stuck-up, like the tourists around here could be. I mean, she was wearing pearls for God’s sake. But, she’d bent over backward apologizing for her initial rudeness. She’d seemed to be genuinely sorry for being so dismissive.
She was also beautiful.
Not that I hadn’t seen or waited on a beautiful woman before. But, there was an honesty in her eyes. Well, once she pulled her expensive sunglasses from her face. Her eyes had sparkled with openness as she’d apologized for the millionth time. And then she’d cracked a joke, given me shit, and I couldn’t help but smile.
I rest my forearms on the edge of the bar and stare at my tattoos. The same tattoos that I’d caught the nameless woman studying. Most of them had no significance. I’d never really been the kind of guy to think that every piece of art on my skin needed to have meaning. Usually, if I saw a design I liked or was into something at the moment, I’d call up my buddy and get it done.
But the Chevy emblem…
Dad.
That one meant something.
I rub my thumb along the design, beating back the sadness and then subsequent anger that always followed, and grab my glass from the bar. Tipping it back, I drain the contents.
Pushing up on my heels, I lean across the bar and refill my drink from the tap.
“You gonna pay for that?”
Her voice grates my nerves, and I clench my teeth, attempting to rein my temper in before answering her.
“Nope.”
She sighs loudly as her heels click across the concrete. “Bronnson. We’ve talked about this.”
I ignore the comment and continue drinking my beer, refusing to acknowledge her when she takes a seat on the empty bar stool beside me.
“If you’re gonna drink after hours, you’re gonna have to start paying for it.”
I slam my now empty glass down and snap my head in her direction. “Not in the fucking mood for your shit tonight, Dani.”
Her lips pursed together, she holds my stare.
For several tense moments, neither of us speak, a battle of wills that both of us refuse to give in to.
She’s the first to cave, her shoulders sagging. “I don’t want to fight with you.” Her beautiful face falls, her usually bright eyes dull and tired. “All we ever do is fight these days.”
Her voice quivers, and a pang of guilt hits my stomach. She’s wrong though. It’s not just “these days” that we’ve been fighting. That’s all we’ve ever done.
I wrap an arm around her slender shoulders and pull her to me. She kisses my cheek, her lips dry on my skin, and loops her arm around my waist.
“What’s the point in owning a bar if I can’t drink for free?” I murmur, chuckling.
She tilts her head back, her eyes devoid of any humor. “You don’t need to be drinking anyway.”
Her words strike a nerve and I push away from her. Standing, I walk around the end of the bar and drop my glass into the sink. It clatters loudly and I find myself wishing it had broken. Breaking something would feel good right now. Maybe it would relieve the blood pounding in my ears, the surge of anger coursing through my veins.
“Bar’s closed, Dani. Get out.” I hate being such a jerk.
She pushes to her feet, her arms folded across her chest. She’s frowning, her bottom lip quivering.
“I’m really getting tired of your lectures,” I tell her, rounding the bar. My voice rises as I stalk toward the door. “I don’t need your shit.”
I sling the door open and gesture for her to leave with my free hand.
Dani snatches her purse from the stool she’d set it on. “I’m just worried about you, Bronn. That’s all.”
“Well, don’t be. I’m fine.”
She shakes her head, her auburn hair brushing her shoulders. “No, you’re not. You haven’t been fine for a long time.”
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” I hiss.
She comes to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and drops her head to my chest. I try to move out of her grasp, not wanting the physical contact she always insists on, but her grip is iron tight and I can’t get away from her without hurting her.
That’s all you’ve ever done.
She presses her face in to my shirt. “I just want you to be happy. And drinking all the time and getting into trouble all the time… You can’t be happy living this life.”
Her assessment is spot on.
Gripping her shoulders, I push her away from me. “You don’t know shit about what makes me happy. But I can tell you, your constant nagging isn’t doing it,” I growl.
Her eyes widen. “I’m just trying to look out for you, dammit!” she snaps.
“Well, stop. You’re not my fucking mother!” I shout, pushing a hand through my hair.
Her lip stops quivering, her eyes harden, and through clenched teeth she tells me, “You’re right, I’m not. Your mother doesn’t give a shit about you. Sometimes I wonder why I do.” She pushes past me, out into the street.
Great job, jackass.
I sigh and grab her arm. “Dani, wait.”
Whirling, she glares at me and shouts, “Let go of me!” I drop her arm as she delivers her final blow. “I’m done with you.”
She hurries down the street, but I don’t try to stop her. We’ve had this fight before, and it’s always the same. I’ll give her a few days to cool off and then apologize. We’ll promise not to fight anymore, to remember that we’re all we’ve got, and things will get better for a while. Then something will happen and we’ll have the same argument we always do.
Always about my drinking. Always about her need to help me. Always something.
But tonight was the first time she’d brought up my mother. And it had hurt.
Dani’s words echo in my head as I make my way home.
“Mom?” I whispered, nudging her shoulder.
Her only response was a loud snore.
I glanced around the room, taking inventory of the empty vodka bottles that littered the floor.
I shook her shoulder again, a little harder, and she cracked one eye open.
“Jimmy?”
“No, ma, it’s Bronn.”
Her eye closed. “Get the fuck outta here, Bronn. Can’t you see I’m sleepin’?”
My stomach rumbled. “But I’m hungry. It’s dinner time.”
Her eyelids popped open, her face twisted in anger. She pushed up on an elbow and sneered. “So? Go make yourself something to eat then. I’m not your fucking servant!”
After flopping back onto the stained mattress, she turned away from me, mumbling under her breath.
My lip quivered and I sniffled, loud enough for her to hear.
“Quit that sniveling. You’re six fucking years old. Big enough to make your own dinner. Now get out of here!”
“Sorry, Mama,” I whispered, backing out of the room.
The memory fades away as I step aboard the boat that I’ve been living on for the last year. While it has a cabin with a bed and bathroom, it wasn’t meant to be lived on.
Pulling my t-shirt over my head, I toss it to the floor and slide between the scratchy sheets of my bed, not bothering to remove my jeans.
My phone alerts me to a text message, and I’m only mildly surprised to see it’s from Dani.
Dani: You’re an asshole. But so am I.
I smile in the darkness.
Me: You’re shit at apologies, you know.
I don’t set the phone down, not having to wait long for a response.
Dani: Who said I was apologizing?
Me: I did.
Dani: God, I hate you sometimes.
You’re not the only one.
Me: You’re so full of shit. You love me. It’s why you never fucking leave me alone.
Dani: No, I never fucking leave you alone because you’re my little brother. Family obligation, you know?
I chuckle. She’s so full of shit.
Me: Had a shit day. Shouldn’t have taken it out on you.
The bubble that indicates she’s typing appears and I stare at it. The longer she types, the more nervous I become. She’s probably tearing me a new one.
That you deserve.
Eventually the message pops up, and I’m surprised that it’s not a full-length novel.
Dani: Apology accepted. And I’m sorry for bringing up your mother. That was a low blow. I love you, Bronn. Goodnight.
Me: Me, too, Dani. Night.
I toss the phone on the bed and turn over, hoping the rocking of the boat will lull me to sleep. It’s an hour later before sleep overtakes me, and when it does, my slumber is plagued with dreams of the woman at the bar.
I spend most of the day getting settled into the house that I’m renting, and by mid-afternoon I realize that I haven’t eaten anything other than a banana and coffee.
Starving, I climb into my car in search of something to eat. Before I know it, my car heads in the direction of the waterfront, and I know that my subconscious is taking me back to the bar that I’d eaten at yesterday. Or more specifically, back to the bartender that had served me the best pasta I’d ever had.
I try convincing myself that it’s the food that I’m craving, but the truth of the matter
is I just want to see Bronn again.
What kind of name is that anyway?
My desire to see him again doesn’t make sense. Our conversation had started off awkwardly, and while he’d eventually cracked a smile––an incredibly sexy one––that had been the height of our conversation. He’d been reserved and even a bit surly after bringing out my food.
But, I’d seen something in his eyes, something that told me that he was worth getting to know. Something told me that he’d understand me. And whatever it was that I saw in him, it had drawn me back to the one place I knew I could find him.
Pulling into a parking space, I turn the engine off, but don’t get out of the car. Staring out at the water, I begin to second-guess myself.
I didn’t come here to find a man.
I came home to find myself.
The last thing I need is to complicate things further with romance. Or worse, a one-night stand that I’ll pathetically hope will lead to more.
No, you can find lunch somewhere else.
I let out a frustrated sigh and turn the engine back on. After putting the car in reverse, I begin backing out of the space, my gaze still glued to the river in front of me. I should focus on work, on my new beginning, on anything except a man that had been short and snappy with me the day before.
A sharp banging pulls me back to reality and I slam on the brake, my eyes darting to the rearview mirror.
My stomach drops when I realize there’s someone behind my car.
I almost hit a person!
I throw the car in park and jump out.
“I’m so sorry!” I shout as I fight off a wave of nausea.
The man’s brows are drawn together, his mouth twisted in a scowl. But the moment our eyes meet, his face relaxes.
It’s Bronn, the bartender.
“Oh my God! I am so so sorry,” I sputter, rushing over to him. “Did I hit you?”
My stomach is still threatening to revolt, but instinct takes over. I run my hands over his arms, looking for any signs of injury. His low chuckle causes me to pause, my arms lingering on his muscular biceps.
