“You know, same old, same old,” I say to Noah, shrugging my shoulders, thinking that the story of what happened to Big George in the diner the night before had probably already done the rounds.
I wait for Noah to try to get more information, to find out something that he may be able to use later on. He’s not a bad guy; he’s just trying to make his way in the world like everyone else. He’s trading on the commodities that he can—no more, no less than that.
“How’s Big George?” Noah asks, looking at me from underneath his bushy eyebrows, confirming that he’s already heard the news from the local gossip-mongers.
“He’ll be fine,” I tell him calmly, not wanting to go into the nitty gritty of it.
You learn to be careful what you say and to be careful who you say it to. To be honest, I don’t even want to think about the events of the night before or how things could have got even more out of hand than they already had. The thought of those bikers and the way they actually seemed to enjoy hurting George and scaring me makes me feel physically sick.
It had been a while since I’d witnessed, or even been involved in, a run-in like that between the Angels and us normal people. I’d almost forgotten how easy it was for them to act like they were the law in this town.
It’s the sense of entitlement that always gets to me, like they truly believed that we should all just sit back and let them do whatever they want. It makes me so mad, but that’s how things are and they don’t show signs of changing anytime soon. My dad had always taught me that “might doesn’t make right,” but over the years the Angels had managed to disprove that theory pretty effectively.
Noah seems to read my thoughts and gives me a “chin up” kind of smile. “What’ll it be then, kid?” he asks, nodding helloes as a few regulars drift into the bar.
“I’ll have a beer Noah, thanks,” I tell him. Although Noah runs a reputable business, he’s never been overly concerned with enforcing the minimum legal drinking age. It was one of the few things in the lawlessness of Painted Rock that actually worked out for me.
“Sorry I’m late, what I miss?” Jake asks, breathing a little heavily like he’s been running as he pulls up a bar stool next to me.
“You’re always late,” I remind him, nodding my thanks to Noah as he passes me a cold one and Jake signals for another. “If you weren’t late it would be a miracle, and since we’re all out of miracles in this town, here we are,” I take my first swig and savor the cool liquid as it hits the back of my throat.
“But aren’t I worth waiting for?” Jake teases, his dark eyes mischievous, and I try not to read too much into his words.
“One day you’re going to turn up and I’ll have taken off already and it’ll serve you right, Jake Summers,” I tell him forcefully, but the smile on my face tells him I’m joking.
“You’d never leave me, would you Aimee?” he asks teasingly, and our eyes lock for a few seconds before what he’s said sinks in and the awkwardness of the moment is instantly palpable. That’s exactly what he’d been telling me to do—to leave him behind. “So, what’s new?” Jake asks hurriedly, taking a sip of his beer as he virtually falls over himself trying to change the direction of the conversation.
“What, you mean apart from the craziness of last night? I think that’s all the new news I have,” I tell him, taking another lazy swig of my drink, but I stop when I see the expression on Jake’s face.
“What happened last night?” Jake asks warily, putting down the bottle he’d been holding and fixing me with a stare that makes me squirm in my seat.
“Sorry, I figured you’d already heard. Everyone else in this town already seems to,” I mumble, waving vaguely at the other customers in the bar.
Jake doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me as if to signal me to go on, so I give him the summarized version of the night’s events. I have to take a few deep breaths before I describe how they stabbed George through his left hand and I see it all play out again in front of me. Jake remains silent throughout, listening intently.
“Holy shit,” he breathes once I’ve finished telling the story, save for the last discussion with George.
“You can say that again,” I tell him, taking another long drink of my beer and surprising myself when I find that it’s already empty. I’m not a big drinker, but tonight I feel like I need it; the numbing effect of the alcohol is comforting, like there are too many emotions whirling around my body for me to make sense of.
“Holy shit,” Jake repeats, still stunned by what I’ve told him. “Are you alright?” he asks, concern in his eyes as he looks over me. He holds onto my shoulders, looking me up and down as if I might have visible wounds that I hadn’t bothered to mention.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, trying to ignore how my stomach flips when Jake touches me. “Except for losing all faith in the cops in this town and figuring that common decency has officially left the building, I’m fine.”
“Aimee,” Jake says, fixing me with his serious look. “You need to be more careful. You can’t go around telling people exactly what you think of them and not expect to get a reaction. You were lucky they didn’t hurt you,” he says, his husky voice sounding a little strained.
“They stabbed Big George in the hand,” I point out to him slowly. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and not do anything?”
“No, but sometimes you have to pick your battles,” Jake tells me, his eyes expressing heated anger.
“Well excuse me for having a bad reaction to some guy who can probably barely spell his own name stabbing my friend,” I say louder than necessary, and immediately regret it when I see Noah making a concerted effort to look like he’s not listening in on our conversation. I take a deep breath, dropping my voice so it’s back to a normal volume. “I thought tonight was meant to be about us not fighting anymore,” I remind him pointedly, signaling Noah for another two beers.
“You’re right, you’re right,” Jake tells me, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “This is an argument-free zone.” He gestures at the space between us and the sweet expression on his face inevitably makes my heart hurt.
“Great,” I say, and nod at him in agreement.
“Great,” he repeats, catching my eye and holding my gaze for a fraction of a second longer than is comfortable until I look away, concentrating hard on the design of the label of my beer bottle. “Uh-oh,” Jake says after a few seconds. “Looks like someone’s got an admirer.” He nods indiscreetly in the direction of a guy at the end of the bar. He’s not bad looking, but hooking up with someone couldn’t be any further from my mind at the moment.
“Right. He’s not looking at me, Summers. He’s more likely to be looking at you,” I joke, nudging him gently in the ribs.
“Why do you do that?” Jake asks, turning round to face me again.
“Do what?” I ask, absently peeling off the label of the beer I’m drinking. I remember someone telling me that was a symptom of sexual frustration, so I stop playing with my drink.
“Ignore when someone is paying you a compliment, act like it's impossible that any guy could be interested in you,” he says.
“It was just a joke Jake,” I tell him, feeling uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. “It’s nothing to get worked up about.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just it drives me crazy that you can’t see how amazing you are,” he says quickly, and then falls silent. “Aimee,” he continues, putting his big, calloused hand over mine on the bar. “Any guy would give his right arm to be with you,” he assures me, and I can feel myself falling into the dark pools of his eyes.
I don’t say that he, of course, means any guy apart from him. Instead I opt for diffusing the situation and putting us firmly back in best friend territory in my brain. Things are much safer that way—safer and much less confusing. “What if he’s left-handed?” I ask jokingly, and I see Jake’s lips quirk up in a smile that he can’t help but let spread across his face.
“Then I
guess he’d give his left arm too,” Jake replies, letting out a low laugh.
Our eyes meet again and I recognize that sensation of being pulled towards him, like being close to him is the only place where things make any sense—the only place that I want to be.
I look down at what I’m wearing and suddenly feel very conscious of how short my denim shorts are, and just how much leg they expose. My little camisole top isn’t anything special but right now it feels indecent, like it’s showing a little too much cleavage. This is what being close to Jake has started to do to me—I feel like I have sex on the brain whenever I’m around him. I wonder absently if this must be what it’s like to be a guy.
“For you,” Noah says, interrupting my train of thought and making me blush on impulse. He pushes another beer towards me, winking and smiling like he knows something that I don’t. “From your friend at the end of the bar.” He nods towards the guy that was supposedly checking me out.
“Oh,” I say, surprised and, if I’m being honest, a little flattered. Strange men don’t buy me drinks in bars; it’s really not as if this is something that happens all the time. “Thanks,” I say, holding up the beer to the guy in a salute, giving him a smile.
“Smooth,” Jake says, his voice a little harsher than I’ve been used to hearing it. “The guy’s got a pair of balls on him; how does he know that we’re not on a date? I could be your boyfriend for all he knows, and he’s sitting over there buying you drinks. It’s disrespectful,” he says, shaking his head in disgust, frowning.
I’m surprised at his reaction. “Well you’ve changed your tune,” I comment, giving him a playful nudge that doesn’t seem to go any way toward wiping the moody look off of his face. “I thought you were all about me taking compliments?” I ask.
“I am,” Jake admits grudgingly, looking like he doesn’t really know what it is that he’s trying to say. “It’s just the guy should be careful who he’s flirting with when he doesn’t know the whole story,” he explains lamely, not really making much sense.
“Okay…” I say slowly, still not understanding what it is that’s got Jake so worked up.
“I need to take a piss,” he says abruptly, slipping off in the direction of the restrooms without a backward glance and I’m left feeling like I’ve done something wrong without having any idea of what that might be.
CHAPTER TEN
I sit staring at the beer in my hand for a little while, wondering what had happen to change Jake’s whole demeanor so quickly and seemingly without any reason.
“Did I get the drink wrong?” The voice comes from next to me and I start a little.
It’s the guy from the end of the bar, and close up, he’s actually better looking than I had given him credit for. Brown hair and dark hazel eyes, along with a charming smile, are a pretty winning combination.
“Should I maybe have gone for something a little more exciting? Maybe one of those cocktails with the teeny-tiny umbrellas in them?” he jokes.
“Oh, no,” I smile, shaking my head, trying to recall all of Suzie’s advice about flirting and failing miserably. “Beer’s good,” is all I can think to say, and I wonder if I sound like as much of a Neanderthal as I think I do.
“Sorry, I don’t want to bother you, but I just could help noticing you,” he says, smiling shyly, and I feel my own mouth smiling in reply. I don’t really know how to respond. “I’m Nic,” he tells me, sticking his hand out to shake.
Automatically, I respond with a firm shake that my dad had taught me was an important first impression. If you have a limp handshake then people will think you’re a walk-over, but too firm and it seems like you’re trying to prove a point. A firm shake which doesn’t involve trying to crush the other person’s fingers is a happy medium and I’m pleased to find that Nic’s shake passes the Winters’ test.
“I’m Aimee,” I reply, and raise the beer bottle again. “Thanks for the drink,” I tell him, not sure what flirting etiquette tells me should happen next.
“So, do you come here a lot?” he asks, the cringing expression on his face as soon as the words are out of his mouth telling me that he’s fully aware of how clichéd that sounds.
“Well, there aren’t a whole heap of other places to choose from,” I joke, and we both chuckle nervously.
“So was that guy your boyfriend?” he asks, segueing straight into the reason that he’s come over here in the first place.
“If you thought that he was, then why did you start flirting with me?” I ask, surprised at my own confidence.
“I didn’t. You guys just looked like friends, but then he seemed to get a little annoyed when I sent over the drink so I wanted to check that I hadn’t read the signals wrong.” He shrugs and I’m impressed at his honesty.
“No, your signals aren’t off,” I admit to him. “We’re just friends.” I feel that familiar ache of disappointment as I say the words and wish that they weren’t as true as I know they are.
“Well don’t you two look cozy.” Jake’s says from behind me, and both Nic and I look over at him. “Well Aimee, aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?” he asks, an edge to his voice that I don’t like the sound of.
“Jake, this is Nic. Nic, this is my friend Jake.” I make the introductions and try to pretend that I haven’t noticed the hostility that’s radiating off of Jake.
Both men shake hands and I can see from the way that they’re sizing each other up that this is turning into a dick measuring contest and I couldn’t be any less interested. “So, Nic, what’s your deal?” Jake asks, crossing his arms and, if I’m not imagining it, puffing out his chest a little.
“My deal?” Nic repeats, looking between Jake and me as if he’s trying to figure out what it is that he’s missed. I can’t help him as I feel about as in the dark as he clearly does.
“Yeah, what are you doing here? You trying to pick my friend here up?” Jake asks combatively, the hostility no longer something that I’m just imagining.
“Jake,” I say to him. He’s really out of line.
“Look man, I didn’t want to interrupt anything,” Nic says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I didn’t realize you guys were together,” he adds, looking between Jake and me.
“We’re not,” I say quickly, and I ignore the look that Jake gives me. “We’re not together, we’re just friends,” I repeat. “But it looks like my friend woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning, so I’m sorry, Nic,” I tell him. I feel Jake quietly fuming next to me.
“No worries,” Nic says uncertainly. “I’ll leave you two alone. No offense intended, man,” he says to Jake, who responds with a curt nod as Nic returns to his position at the end of the bar, signaling for Noah to bring him the check.
“Well that was rude,” I tell Jake, not pulling any punches and rounding on him as soon as Nic is out of earshot.
“Exactly.” Jake shakes his head. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. We were just here having a few quiet drinks and he had to interrupt with his whole ‘Hey baby, can I buy you a drink?’ crap,” he says, as if Nic had personally offended him.
“I wasn’t talking about him, dipshit,” I hiss at Jake, “I was talking about you. You were the one being rude”
“I was just here, minding my own business, having a drink with my friend.” The way he says the word makes it sound like he’s questioning the term. “And he’s trying to make a move on you!”
“Right, and can you tell me why that’s made you start acting like a crazy person?” I ask incredulously, amazed that Jake seems to think that his behavior is completely justified.
“Like a crazy person. Huh, right.” Jake shakes his head like I’m the one making no sense and takes a swig of his beer as he sits down on the seat that Nic has vacated. “I’m just looking out for you, that’s all. Trying to keep you away from would-be Casanovas like ‘Nic’,” he says, making air quotes with his fingers around the name.
“Well thanks, Protector,” I say sarcastically,
“But I think I can defend myself from charming men who want to buy me drinks.” I laugh, but Jake doesn’t.
“You thought he was charming?” he asks, sounding somehow hurt. I can tell that he’s looking at me now, watching for my reaction, and I don’t know why my answer suddenly seems to be weighted with so much importance.
Rather than looking back at Jake, I take a moment and look around the bar, trying to avoid the question. When my eyes rest on the front door, I catch some movement there and have to do a double-take to make sure that what I’m seeing is real. “Oh no,” I say, letting out a low whisper as I catch sight of a group of people walking into the bar.
“Aimee?” Jake asks, instantly forgetting about the awkward conversation.
He lays his hand over mine, holding onto it tight as soon as he sees that the color has completely leached out of my face.
Seasons of Change (Bleeding Angels MC Book 1) Page 6
