No Dreams Allowed
by Sonora Seldon
Copyright © 2015 Sonora Seldon
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Sonora Seldon, 2015.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by GoOnWrite
1
Have you ever taken a chance on a total stranger?
Have you ever taken a chance on a total stranger you found naked in the back of your pickup truck?
And was this naked total stranger also a billionaire?
I swear to God and Rice Krispies that it happened to me, Cassie Hamilton. I found that naked and gorgeous man, and I did not call the cops – I took a chance on him instead.
Why? I’m still not sure.
Let me explain what happened that night, and I promise this will all make sense.
Sort of.
***
She knows I had a perfectly good explanation for being naked in her truck. Why don’t you ask her to explain why she took a long drooling look at me before not dialing 911?
***
The beer bottle exploding against the wall next to my head made it seem like any other Friday night.
Splinters of brown glass flew past my face, four dollars of perfectly good Michelob ran down the wall in a foamy mess, and I knew who the guilty party was without even looking up.
“Billy, what did I say would happen if you did that again?” I drew two Budweisers and a Natty Light for the Jarratt brothers, three semi-employed farmhands who’d staked out their usual territory at the end of the bar, and then I stepped around the corpse of that innocent young beer and walked out into the middle of the floor to glare at Billy Harrington.
Billy was a mostly harmless, mostly regular customer who mostly paid his tab on time – the kind of guy, in other words, that I couldn’t afford to throw out, no matter how stupid he got when his ex-wife took her weekly cut of his paycheck. When your bar’s profit margin is so thin it’s almost nonexistent, you don’t run off the people you can count on to shoot pool and pour money into the jukebox and order drink after drink and eat the greasy with-everything cheeseburgers that are the biggest moneymaker on your limited menu of overpriced food.
You can, however, impose certain consequences when those people choose to behave like whiny little brats.
I walked over to Billy’s table, crossed my arms, tapped one foot on the sawdust-streaked floor, and gave the guy my best long-suffering stare. “Well, Billy? Refresh my memory here – did I or did I not make it clear what would happen if you decided to throw another beer missile at the wall and make a god-awful mess behind my bar?”
“I’m sorry, Cassie. That woman makes me so crazy, and then I –”
“And then you come in here every Friday night and start pitching beer bottles, because you can’t handle the fact that when you cheated on her, she chose not to roll over and take it like a good little dog. Man up and get moving, Billy – you know the drill.”
I stood to one side, I pointed at the bar, and I waited.
“Cassie, c’mon –”
“You can c’mon right out that door over there and never come back, or you can take your medicine – your choice.”
Two minutes later, Billy finished sweeping up the broken glass. He spent the next few minutes doing a half-ass job of mopping up the beer, and then he tried to get out of the rest of his standard punishment for getting on my nerves.
All six feet and four or so inches of him loomed over my round little five-feet-and-a-bit-more self, but I blocked his path and stood my ground when he tried to make it back to his table by the cigarette machine.
“ALL of it, Billy. You’re not done yet, not if you want to keep coming back here.”
“Jesus, Cassie, are you serious?”
“As serious as I am every Friday night when you pull this bullshit – now haul your ass up onto that bar and sing like a good little boy, and I may decide to knock a few dollars off your tab.”
That got him moving.
He climbed on top of the bar and rolled his eyes at me. Then Billy jammed his hands into the pockets of his Levis, stared down at the toes of his dirt-caked work boots, took a deep breath, and belted out an off-key, screechy, dear-god-my-ears version of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” while all eleven of the other customers in the place hooted and howled and threw pretzels and peanuts and coasters at him.
Sure, he’d forget all about this and fling another bottle at the wall next Friday night, but I knew public shaming was great free entertainment.
I also knew a crowd this small was not going to cut it on a Friday night outside Eli Springs, Kansas – not if I wanted to make anything remotely resembling money.
Having zero employees on hand didn’t help. Even a dozen people can be a bit much for one person to handle when that one person – me – has to swap out kegs, mix drinks, wiggle the plug and kick the jukebox when it dies, wipe down tables, grill cheeseburgers, and lie to wives and girlfriends who call asking if their man is hiding from them in “that sleazy little rat-trap of a bar.”
It was no surprise that Shana, my part-time bartender and full-time headache, was late again; she had her own social schedule on Friday nights, and it didn’t include room for showing up to work on time. I could live with that, because she always waltzed in the door sooner or later and the guys liked her – but where was my cook?
Jorge was always waiting for me when I came to unlock the doors of the Jayhawk Tavern, but not that Friday. He never missed a shift, so what was the deal? Had he gotten a better offer from the diner in town? Did he ditch me for a job stocking shelves at Walmart?
Or was it worse than that? Was he sick? In jail? Dead in a ditch by the side of the road?
By the shy side of seven o’clock, five more locals had piled through the door looking for the sweet relief of alcohol and I was deep in the weeds. Every other table wanted nachos and right now, Matt Bedford and his girlfriend of the moment ordered two plates of mozzarella sticks to go with their beers, the grill sizzled with half-a-dozen burgers, some out-of-town, self-appointed food critic of the plains sent his steak sub back three times because it was never quite good enough for his high standards, and I had to keep running back to check the deep fryer because the timer on the damn thing was broken – again.
In between keeping everybody fed, I rolled out a keg, indulged an off-duty school bus driver’s newfound taste for exotic mixed drinks that took forever to prepare, and convinced a surly trucker that we were out of Old Milwaukee but that the more expensive – and more profitable – Budweiser Select was practically the same thing. I also threatened to shut off the bar’s one and only TV if people didn’t stop arguing over which basketball game to watch, and I confiscated the pool cues from two guys who were ready to break them over each other’s heads, because drunk pool players betting on trick shots they can’t make when they’re sober are the worst.
My employees were still missing in action when yet another pair of headlights swept across the gravel parking lot. The half-lit neon Budweiser clock behind the bar claimed it was two minutes before seven and if this was either Jorge or fun-and-games Shana, they’d be getting a piece or three of my mind about the concept of coming to work within shouting distance of being on time.
No
such luck. Instead, the door banged open as Sheriff Tazewell kicked his way inside, and my, wasn’t this going to suck?
Sheriff Bart Tazewell was two hundred pounds of attitude stuffed into a two-sizes-too-small uniform, and throwing that weight around while broadcasting his high opinion of himself and his low opinion of us commoner civilian types was his favorite way to spend the county’s time. Sure, he did pull over the occasional college kid speeding through town, and he shot dogs who barked too much for his taste, and he even made an actual arrest for a petty crime or two now and then – but all of those things required effort, while harassing the little people over nothing in particular was easy and fun.
He was also the same sheriff who evicted me after Mom and Dad died. The bank in Atchison foreclosed on our house when I couldn’t keep up the payments, Sheriff Tazewell slapped a padlock on the door while I stood in the street with next to nothing, and he walked away with a tip of his hat and a smirk.
So yeah, I shot him some attitude of my own.
“So can I get you your usual, Sheriff? Mike’s Hard Lemonade in a sippy cup, with one of those little pink umbrellas you like?”
I wiped down the bar, looking all innocent and helpful, while the Jarratt brothers laughed like drunk loons.
The sheriff settled his ample ass on a barstool, glared at the Jarratts, and then shot a dirty look over his shoulder at all the giggling going on behind his back. When he turned his face to the front again, I sensed a serious bitchfest coming on.
“Now, Miss Cassie, there’s no call for you to get all mouthy on me –”
The lights had to choose that moment to flicker. The jukebox chimed in, making Alan Jackson’s voice dip all slow and deep for a few seconds, and then adding a few squeaks and pops for good measure before settling back into a normal pitch.
“– particularly as you seem to still be operating this place with wiring that’s nowhere near coming up to code. Think the building inspectors in town might like to hear about that?”
Dad installed the wiring himself when he and Mom opened the Jayhawk Tavern all those years ago, because electricians in our part of the state charged as much as brain surgeons and who had that kind of money? The sheriff knew that, but I knew better than to let him think he could get the upper hand – men in general and asshole men in particular need to be clear on who’s in charge, or they will walk all over you.
“Maybe, but I imagine the county commissioners might be even more interested to hear that you’re warming a barstool while still in uniform, and they could be fascinated to find out that you already had alcohol on your breath when you came in – should I call that in, do you think?”
His piggy little eyes gleamed with righteous outrage. “I most certainly did not, and if you think for one damn second that –”
I planted my elbows on the bar, leaned forward, and nodded at the customers who were enjoying the show. “I think that it would be your word against over that of over a dozen good citizens of the great state of Kansas, all of whom will testify that you were as drunk as a skunk when you staggered in the door – right, guys?”
My regulars came through for me, bless their hearts.
“Bastard was weaving all over the place when he pulled in here, I think he clipped my fender.” That was Terry Wakefield, and he’d had that ding on his fender ever since he and his weathered old Subaru played tag with a deer two years before, but who’s counting?
“They oughta pull his license and take his badge for being all fucked up in public like this, it’s a cryin’ shame.” And that opinion came from Hap Stuart, a mechanic from up the road whose keys I had behind the bar because he couldn’t always tell which beer would be one too many, but who’s perfect?
“This isn’t the first time, either – man’s a disgrace to the county.”
“Damn right – he belongs in one of his own jail cells, if you ask me.”
“I hear he buys his whiskey with the money he makes off that speed trap he sets up on the state highway – “
Everybody offered their opinion, Sheriff Tazewell did a slow burn, and Matt Bedford and his girlfriend contributed by pegging a couple of mozzarella sticks at him.
The sheriff turned and swept a slow, calculating glance over the crowd. “I’ll remember this next time I come up behind one of you boys when you’re doing a mile an hour or so over the speed limit, all right? I know every one of your vehicles by sight, don’t doubt it, and I think maybe you won’t be so all-fired cocky when I pull you over and slap you with a ticket and a fat fine.”
He aimed his fat face to one side and spat a disgusting glob of tobacco juice onto the floor, because he knew I hated cleaning that shit up. Turning back to the sea of hostile faces, he added, “Might be I’ll also find an outstanding warrant on you, whether there is one or not.”
Feeling his douchebag job was done, he turned back to me and pretended he didn’t hear the colorful comments about his ancestry and personal habits circulating through the tables behind him. “Anyways, I’m afraid I can’t accept your kind offer of a drink, Cassie; I need to be heading on down the road, enforcing the laws of this state and seeing to it certain riff-raff get what’s comin’ to ’em. I just stopped by to pass on the news that your cook won’t be working tonight – or any other night, not in these parts. Maybe he’ll find some kinda job back in whatever dry gully of a hick town he comes from in Mexico, but the U.S. of A. has seen the last of that boy.”
I barely kept myself from slapping that hateful smirk off his veiny red face. “So help me, Sheriff, if you busted Jorge for some stupid made-up bullshit, I’ll –”
His nasty excuse for a smile broadened. “Now, there’s no need to get all riled up and foul-mouthed, Miss Cassie – what would your dear departed daddy think, to hear you talking like that to an officer of the law?”
Dad wouldn’t have bothered with thinking – he would have pulled his Remington pump-action shotgun out from its hiding place behind the bar and sent this clown down the road with a load of buckshot in his ass.
And that trusty old shotgun was still there, waiting … but I settled for fantasizing about grabbing a steak knife from the kitchen and sneaking outside to slash Sheriff Idiot’s tires.
“Besides, young lady, it wasn’t my doing, not one bit – the federal boys that keep undesirables out of this country did a sweep through town this morning, and those Immigration and Naturalization Service folks snapped up your wetback cook as neat as a trap snapping shut on a bobcat’s leg.” He raised his voice so everybody in the place could hear him and added, “Did you know your employee was in the country illegally?”
Well, sure – everybody in town knew it, just like they knew I could never have afforded to hire him if he’d been all legal and proper and in possession of the right paperwork. Everybody also knew the kid worked six times as hard as anybody else at whatever jobs he could get – not that our sheriff would give a tin shit about that, so instead I grumbled about the injustice of it all.
“The INS here, in Kansas? Here, as in hundreds of miles from the nearest border with anything? You’re serious? I say if Jorge and guys like him make it this far north, they’ve won.”
A rumble of agreement from my customers backed me up – most of them had hired Jorge for odd jobs now and again, and none of them were fond of the federal authorities getting their noses all up in our business.
Sheriff Smirkface didn’t see it that way. “Now, no hard feelings, Cassie darlin’ – this is how the world works, and little girls like you will fare a lot better in this life if you accept that as a natural fact.”
And then with God and all the angels to witness it, that natural-born slimeball eyed me up and down and added, “Not that you’ve ever been little – Cassie, you really oughta watch what you eat, y’know? Lose some weight, take better care of yourself, and maybe some man will see fit to take you away from all this.” Then he tipped his hat to me with a sneer, stood, and sauntered out the door.
Screw this, I was going for
the shotgun.
I reached under the bar and put my hand on the Remington, I did – but my brain reminded me that pointing a firearm at a cop would be a terrible idea, no matter how much the bastard deserved it.
Getting away from all those eyes and thirsty mouths and that bawling jukebox and life in general seemed like a great idea, though, even it was only for a few minutes – so I ducked back into the kitchen, half-ran past the grill and the deep fryer, and kept going until I fetched up against the door to the walk-in cooler.
I pressed my forehead against the cold metal door and stood there alone, eyes closed and hiding from the world.
Why couldn’t life stop beating me over the head, day after day?
When did I get to have a life, for that matter? A real life, a life without a prick of a sheriff hassling me, without customers and a bottom line and a stack of overdue bills ruling every second of my existence?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
After cancer took Mom and I dropped out of college to help Dad run the bar, I figured my dream of becoming a veterinarian was just on hold – but then life decided to take Dad too, leaving me with nothing but a mountain of debt and this roadside dive bar in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas.
I was twenty-three and had no life, no dream, no future, and nobody to share my nothing with – after all, I was built like a real woman and not a pipe cleaner, so hot and smoochable guys looked elsewhere for girlfriend material.
Not that I could afford to be choosy – after a solid year of not being with anybody, I’d have been grateful for pretty much any man with an X and a Y chromosome who would treat me like a human being. Fat, short, ugly, it wouldn’t matter – just like with everything else in life, Cassie had to settle for whatever scrapings she could get.
My own personal pity party was interrupted by the smell of burning cheeseburgers and the blare of the TV being turned up way high again after I’d told everybody I’d cut the hands off the next person who touched the volume control. I heard the front door opening to admit more people whose money I needed, but who I sure as hell couldn’t handle on my own – not when I was already running myself ragged keeping up with food orders, drinks, cleaning, and listening to the same stories I’d heard a thousand times before from the same customers I’d known for years. And what was I going to do about replacing Jorge?
No Dreams Allowed: A Billionaire Romance Page 1
