Can't Let Go

by Gena Showalter

  Want to go swimming with me, praised one? The pool at the Strawberry Inn is ready to go. I promise to wear my swimsuit...most of the time.

  He never responded. No matter, though. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her absentee employee monitored the bar from afar...and his cameras clocked her every move.

  Bad, naughty boy. She decided to teach him a valuable lesson. You can run from your desire, but you can't hide from it.

  And he did desire her. For him to stay away this long...yeah, he had to be tempted by her, and fear he couldn't resist.

  A slow grin bloomed.

  Throughout the week, Ryanne did everything in her power to vamp it up for Mr. Peeping Tom. At first, she was a little shy about it. Like she'd told Jude, she'd never tried to seduce a man before. For goodness' sake, she was still a virgin! But honestly? Over the years, she'd seen other women go all out, so she knew what to do--and soon she grew to love the chase. Also, she discovered she had a talent for it. Maybe because she wanted Jude in a way she'd never wanted another man--desperately, madly.

  Day one was all about the hair flip. Slow, sensual and just like a shampoo commercial. Day two, she practiced her shimmy. Any time she had an opportunity to shake her butt, she shook her freaking butt. Day three, she focused on her cleavage. Or rather, she made certain Jude focused on her cleavage. She wore a low-cut top, her breasts pushed up until she was pretty sure she'd asphyxiate. Day four, she put her finger to her mouth at every opportunity. A lick here, a nibble there. Day five, she forgot to wear a bra. Oops!

  A text came in early that evening.

  Cowboy: Stop this!

  Ryanne replied: Make me.

  Cowboy: How can you be so at ease...so happy and carefree when your livelihood is at stake?

  I choose to focus on the good. Give it a try, cowboy. You might like it.

  Annnd once again he opted not to respond.

  For day six, she decided to up her game, and wore a short skirt but no panties. Walking to her office, when no one else stood in the hallway, she accidentally dropped a pen and bent down to pick it up.

  Her phone buzzed, but she didn't check the text until she sat behind her desk, no cameras nearby.

  Cowboy: I think you dropped something else.

  A laugh bubbled from her. Grumpy Jude Laurent had just teased her sexually!

  Soon after the exchange, Brock had stormed into her office and snapped, "Whatever you're doing to Jude, stop. He's miserable."

  Miserable...without me? A girl could hope. "Sorry, but the blame for his misery can't be heaped on my amazing shoulders. I'm not doing anything wrong." Well, maybe the light torturing wasn't right, but it was for his own good!

  "Exactly! You're not doing anything. So call him for phone sex. Text him nudes. I'm happy to be your photographer. Maybe wear nothing but a smile and a temporary tattoo--and definitely make sure I'm home when you do. Just get your ass in gear and do something. The past has a knife at Jude's throat, leaving him in a constant state of fight or flight. He either needs to be sliced, or released. Limbo sucks."

  In other words, he'd gotten stuck in survival mode.

  She wanted to help, but how?

  When Dorothea first crushed on Daniel, she'd had to overcome his PTSD before a relationship could work. He'd worried about falling for her and then losing her, about being unstable, unable to sleep without having violent nightmares, and disappointing his family if their relationship tanked. Jude had served as an army ranger, too, and clearly suffered from his own form of PTSD, but Ryanne suspected his deepest worries and fears began and ended with the family he'd lost.

  Realization slapped her upside the head: being with Jude, even for a little while, would require major time and energy--from Ryanne. Look how much she'd had to give already. Why pour so much of herself into a temporary fling?

  Because...just because! Jude wasn't just a pretty face or hot body, though he certainly had both. Actually, no. He didn't have a pretty face; he had an interesting face, and it was sexy beyond imagining. He was smart, witty despite his sadness and fierce about protecting the people under his care. He had a good heart. No, a great heart. He deserved to be happy, dang it.

  The rest of the day, he texted her on and off, but only ever to ask about Belle and the kittens. Brett had checked on the new family just this morning, and had given everyone a clean bill of health.

  As Belle recovered from the birth of her litter, she revealed different nuances of her personality. The little darling was more mischievous than Ryanne had realized.

  Eight a.m. was her favorite time to walk across Ryanne's face. Belle loved a certain brand of food, until Ryanne bought a new bag. Then she hated it. She wanted to play with the laptop, but only when Ryanne had to work. If she could knock something down, she knocked it down without hesitation. If the toppled items shattered, even better.

  When Belle--or Hells Bells, as Ryanne had affectionately nicknamed her--was back to her pre-pregnancy self, she would destroy everything in her path, guaranteed, the way Jude was destroying Ryanne's peace of mind.

  Days seven and eight, Jude opted to ignore her again, so she decided to disregard the cameras...and ended up agonizing about her cowboy. What if she'd miscalculated his desire for her? After all, he'd run away from her like a Victorian maiden afraid of ruining her rep. What if Brock had things wrong, and Jude was miserable because Ryanne had come on to him, and he didn't want to hurt her?

  Or did he fight his attraction to her because a drunk driver killed his family, and Ryanne just happened to schlepp drinks?

  I don't want to want you. You're a bar owner. The bane of the world.

  Yeah. That. Somehow, she had to prove she was more than her job.

  For Ryanne, no other man would do.

  She took her place behind the bar, helping Sutter serve drinks to the steady influx of customers. It was time to resume Jude's torture. This was day nine.

  Maybe she'd call him, strike up a sexy conversation filled with innuendos?

  Old Coot approached, saying, "'Nother CockaMoon, please."

  "How about a coffee?" The bar had been open only a few hours, but he'd already reached his limit.

  "Add whiskey to that coffee and you've got a deal."

  "A splash of whiskey." She checked the video on the baby monitor she kept with her at all times, allowing her to spy on Belle and her kittens. The little milk mongrels had finally opened their eyes. Soon they would be crawl-machines, causing nothing but trouble. And okay, okay, probably delight.

  "Deal. Hey, are you gonna sing?"

  "Not tonight, but maybe next week." Her emotions were too raw, her longing for Jude too great, and if anyone picked up on it--especially Jude himself--she would die of embarrassment.

  "Well, sheet. You don't ever sing no more, which is a cryin' shame 'cause you got the pipes of an angel."

  She poured herself a shot of whiskey, and quickly downed it. Rinse, repeat. The alcohol burned going down, but settled nicely in her stomach.

  A text came in, and she checked her phone.

  Cowboy: Stop drinking on the job.

  Defiant, Ryanne poured another shot, saluted the nearest camera and drank.

  "Miss Ryanne?" Coot asked, and swayed on his feet. "What about my whiskey?"

  Whoa. He'd had three CockaMoons, and he was wasted? Worse, she'd agreed to give him more alcohol.

  No way, no how.

  She could guess what happened. He'd brought two marine buddies tonight, and had snuck sips of their moonshines.

  She finished off the bottle of whiskey. "Sorry, Coot, but I just ran out."

  He pouted.

  His friends joined him, and they, too, were swaying. Both males were in their late sixties. One had a comb-over, while the other had a full head of silver hair. Deep-seated wrinkles spoke of time spent in the sun, an abundance of laughter and lives lived rather than sidelined.

  "Who's the designated?" she asked, filling a mug with coffee.

  The three shared a look, all
what's a designated driver?

  Lord save me. Two more coffees, coming up.

  "Come on, Twigs. There's another bar about fifteen miles away." Silver ignored the steaming mug she offered him. "Let's go."

  Twigs? There was no way she was letting any of these guys get behind the wheel of a car. "Hold up a sec, gentlemen." Ryanne leaned forward, her forearms pressed against the bar, allowing her biceps to smash her breasts together to create more noticeable cleavage. Though the men were not looking at her eyes, she batted her lashes. "Coot mentioned you served together in the military, and I'd love to hear the story behind the nickname Twigs."

  Comb-over laughed with a sudden burst of glee. "Woo wee, that a doozy."

  "My favorite kind of story," she said.

  Another laugh. "See, one night enemy fire pinned in the boys and me. When we ran out of bullets, Coot decided to use twigs to make a crossbow."

  Silver almost--almost!--cracked a smile.

  "This I've got to see. Will ink pens work?" Genuinely intrigued, Ryanne handed him two of the pens she kept beside the cash register. "Because you're not leaving until you've proven your claim, pollito." Little chicken.

  "All right." Coot nodded. "But I'm gonna need you to fetch me a rubber band, too. Unless you want me to cut the elastic out of my underwear?"

  With a snort, Comb-over pounded him on the back. "Go ahead. Give her the show of a lifetime."

  "And let Coot get more tips than me?" she said with a shake of her head. "No, thanks."

  Coot guffawed and even blushed, making her smile. She'd had little to smile about since Jude had bailed, which rankled! Her happiness would never depend on a man. She would not become her mother. But...she couldn't deny how badly she missed Jude.

  As she searched for the necessary rubber band as slowly as possible without rousing suspicion, the old guys drank their coffees and, thankfully, started to sober up. Steady again, Coot taught her how to make the crossbow, and danged if the weapon didn't actually work.

  He bit off the lid of one of the pens, creating a groove at the end.

  "Don't hurt yourself!" Ryanne exclaimed.

  "As if." He wrapped the rubber band around the other pen and pulled, anchored the other pen in place, then aimed at a postcard behind her. The missile soared overhead and embedded in wood. "See? Easy as pie."

  Wow! "You could do serious damage to someone's eye with one of those."

  The threesome beamed with pride.

  One of the bouncers Jude had handpicked--Bobby Beaudine, a guy she'd met in junior high--stalked across the dance floor, a scowl darkening his face. Her stomach twisted. Something was wrong. Again. Perhaps another visit from Blueberry Hill PD. A pack of officers had come by three times this week to check customer IDs. Among them each time? Her nemesis, Jim Rayburn.

  The night Lyndie had ended up in the hospital with broken ribs, admitting her husband had done the damage, Jim called her a bitch and a liar and accused her of paying someone to rough her up in order to make Chief Carrington look bad.

  Ryanne had been there, and refused to leave her friend's side. She'd asked Jim why in the world Lyndie would want to make her own husband look bad if he wasn't, in fact, bad, and his response had shocked her.

  "Chief Carrington explained the situation. Lyndie wants a new car, but he doesn't have the money to buy it for her, so she decided to punish him."

  Bastardo!

  He wasn't even the worst of Ryanne's problems. Yesterday, a masked man disabled the cameras in her parking lot and slashed over twenty tires; she wished she had hired a night watchman, as Jude had ordered. It was just, she'd hoped to save a little cash by relying on the security cameras to pick up any problems. Though Jude was alerted and had arrived a mere ten minutes later, the damage was already done, the slasher gone.

  The constant harassment had begun to affect her bottom line, fewer and fewer newcomers showing up. Her regulars remained constant, at least.

  "To thank you for teaching me a trade secret skill," she said to Coot, "I'm going to give you and your friends a plate of my world famous nachos. Anyone have any dietary restrictions?"

  "Dietary restrictions?" Comb-over rolled his eyes. "Do we look like sissies, young lady?"

  "No, sir. You surely don't." She winked and walked away without revealing a hint of her inner turmoil. A difficult feat.

  By the time she met Bobby at the end of the bar, tremors racked her. "What's wrong?"

  "Officer Rayburn is back. He's alone this time, wearing plain clothes, and he's hiding in back, but I have a feeling he's hoping someone, anyone, will cause trouble. Also, there's a homeless guy at the door. He wanted in, but I told him to wait in the alley with the others, that you'd pass out food when we close. He said he has the information you asked for. That--I quote--a flesh peddler with blond hair just snuck into the bar through the back alley entrance."

  Well, crap. The alley door had a brand-new coded lock, and only a handful of people knew the numerical sequence. Ryanne, Jude and the employees.

  The homeless man had to be Loner. "If the homeless man wants in, you let him in, any time, every time," she said, scanning the area for the "flesh peddler." The blonde from the van, she assumed. Why sneak in? Unless Blondie meant to drum up business...while Jim was here?

  If Jude was watching the camera feed as diligently as he watched Ryanne, he would have spotted anyone doing anything illegal and texted her the details.

  Maybe Loner was mistaken.

  "Are you sure?" Bobby asked. "There's no way the guy is going to spend money in here. He's filthy and he smells. Customers will be--"

  "Let him in," she interjected with a firm, intractable tone. "Respectfully, of course. And quickly."

  He looked at her as if she were a crazy person before dashing off to collect Loner, who he escorted to an empty bar stool.

  Sweet Loner kept his gaze down. He wore the same clothes he'd worn last week, only the garments were dirtier, speckled with bits of grime and...dried blood?

  Heart aching for him, she reached over and patted his hand. "Thank you for keeping me informed." Would he spend the night at the Strawberry Inn if she paid for the room? "I owe you."

  "You don't owe me nothing, Miss Ryanne," he replied softly, still not looking up.

  "I do, and I'm going to pay up. I'm giving the guys at the other end of the bar a plate of nachos, and you're getting one, too. No protests," she added when he shook his head. Later, she would mention the room at the inn.

  "You shouldn't, and I should go before I hurt your business." His voice remained soft, barely audible over the thundering blast of music now spilling from the stage. The band had just started its first set of the evening.

  "Stay. You're welcome here." Before Earl had met her mom or owned the bar, he'd been homeless. Briefly, but even twenty-four hours was too long. In his grief over his wife's death, he'd gotten involved in drugs, lost his job and his family, and ended up on the streets. The best man she'd ever known had once felt less than human--and he'd been treated that way, too. "You are always welcome here, Loner. I mean that."

  He nodded reluctantly, then asked, "You going to sing tonight?"

  "Not tonight."

  "Oh." His features fell with disappointment.

  "But one day soon," she added, "and I'll be sure to let you know beforehand, so you can make plans to be here."

  On her way to the kitchen, she jotted down a mental To Do list. Fetch the food, speak with Jim, find the flesh peddler.

  A few days ago, she'd bitten the bullet and hired a "snack specialist." And she used the word specialist lightly. In order to continue serving food to her patrons while she traveled, someone had to know how to prepare every item on her menu.

  Only two women had applied. Caroline Mills from Strawberry Valley, who once worked in the big city as a masseuse, and a pretty young girl from Blueberry Hill, who had been far more qualified. Maybe too qualified?

  Some of Jude's suspicious nature must have rubbed off on Ryanne, because she'd w
ondered why the girl would want to work at the Scratching Post when she should be opening up her own restaurant in town. So Ryanne hired Caroline instead. The sassy brunette spoke her mind but couldn't boil a cup of water. Still, she'd known Caroline most of her life.

  While they'd never been close--Caroline's mom, Edna, had disapproved of Selma--they'd been friendly.

  Caroline sat behind the counter, typing into her phone.

  "Order up," Ryanne said.

  "One sec. I've got to send this text to Pearl. She's in the middle of a crap storm."

  Pearl Harris was Caroline's best friend, the owner of Secret Garden, and Lyndie's cousin. The two looked a lot alike. Both had strawberry blond hair and alabaster skin, though Pearl had freckles and Lyndie didn't.

  "If you like your job, Caroline, you won't tell me one sec ever again. You'll put your phone down and fix two plates of nachos."

  "Nachos?" Her new employee jumped to her feet and pocketed her phone, her cheeks flushing. "Slight problem. Hardly worth mentioning. But, uh, I kind of made burritos with the refried beans...and ate them. I'm sorry!"

  Deep breath in, out. Ryanne soaked those beans overnight, and let them simmer for an entire day before frying them the next. The entire bag had cost less than three dollars, but customers spent ten on a single plate of nachos. Not that Coot or Loner would have paid; the food was a gift. But without beans, the nachos would suck, and there was no way Ryanne would serve sucky food.

  Forget the time and money, though. Caroline had just cost her coveted customer satisfaction.

  "Your actions have made a liar out of me," she grated. "I promised two of my favorite customers nachos."

  "I'm sorry," Caroline repeated, cheeks reddening further. "Can we, I don't know, turn the bacon-wrapped fries into a type of nachos? Maybe top them with the hamburger meat and cheese sauce?"

  Not a bad idea. "Yes, we can and we will. But if there's a next time..." Ryanne took a page from Jude's playbook, letting the threat hang in the air, unspoken.

  The imagination could be far crueler than reality.

  Now the color drained from Caroline's cheeks. She nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I understand."

  Ma'am? Ma'am!

  Never been so insulted in all my days.

  They made the "nachos," and Ryanne left Caroline to deliver the plates to Loner--he'd stayed, as requested--and the former marines, so she could deal with Jim.