Vice

by L. M. Pruitt

  “Uh-huh.” I don’t know why I was surprised by the fate of either of her friends but I was. Although maybe not surprised so much as resigned. People like me and Joel, people who got out of the trailer park and stayed out, were few and far between. Most of the kids who grew up with me moved from their parents’ trailer to their own, taking jobs at the plant an hour away or doing custodial work or anything which would pay the bills and keep the lights on for another month. “Are you sure you want to stay home? I don’t have a problem getting a babysitter.”

  “It’s okay.” She shrugged again, all her attention on whatever she was sewing. Loretta had been like that—the entire world went away when she was at her sewing machine. “I want to finish this tonight anyway so I can wear it to church tomorrow.”

  “Church?”

  Now she did glance at me, her frown the definition of pious. “Yes, Aunt Jeannie. Church. Dolly and Conway and I go every week.”

  “Do I need to drop you off or something?” Because there was no way I was attending service with them. “Do you walk? Is there some sort of shuttle service?”

  “Sandy’s parents pick us up and bring us back.” She lifted her chin and sniffed. “Or you could come with us.”

  “Tammy, I’m more than happy to do any number of things for you kids but subjecting myself to organized religion isn’t one of them.” I stood, stretching my arms overhead and sighing. “I’m going to guess the only place open on a Saturday night is the place you were talking about—the Watering Hole?”

  “Yes.” If she stuck her nose any higher in the air, she’d drown with the first hard rain. “It’s the only bar in Cotton Creek.”

  “That’s depressing.” I sighed again and shrugged. “Still, one bar is better than no bar.” I detoured across the room to where she was sitting, leaning over and kissing the top of her head. “I should be back before morning but if I’m not don’t panic. I’m not leaving.”

  She wrinkled her nose, her confusion evident. “What could you possibly do at a bar all night?”

  I stared at her for a moment before shaking my head. “Oh, honey. I’ll explain when you’re older.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Watering Hole was on the far side of town, away from the more respectable businesses and residences. If memory served, the land had originally belonged to the Hansoms and as I pulled in the parking lot I wondered idly what would have caused Marcus Hansom to sell any part of his property. Off the top of my head, the only thing I could think of was bribery or blackmail because the Hansoms had been richer than everybody except God and even that was up for debate.

  I flipped the visor down, checking my makeup one last time in the mirror. Even knowing the chances of finding anyone worth my time fell somewhere in the slim to none range, there’d been no way I was going out without making some sort of effort. So I’d taken a shower and washed and dried my hair and put on the sort of makeup I’d wear if I was on a work assignment. Same for my clothes—it would be hard to offend someone wearing chucks, jeans, a tank top and a flannel shirt. I probably would, because that was my luck, but at least I’d made an effort.

  Flipping the visor back in to position, I slipped my phone, ID, credit card, and a couple of twenties in my back pocket before opening the door and sliding out. I studied the exterior of the building as I walked to the entrance. Unlike the other buildings in town, which looked dingy and worn out because they weren’t taken care of, the distress I saw on the wooden shingles and shutters seemed more affected—the type of thing you’d see on a hipster bar in a major city. It was a tiny detail, something I doubted any of the other patrons even noticed, but it had me pausing and readjusting my expectations on what the interior looked like. Squaring my shoulders, I grabbed the oversized handle on the perfectly distressed door and yanked it open, not quite stumbling inside but close.

  Thankfully, nobody paid the slightest bit of attention to my less than graceful entrance.

  As far as bars went, it adhered to the basic setup—booths lining one wall, a bar with high-backed seats lining the other, and tables occupying the space in between. The back corner held a stage, currently unoccupied, although I imagined any band which took up residence there would lean toward country of some variety. The dance floor was small but adequate, a handful of couples dancing to the jukebox blaring through what sounded like a first rate sound system.

  But the wood appeared to be actual wood and not laminate. There were no visible cracks in the leather seats. The light fixtures were brushed metal, probably nickel, and repurposed Mason jars. Every surface gleamed as if a tiny army of elves had spent hours polishing.

  If I’d been working, I would have been over the moon about the place. What I was, instead, was suspicious. Maybe a little curious. But mostly suspicious. Nobody in Cotton Creek would pour this much time and attention and money in to a bar. Not in this so-called good, Christian community.

  I settled myself on the stool at the far end of the bar, taking the opportunity to study the shelves of liquor lining the wall. It was better than I’d anticipated. It wasn’t the best I’d ever seen but considering where I was, I’d resigned myself to the sort of alcohol which barely cost twenty bucks for a case. I was still deciding between Patron and Don Julio when a man I could only assume was the bartender stepped out of the back room.

  He was definitely, definitely better than I’d anticipated.

  I wasn’t ashamed to say I tended to think of men—especially men in bars—as disposable. One was usually as good as the other and none of them were worth more than a night of my time. In my experience, they were all the same: a cheesy pickup line or two, a few hours of drinking, and then a few minutes of formulaic sex which may or may not result in an orgasm.

  This man, though... I had the feeling sex with him would be anything but routine and cookie-cutter and underwhelming.

  Tattoos twined over both his forearms, disappearing under sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The black button down managed to hug every muscle in his torso without revealing anything and the dark denim did the same to his legs and, when he turned around to serve a grizzled old man at the other end of the bar, an ass which was just shy of mouth-watering. His beard, too long to be called scruff but too short to brand him a hipster, was a few shades lighter than his hair, buzzed on the sides and longer on top, brushed back from a face which, even with the piercing over his left brow, still edged more toward pretty than tough.

  The face was familiar, annoyingly so, but I’d worry about getting a name to go with it later. Right now, I was content to imagine it between my thighs.

  He turned toward me, still half laughing at something the old man said. He froze, hesitating for a split second before walking over to me, bracing both hands against the bar and giving me the sort of lazy, practiced smile which probably had every straight woman between the ages of eighteen and eighty fanning themselves. “Hey, there.”

  “Hey yourself.” Like the face, there was something about the voice which tugged at some distant memory but there was no way anybody I’d gone to high school with had grown up to look like this man. I nodded at the bottles behind him. “If you were drinking, which would you choose? Patron or Don Julio?”

  “Tequila, hmm?” The smile widened, edging toward genuine. “My kind of woman.” He glanced over his shoulder, studying the bottles, clearly giving my question some thought and not just spouting off whichever was more expensive. Shifting his attention back to me, he said, “I suppose it depends.”

  I lifted a brow, more than willing to play the game. “On?”

  “Are you looking to unwind or are you trying to get fucked?”

  I smiled. “Are you offering?”

  “Maybe.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket, sliding one free before holding the crumpled box out to me. When I shook my head, he shrugged, setting the pack on the bar next to me and pulling out a lighter, dropping it next to the cigarettes after lighting up. He sucked in a quick breath and then exhaled, the cloud
of smoke carrying a faint whiff of menthol. “But I was referring to alcohol.”

  “I know.” I leaned back in my seat, swiveling from side to side, my curiosity increasing by the second. “And I don’t know. It’s been a rough few weeks.”

  “Has it?” He took a step back, grabbing the bottle of Don Julio off the shelf without looking, something which I couldn’t help but find impressive. He upended two shot glasses, pouring a double in each before setting the bottle down next to the cigarettes. Pulling over a stool, he picked up one of the glasses and nodded at the other. “As the sole bartender in town, I’m required to lend my ear when somebody needs it.”

  “Are you?” I hadn’t done this in... I couldn’t remember the last time I’d flirted with someone. Usually—almost always—it was a few drinks, a few lines, and then a quick tumble in bed, gone before they woke in the morning. Even with Riley, which had gone on far longer than I’d wanted or was wise, there hadn’t been flirtation. It was... interesting. “I’ll be honest, I’m surprised there’s even one bartender in a place like Cotton Creek.”

  “Until about four or five years ago, there wasn’t.” He shrugged and took another long drag from his cigarette. “Not that folks around here don’t drink. They just prefer to do so in the solitude of their home, where they think people won’t know and won’t judge them.”

  “Everybody in Cotton Creek knows everything about everybody.” I took the cigarette from him, indulging in a quick puff before handing it back. I’d never been a smoker, not really, but every now and then I had a craving for a hit of nicotine. “Although the only thing people care about are the vices, not the virtues.”

  “Truer words.” He lifted his brows and nodded at my glass again. “Bottoms up, Blondie.”

  “Blondie, hmm?” I snorted and shook my head but picked up the shot glass nonetheless. “That was the best you could think of?”

  “Well, I could have gone with Tits McGee.” His smile this time was whiplash quick and I felt it like a blow to the stomach. Or someplace lower. “But underneath the rough exterior I’m a gentlemen and I’d never refer to a lady in such a way.”

  “Nice save.” I tapped my glass against his and we both knocked the tequila back in a single belt. The burn lasted for only a few seconds before being replaced with a soft warmth which seemed to seep in to my bones. Setting the glass down, I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Don’t look now, but we’ve got an audience.”

  “Do we?” He poured another round of shots, surprising me by actually not looking. “I’m guessing it’s because you’re new around here.” He picked up his glass and I followed suit, the second belt going down easier than the first. “And I don’t drink with customers.”

  “I’m not new.” I’d recognized every face in the room, some more than others but still. “And why don’t you drink with customers?”

  “Because, despite the fact they’ve schlepped out here and like to think they’re slumming, they’re just boring little people leading boring little lives just like their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents and so on as far back as they can remember.” He poured a third round and even though I knew it was a mistake to do so many shots back to back I didn’t hesitate to pick up my glass when he picked up his. He tapped his glass against mine, catching my gaze with his, and I wondered if the warmth in the pit of my stomach was a result of the tequila or the obvious lust I saw in his eyes. “You, though... you’re not boring. You’re not ordinary.” His gaze dropped to my mouth, staying there until he flicked his tongue over his lips and lifted his gaze back to my eyes. “You won’t run if I tell you all the things I want to do to you.”

  My hand trembled when I took the almost burnt-out cigarette from him, my inhale longer this time, the smoke burning my lungs but not quite clearing the fog of lust from my brain. If I was being honest with myself—which I didn’t care to be most of the time—I doubted anything was going to accomplish that specific task. Stubbing the cigarette out in a nearby ash tray, I said, “Maybe I will.”

  “No, you won’t.” He poured another set of shots but didn’t pick up his glass. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder at something on the far wall and when he turned back to me, the heat in his gaze scorched me almost as much as the alcohol. “We close in about two hours.”

  “Midnight?” I frowned, confused for a moment before understanding dawned. “I forgot. Cotton Creek is vice-free on Sunday.”

  “Unless you’re in the privacy of your own home.” He leaned toward me and for a split second I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, he shifted to the side, pressing his lips to my ear. “You can be as prurient as you want behind closed doors.”

  I turned slightly, our cheeks brushing, his beard whisper soft instead of rough and scratchy. I could smell the tequila and cigarettes on his breath along with something sweeter, the trio of scents mixing with the underlying woodsiness of his cologne. Our gazes locked again and my breath caught in my lungs, my pulse slowing to a crawl.

  It was stupid, I knew, to hook up with anybody in Cotton Creek. I knew how gossip spread, what a few whispers could do not just to me but the kids.

  But I couldn’t remember the last time I’d wanted someone.

  Not sex—I wanted that on a fairly regular basis and I did my best to get it. But a person... no, I didn’t remember the last time I’d wanted a specific person.

  I swallowed in an effort to clear my throat but my voice was still raspy when I spoke. “Where do you live?”

  “Not far.” His voice was as low and hoarse as mine, something which did nothing to help my suddenly in high gear libido. “Upstairs, as a matter of fact.”

  “And you close in two hours?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Good.” He stood, taking the bottle and returning it to the shelf before turning back to me and picking up his glass again. “One last shot.”

  “Why is it the last?” I knocked it back, waiting until he took the glass from me and placed it in the three-compartment sink before speaking again. “Why is it the last?”

  “Because.” Once again, he leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “I want you to remember me fucking you.” He brushed his lips over my cheek and I couldn’t hold back a shiver. “Every second.”

  The next two hours were going to be hell.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Five minutes before the clock was due to strike midnight, the bartender—name still unknown—killed the jukebox and raised his voice. “Pay up and get out.”

  As far as methods of getting drunk people to leave a bar, it was simple and crude. It also worked so well I knew he’d used it in the past.

  I waited while he made his way down the bar, my card already out and ready. When he ignored it, turning instead to the digital point of sale system which looked better suited to a four-star restaurant than what amounted to a hole in the wall bar in a hole in the wall town, I frowned. “Do you not take cards?”

  “Yes, we do.” He didn’t glance up, continuing to clear out tabs with steady efficiency. “But not from you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.” Now he did look at me, his gaze scorching hot. “Consider it a courtship ritual.”

  “Oh.” It wasn’t the most sophisticated of responses but it seemed to be the only one my brain could come up with at the moment. “Well. Thank you.” I paused, chewing on my lower lip until I realized he’d stopped working and was staring at me. “You’re not going to get in trouble, are you?”

  “No.” Leaving it at that, he shifted his attention back to the tablet, his fingers flying over the screen. “And even if I was, I promise you it wouldn’t be the worst trouble I’ve ever been in.”

  “Oh.” I was certainly winning the award for conversationalist of the year tonight. “If you’re sure.”

  One corner of his mouth turned upward in a half smile, his fingers continuing to move with a precision which made me think of other ways he could put such talent to use. �
��I’m sure. Quiet now. The faster I get all this squared away, the faster we can get upstairs.” He shot me another thought-fizzling look for the briefest of seconds. “And I want to be upstairs with you sooner rather than later.”

  Since there wasn’t anything to say in response to that, I simply sat there and watched him work. Which was, to my immense surprise, more than a little arousing.

  It might have been the way he moved, the faint ripple of his muscles under his shirt a promise of the strength in his lithe, sinewy form. He reminded me of a dancer or an athlete, gliding around the now empty space as he put up chairs and swept the already spotless floor. When he threw the bolt on the front door, the sound echoing through the room, I jumped and then laughed at myself. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not often someone is so focused on my ass they lose track of everything else.” He walked over to me, his steps slow and measured, his arms hanging loose at his sides. His eyes, though... the look in them was anything but causal. “Most people don’t make it past the tattoos.”

  “Because a little ink is such a big deal?”

  “In this town, yes.” He helped me off the bar stool, turning me toward the narrow hallway leading to the bathrooms, his hand hot and firm where it pressed against the small of my back. “I told you, boring little people with boring little lives.”

  “Right.” I leaned against the wall, studying the tattoos in question as he pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, flipping through them before selecting one and sliding it in the lock. “You have to be one of the few people in the entire county who actually lock their door.”

  “I’ve had problems with drunk people—well, women—thinking if they could just manage to put themselves in my bed, I’d realize I wanted them as much as they wanted me.” He pushed the door open, reaching past me and flicking a switch, a soft light illuminating a steep, narrow staircase. “I got tired of kicking half-naked women out of my apartment so I started locking up after myself.”