by Jo Leigh
She wrote down his beer, stashed the slip with the other two tabs beside the register and looked up just as Lisa returned from the back. She shook her head, the usual signal for “don’t ask.”
Then Cassie heard the door open, followed by a burst of voices and laughter. It was the hospital gang. Sighing, she closed her textbook and put it away, not looking forward to getting off work then spending the rest of the night studying.
* * *
JOHN HEARD THE VOICES, felt a blast of desert air at his back and turned. At first he’d thought someone had held the door open too long, but people kept coming inside the cool dim bar. The majority wore scrubs, a few still had their hospital IDs hanging from around their necks. Two guys went straight to Cassie while the others claimed three tables in the corner near the No Trespassing sign that hung on the wood-paneled wall.
He figured she’d been exaggerating that the place would get busy, that it was a ploy to get rid of him. He’d gotten the impression she didn’t think he belonged here, and she wasn’t wrong. The loud country music, hard metal posters, questionable bumper stickers plastered crookedly to the walls—none of it was his style. He’d seen the four Harleys parked outside, so he’d known beforehand this wouldn’t exactly be an officer’s club. Which had been the point.
He wasn’t in the mood to do what he always did, expect what he always expected, talk to the same people he always talked to. Something had to shake him from his uncertainty. He’d thought about leaving Vegas, going somewhere crazy. Tahiti or Pittsburgh. But he didn’t want to fly anywhere, not if he wasn’t the pilot. So the next best thing was to change neighborhoods.
The door opened again. This time it was a thirtysomething woman in civvies, who joined the group wearing scrubs. The older rough-looking guys who’d already been drinking when John came in seemed to know the newcomers, and there was a brief but polite exchange before everyone returned to the business of imbibing or ordering from the blonde waitress. Lisa, according to Cassie.
He wouldn’t forget her name. It suited her. Not that he could say why. He didn’t know a Cassie or a Cassandra that he recalled. But with those big hazel eyes, the smooth fair complexion and that sense of humor, the name seemed to fit. Her auburn hair was on the curly side, and she habitually blew at the loose tendrils that seemed to keep getting in her way.
Sipping his beer, he tried to figure out what cartoon was on the front of her T-shirt without being obvious. Her small compact body appealed to him and it would be easy to just stare. The fabric stretched tight across her breasts didn’t help. It made him curious as to whether wearing the smaller size was by design, or if she just hadn’t cared what she grabbed out of the drawer. Her faded jeans looked as if they’d been around awhile, and again, the snug fit made it difficult not to be one of those creepy guys he wouldn’t wish on anyone.
Maybe she wore the tight clothes to bolster her tips. Although in a place like this no one was leaving anything extravagant. She was good with the customers, he’d give her that. She knew a lot of them by name, which was unusual in this town. It was also odd that the bar didn’t have video poker and slot machines. Every place in Vegas had machines. Gas stations, supermarkets, diners. He’d figured a bar without the ability to lose a paycheck would be mostly empty, but the evidence proved him wrong.
He worked on his beer, less worried about staring at Cassie now that the place was so packed. Clearly she was well liked. People stopped to say hi or to ask her a question or tell a joke. She rolled her eyes at a bawdy riddle, then grinned and kept working, her hands plunged in sudsy water, while waiting for pitchers to fill with beer.
When a young woman in pink scrubs asked for pretzels, Cassie put her to work loading bowls for every table. Cassie herself stayed on task, juggling mixed-drink orders, keeping the draft flowing and carefully checking glasses she’d just washed.
She wasn’t only attentive, she moved fast and was quick-witted. Maybe she owned the bar.
“Hey, Cassie.”
Her head came up, her gaze going to someone in the corner. “Hey, what?”
“Where’s the cheapest gas today?”
“The Pilot on Craig.”
“Thanks.” The man chuckled. “You owe me five bucks,” he said to his companion, who started to argue about the accuracy of the information.
Several others booed him. An older man in a wheelchair with two mixed drinks in front of him swore Cassie was never wrong.
John hadn’t given the guy more than a passing glance but now he noticed his ball cap. It read Retired Air Force. He’d finished his career a sergeant was John’s guess. A permanent frown was etched on the old-timer’s grizzled face, reminding John of Master Sergeant Henry Ludlow. The man had already put in his twenty by the time they’d met. John had been a young lieutenant, still green and way too cocky. It was Ludlow who’d whipped him into shape. The man had never disrespected John’s rank but he sure hadn’t taken his crap, either. Thinking back, he smiled.
“You okay over there?” Cassie’s voice brought him around.
He checked his beer, surprised that he’d already downed half of it. “I’m good for now.”
She nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she turned her attention to the slip the waitress set in front of her.
He’d chosen the ideal stool at the end of the bar. Although if he moved over one she’d be in his line of sight at all times. At the moment he couldn’t see her lower half. Just as well. He wasn’t trolling. And even if he was, she wasn’t giving him an interested vibe.
She did intrigue him, though. He wasn’t accustomed to a woman trying to get rid of him, and now he was curious about the whole Q&A thing she had going on. Was she that knowledgeable? Or was it just a parlor trick? They sure hung on to her answers.
Using the back of her wrist to brush a curl off her flushed cheek, she looked up, her narrowed gaze panning the room. “All right, who ordered the piña colada?”
John glanced over his shoulder.
A hand slowly raised. With a wince, the last woman to come in said, “It’s me, Cassie. But if it’s too much trouble, that’s okay.”
“Oh, that’s right. You just got back from Hawaii.” Cassie thought for a moment, her lips pursed.
John stared too long at her lush mouth and had a reaction he wasn’t prepared for. He shifted positions on the wooden bar stool. What the hell was wrong with him?
Cassie bent over and pulled out cans of tomato and cranberry juice. “Sorry, Beth. I don’t have all the ingredients.”
“Never mind. Really. Make it my usual.”
Cassie straightened. “I’ll pick up the right mixes and you can have one the next time you come in.”
“Please, don’t worry about it. You have enough on your plate this month.”
Cassie just smiled and went back to pouring drinks. He’d bet the next time the woman ordered a piña colada she’d get it. As if it mattered what he’d bet. He didn’t know the bartender from the woman who delivered his laundry.
The door opened again, letting in heat, and two men wearing jeans and blue uniform shirts. Grease smeared their faces and arms. More of the dart-playing mechanics, evidently. This was the damnedest assortment of people. The only thing the different groups seemed to have in common was Cassie and not gambling.
She shook her head at the newcomers. “Really, guys? You couldn’t have washed up first?” She jerked a thumb toward the back. “Go use some soap.”
They grumbled, insisted they had tried to clean up, but did as she ordered.
John smiled, and for a second he caught her eye. She blinked, then looked down at the pitcher she was filling, and he polished off his beer.
“You want another?” she asked a minute later, grabbing a towel and drying her hands on her way over to him. “Or are you ready to settle up?”
“You really are trying to get rid of me.”
She raised her eyebrows. Her lips parted, closed, then she said, “I wouldn’t put it like that.”
&nb
sp; “Okay.” He leaned back, studying her face. She was good. She didn’t give anything away. “Go ahead...in your own words.”
Her abrupt laugh caught him off guard. “I was trying to be considerate. This place can get rough as the evening goes on.”
“So you don’t think I can take care of myself?”
She ran a gaze over his shoulders, did a thorough job of checking out his chest and then lingered on his belly. Maybe even a little lower. “You’d do all right.”
“Cassie,” someone yelled. “These pretzels are stale.”
“Well, Steve, you should’ve come yesterday when they weren’t.” She ignored the opportunity to break away and, in fact, didn’t even look at the guy complaining. Or at the others who laughed. Instead she’d moved back up to John’s face and stared as if she were trying to figure him out.
He slid the empty mug toward her. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d let things get out of control.”
“You’ve been here, what? All of thirty...forty minutes, and you know this about me?”
“I’m a good judge of character.”
“So am I.” With a faint enigmatic smile, she picked up the mug and started toward her station.
“You can use the same one,” he said, noticing a slight sway to her hips.
“Oh, I planned on it.” She didn’t look back, just flung the words out into the universe knowing they’d hit their mark.
He chuckled, but his amusement fled when the two guys she’d sent to wash up returned and took stools at the bar. Damn it. He didn’t want to share her. Not that he had a say. Already the waitress was back with more orders to fill. Cassie automatically popped open bottles of Corona and set them in front of the mechanics while she waited for the foam to settle on John’s draft.
At this rate, it would be a long night. But after talking to her for those few moments, he was willing to wait around. He’d have to cool it on the drinking, but that was no problem. He knew when to quit, and sitting here beat the restlessness that had him driving too fast on the long empty desert stretches before he’d found this place.
Hearing the door open again, he gritted his teeth. She’d never have a break if this kept up. Curious who’d wandered in this time, he turned around. Another man in a wheelchair rolled in and headed toward the retired air force vet’s table. The back of his chair was covered with navy decals surrounding a large American flag sticker. Following behind him was a trio who might have been cut from the same cloth, except two were lucky enough to still be upright, handicap-free, at least physically, and the third managed his severe limp with the help of a worn cane.
John assumed they were either military retirees or men who’d served their country until a bullet or spray of shrapnel changed their dreams and lives forever. These men were in their early to mid-forties with half their lives ahead of them.
His friend Danny had only been thirty when he’d died, leaving a young wife behind. They’d had no children, which was supposed to have been a “blessing.” John had heard that piece of nonsense more than once at the funeral. He didn’t get that. Sure, it was easier on his widow not having to explain why their father was never coming home. But kids would’ve meant there was still something left of Danny.
Who was John to judge? He had nothing but his career. A damn good one. He was a lucky guy. No denying it. So what the hell was his problem?
The ache in his gut was back gnawing away at his temporary peace. He hadn’t even made it an hour without feeling the walls close in. When he swung back around he saw his refill sitting on the napkin in front of him. Cassie had brought his beer and he hadn’t even noticed.
Watching her fill glasses with ice, he reached in his pocket and pulled out two twenties. He took a long pull of the cold brew and set the mug down on the bills. She could’ve been someone interesting to get to know. But she was right. This wasn’t his kind of place. Certainly not his kind of people.
He got up and left, knowing he wouldn’t find anywhere else more comfortable.
3
CASSIE SNAPPED HER GAZE BACK for a second look. He’d been sitting there a moment ago. His mug was almost full. Even though she didn’t think he was the type to mingle, she scanned the room.
It was crowded, but no John among the other customers.
She saw that his stool had been pushed close to the bar. That was something she and Lisa did after everyone left for the night. When people went to the bathroom or stepped away, they left their stool right where it was, even if it had landed in the middle of the room.
“Lisa, did you see the flyboy leave?”
“No, but I wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t skip out on his tab, did he?”
Cassie leaned over the bar as far as she could to see in the back. Nothing. “What?”
“Look.” Lisa pointed. “There’s money under his mug.”
Disappointment welled in her chest. She shouldn’t care that he’d gone. She should be glad. Yes, he was hot and had a nice laugh, great eyes. But he stared too much and made her self-conscious. Still, couldn’t he have finished his beer and waited for his bill? Maybe said goodbye? They’d talked a little.
She grabbed a damp rag on her way to collect the cash and wipe the bar. “Whoa,” she muttered when she saw what he’d left. The tab was only seven bucks even counting the scotch. He’d left forty. She grabbed the bills and hurried out the front door.
In the crowded parking lot, she recognized half the cars, but mostly she was looking for taillights. Was she being too optimistic? She could’ve sworn he’d still been inside a few minutes ago.
Some customers parked on the street when only narrow stalls were left in the lot. Of course he’d come in early but she walked to the road anyway. She spotted him then, pulling away from the curb. Well, she didn’t see him precisely, but that silver Corvette? Had to be John.
Knowing it was useless because he was too far away, she lifted a hand just in case. Because the tip was too big, and she had to at least try....
Of course, he drove off. Not that it mattered. As she hurried back to the bar she gave herself a good mental shake. Why did she give a damn that he’d given her a huge tip? Or that she’d never see him again. First of all, she didn’t date, and if she did, she didn’t date customers. Second, he was so far out of her league he might as well be headed for Mars.
Stopping at the door, she readjusted her ponytail, then walked back inside as she stuffed the twenties into her pocket.
Lisa stood behind the bar filling her own order. “What was that about?”
Cassie moved in to take over. “The pilot forgot his change.”
“Did you catch him?”
“Nope. I was too late. Did Gordon ask for another one?” Cassie focused on filling the next order, wishing Lisa would go deliver her drinks.
“No, he’s fine.” She went around to the other side of the bar. “How much too much?”
“Thirty-three bucks.”
Lisa let out a low whistle. “Good job. I saw you chatting him up.”
She snorted. “I took him a beer. That’s it.”
“You were talking earlier....”
“If you say so. I don’t remember.” Cassie felt the heat in her cheeks and crouched to get a bowl of maraschino cherries out of the fridge. She took her time, but when she straightened, Lisa was still there.
“So...he’s military, right?”
“I don’t know,” Cassie said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Would you please get these drinks out of here?”
Lisa picked up her tray. Grinning, she gave Cassie a long, amused look. “I hope he comes back.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“A dollar says he does.”
“You’re on.” Cassie kept her head down until she knew Lisa was gone.
Her friend had the wrong idea. Cassie was relieved he’d taken off. Now she didn’t have to worry about Tommy noticing him and making a crack about officers. In an hour the after-work crowd would thin and may
be she’d have a few minutes to study. If John had stayed, her work would’ve remained buried under the stack of clean rags.
Besides, she knew better than to fall for unattainable men. That way lay madness. She had a degree to finish. Here at the Gold Strike her world was safe and predictable. Being a bartender gave her what passed for a social life and put money in her pocket. It was all good.
* * *
YAWNING, JOHN FLIPPED the switch on the coffeemaker. It was programmed to start brewing at five-thirty. That usually worked fine...when he didn’t sleep until noon. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. But then he hadn’t gone to bed until nearly 4:00 a.m.
He got out a mug, then left it on the counter and forced himself out of the kitchen. Staring at the drips would only make him crazy while he waited for the first cup to brew. The notebook sat on the glass coffee table where he’d left it, open to the columns of pros and cons he’d started around midnight.
Hell, his grocery list had been longer. He rubbed his bare chest, then scraped the back of his knuckles along his stubbled chin and jaw. Maybe he wouldn’t shave for ten days. Be a bum, see what it felt like not to have to shine his boots, or to leave the condo. He had a pile of books he’d been meaning to read, a couple issues of AirForces Monthly to catch up on and if he wanted to just veg out, there were enough sports channels to keep him sprawled on the couch until it was time to make another turkey sandwich.
Sounded okay in theory. But last night had felt like being stuck forever in a cockpit waiting for a runway. Watching baseball on TV wasn’t his thing. Going to a game was okay. If his mood hadn’t gone sideways after seeing those vets, he would’ve stayed at the Gold Strike, eaten stale pretzels and watched the cute bartender.
With her wild chestnut hair and quick wit, he’d thought about her an awful lot. She didn’t fit his image of a woman who’d work in a dive bar. Not when she could be doing so much better bartending on the Strip. The tourists would like her trivia gimmick and her attitude. But she seemed awfully comfortable in the Gold Strike. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed right that she owned the place. She acted like she was at home there. He understood that. The air force had always been home for him, which made this...whatever the hell it was, all the more frustrating.
