by LK Farlow
He’s playing dirty and he knows it. “Fine. It’s Jenny.”
His lips tip up. “Care to elaborate?”
I debate telling him to mind his own business. But, I don’t. He’s right; we’re partners, and good ones don’t keep secrets. “We slept together the night of Alden’s wedding.”
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he pulls off to where we like to sit and monitor traffic. There’s a sharp curve here and people love to fly around it. “Figured as much when y’all both disappeared. That was over a month ago though, so what else?”
I talk him through everything that’s happened between then and now. He keeps quiet for most of it until I mention being jealous over her gay cousin—then he loses it, laughing his ass off. Once he settles back down, I finish up, glossing over our bathroom rendezvous—the way she moaned my name isn’t really something he needs to know—and end with how I antagonized her on and off throughout dinner just to see her blush.
“Sounds to me like you’re sprung.”
Now I’m the one laughing. “Who the fuck says sprung?”
“Fine, let me rephrase. You’ve caught feelings. You like her.”
I shrug, not ready to admit it to myself, much less out loud to someone else.
The subject is dropped when a familiar white hatchback flies past us, clearly going way over the posted speed limit. We have pulled this exact car over in this exact spot twice already. He was let off with a warning the first time and ticketed the second. You’d think he would learn. Moron.
“Damn idiot,” Duke mutters and I hit the lights.
For a split second, I worry that the driver isn’t going to stop, but thankfully he pulls off and Duke initiates the traffic stop. I hang back while he approaches the driver’s side window. I keep a close eye on them as he goes through the routine—you never know when shit’s going to hit the fan, and I’ve seen far too many routine stops turn into shit shows.
Duke returns to our car and runs the speeder’s plates and license—he comes back valid, but as a repeat offender for speeding and driving without a seat belt.
One lengthy citation later and we’re 10-98—task completed—and back 10-8.
After a few more run-of-the-mill traffic stops, we pull into an empty parking lot. While Duke catches up on reports, I check emails on my phone and fight the temptation to scope out Jenny’s social media accounts. I tap out pretty quickly and pull up her Instagram account. I click on her profile pic and watch her most recent story. It’s a picture of the outside of Bennet’s—my favorite bar to hit up after a long shift to decompress—with a caption on the screen that reads Wish me luck!
“The hell?”
“What?” Duke asks, turning his attention to me.
I show him my screen, and he grins. “If I had to guess, I’d say she’s applying for the open bartender position. Mack mentioned they needed someone since Bethany decided not to come back after her maternity leave.”
“But she already has a job,” I say lamely.
Duke’s grin ratchets up to a full-blown smile. “And no one on this earth has ever worked two jobs.”
Elation and dread fill me in equal measures. The thought of seeing her regularly has me fucking floating, but the thought of watching other men hit on her has me plummeting back to earth. Chill, you don’t even know for sure what’s going on. Plus, even if she is interviewing, that doesn’t mean she’ll get the job.
By lunchtime, I’m mostly back to my normal self. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, my mom sent leftovers for you.”
Duke licks his chops as he turns into the station parking lot. “Fuck yes! Definitely beats the bologna sandwich I packed.”
We head in through the main door and the receptionist is quick to call me over. “Oh, Nate!”
“‘Sup, Mary?”
“Something came for you.” She pushes her chair back from the desk and retrieves an insulated lunchbox. “There’s a note, too.” She hands both items to me over the desk.
“Uh, thanks,” I say, wondering what’s in the cooler and who sent it.
In the break room, Duke wastes no time grabbing my lunchbox from the fridge. While his plate spins in the microwave, he turns to me and asks, “Aren’t you gonna open it?”
I shrug. “I guess.” Unzipping it carefully, I study the contents and pull them out one by one. An order of tacos from Zippy’s, a blueberry muffin, and a snickerdoodle cookie from the bakery around the corner. “What the…”
“Read the note,” Duke urges, pushing it toward me.
The microwave dings and he steps away to grab his food. I run my index finger beneath the seal and slide the card out. The first thing I’m hit with is the scent—this notecard smells just like Jenny: sweet and seductive and good enough to eat. The second thing I notice is the bouncy, feminine handwriting. She took the time to write this note…but why? She was right there when Mom made mention of sending leftovers for me to take for lunch.
Nate,
I know your mom sent you home with leftovers, but I figured you’d maybe like something to remember me by.
Your friend,
Jenny
I read the note twice, looking for some kind of clue, because Lord knows I have to be missing something.
Duke sits down across from me and digs right into his steak and potatoes. “This is so good,” he says with his mouth full, making it sound more like dis toe good. When I ignore him in favor of reading the note a third time, he gets curious. “What’s it say?”
I pass it to him, and he scans over it, a wide cheesy grin splitting his cheeks. “She’s something else, brother.” I stare at him blankly and he chuckles. “Went over your head, huh?”
I grit my teeth, perturbed that he got it on the first try.
“Think about it, Nate. Think.” He pops another bite of steak into his mouth, chewing slowly to give me a chance to figure it out. I shake my head, still nada. “Okay, lemme break it down for you. You said you went down on her last night and that she left you high and dry, yeah? You said she tried playing it off like she was cool and calm. But looks to me like little Miss Jenny had you on her mind all night.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Dude. She sent you a munchbox. Tacos…a muffin…a cookie. C’mon, put it together.”
Slowly, it clicks into place. That little tease… “She wants me thinking of her… of what we did.”
Duke snaps his fingers. “And he gets it! The question is, what’re you gonna do about it?”
We finish up our respective lunches, with Duke eating my portion of Mom’s leftovers as well and head back out. Thanks to her little stunt, thoughts of Jenny repeatedly push to the forefront of my thoughts.
Traffic stop, imagine Jenny riding me. Help a lady with a flat tire, picture Jenny bent over the hood of my car. And so on and so forth. By the end of our shift, I’m amped up and ready to exact my revenge.
Get ready, Jenny Jones, there’s about to be hell to pay.
chapter fourteen
Jenny
I may have feigned indifference last night toward Nate after he went down on me—or at least, I think I did—but oh Lord, my body feels anything but indifferent. Turned on, revved up, on fire, and raring to go would all be more accurate descriptors.
I spent half the night tossing and turning, resisting the urge to try and take care of myself. Not that there’s anything wrong with a little self-love. Heck, I’m a big fan. I held off out of sheer stubbornness, like somehow denying myself the pleasure would loosen his hold on me.
That man’s touch is out of this world, and the worst part is, he freaking knows it. It’s blatantly obvious in the cocky way he holds himself. The fact that his taunting only turned me on more is even worse. I mean, who gets all hot and bothered over their crush publicly picking on them?
Me! That’s who!
And after that shitshow of a hug goodbye last night, Natalie is on to me big time. Obviously, she knows Nate and I slept together, but now she knows t
hat I’m really, truly into him in a way that extends beyond my little harmless crush.
She grilled me relentlessly when I called her, poking and prodding until I spilled the beans. So, now my best friend knows that I hooked up with her older brother in their parents’ home. Good times.
Even now, her parting words echo in my head. She sounded so serious—more serious than I’ve ever heard—as she said, “Jenny, I want you to know that if you choose to pursue something with my brother, I’ll support it. But I’d feel like a shitty friend if I didn’t tell you to be careful. Nate…he’s complicated, and I’m scared he’ll hurt you. But, you’re both grown and capable of making your own choices. So, yeah, just guard your heart, babe.”
Her vagueness has my hackles up. To be honest, I’ve never really thought about Nate’s past. He told me he wasn’t the guy for me and that he didn’t do relationships, and I took him at his word; I didn’t wonder what made him that way. I simply accepted it. But now…now I’m curious.
About fifteen minutes after Natalie and I hung up, Jamie called. I filled him in on all things Nate, and he told me about a guy he met the other day while running one of the many nature trails by his home—they have a coffee date set for Friday.
We giggled and gossiped and schemed, tossing around theories on why Nate’s so jaded until well past my bedtime.
Now, in the light of day, I still can’t believe I let him talk me into sending Nate a vagina-themed lunchbox. But it struck a chord when Jamie told me I should leave him wanting, mentally and physically. Sending it is hands down one of the most immature things I’ve ever done, but it also made me feel clever and maybe a little powerful, like I was playing with fire, so to speak. However, I’m also a little bit on edge wondering how Nate will react. But, thanks to FoodCruise, a local food delivery app that runs 24/7, what’s done is done.
I guess only time will tell, and really, I’m not sure what’s worse…him flipping out or him not reacting at all.
Due to my tossing and turning, I was up with the sun this morning. I’ve already vacuumed as well as washed, dried, and folded a load of laundry, but I still have two and a half hours to kill before work.
Which makes this the perfect time to hit up a few of the local restaurants and watering holes to see if anyone has an opening. As much as I love working at Bayside, I could use the extra income. After all, my dreams won’t finance themselves.
The first two places I hit up are fully staffed, but as I pull into the gravel lot of Bennet’s—a local bar—I can’t help but think that maybe the third time will be a charm.
Housed in an old natural wood barn, the exterior of the building is unassuming. If you didn’t know it was here, you would one hundred percent drive right past it. There’s no sign by the road, just a massive B burned into the door.
On impulse, I snap a picture of the entrance and post it to my Instagram story with the caption Wish me luck! I have a good feeling about this place, and maybe putting it out into the open will help me out. My Geema always says the universe listens, speak to it.
So, here I am universe…are you listening?
The inside pretty much matches the outside, with old, scraped-up wide plank flooring and wood-paneled walls. There’s an eclectic mix of repurposed tables—a handful are made from industrial sized wooden cable spools, some are barrels of varying sizes, and there’s a sprinkling of high-top tables created out of old wooden wheels and topped with glass. As cool as all of that is though, the bar is clearly the focal point. The back wall is comprised of a mixture of shattered mirrors and stained glass, and the salvaged wood bar spans the entire width of it.
The lighting is low, and peanut shells litter the floor. It’s definitely not the place you’d find the trendsetters hanging out on a Saturday night, but it’s cozy and authentic and welcoming in a way so many places aren’t these days.
As I make my way back to the bar, I notice an old jukebox on the far-left wall. It looks like a relic from the forties trapped in modern times. Something about its presence comforts me.
“We don’t open for another thirty minutes,” a craggy voice calls from behind the bar, startling me. I study the barkeep and I keep drawing closer. He’s exactly the kind of man I imagined working here. Thanks to his leathered, sun-worn skin, kind milky eyes, and shock of white hair, he looks to be in his late sixties, but something tells me he’s not quite there yet.
“Oh, sorry. The door was unlocked.”
“Damn Mabel, never locking shit,” the old man grumbles to himself. “Fact remains, we’re not open yet, missy.”
“I’m not here for a drink.”
He assesses me coolly. “Then what’re ya here for?”
“A job,” I say, my voice strong and clear.
“And what’s a little thing like you know about tending bar?”
He’s testing me. I can sense it. “Probably not as much as you, but I bartended all throughout college.”
“You don’t even look old enough,” he grumbles. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Currently employed?”
“I work at Bayside Café, but it won’t interfere with working here…if you hire me.”
The old man nods and beckons me closer. I step up to the bar and he walks around it and hefts himself up on the stool next to where I’m standing. Expectantly, he stares at me. “Well, what’re you waiting for? Make me a drink.”
I quirk a brow at him but head around behind the bar all the same. What a strange turn this day is taking. “What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?”
Oh, man. His earlier questions were nothing more than a pop-quiz. This…this is my test. I study him again, going past his outward appearance. I take in his mannerisms—the way he taps his right thumb on the bar top to the tune of Iron Man by Black Sabbath, an odd choice if there ever was one for a man dressed like John Wayne. I trace my eyes over the dips and divots in his skin; each one seems to tell a story, marking some type of occasion in his life.
Smiling, I twirl around to face the liquor stock. I study his set-up and gather the things I need and set to work. I drop one sugar cube into the bottom of my rocks glass and cover it with two dashes of Angostura bitters before adding two ounces of rye whiskey. I stir the mixture gently until the sugar dissolves completely.
Drink in hand, I turn back and set the glass down onto the bar top. The old man goes to reach for it, but I pull it back and out of his reach. I deliberate for only a second before adding one ice cube and stirring again. Satisfied with my work, I slide the drink his way.
He brings the glass to his lips, inhaling deeply before sipping it. “Well, hot damn, kiddo.” It may not sound like much, but to me, it may as well be the best compliment I’ve ever gotten, and I beam at his praise. “You can start next week. Come back tomorrow for paperwork.”
Holy. Shit. I got the job. It may have been the weirdest interview ever, but I got the freaking job! “Thank you so much…” I hesitate, realizing we haven’t even exchanged names.
“Mack,” he supplies, extending his hand to me.
“Jenny.” I place my hand in his and give him a firm shake. “Thank you so much, Mack. I won’t let you down.”
“I’ve got a good feeling about you, kiddo. Come by any time you’re free tomorrow, and Mabel will have your paperwork ready. Bring your I.D. and all of that shit.”
“Will do!” I pivot and pretty much float out of the bar on cloud nine.
The café has been steady ever since I clocked in at ten-thirty. We weren’t anywhere near as busy as we were yesterday, but the constant flow of patrons has kept me busy all day. However, now that we’ve hit the pre-dinner slump, I know I need to talk to Alden about Bennet’s and adjusting my hours here.
After asking another server to watch my section, I head back to his office. The door is partially open, but I still knock lightly.
“Come in,” he calls from inside.
Alden’s tapping away at his keyboard
when I enter the small room. I take a seat and wait for him to finish up. He glances from his computer screen to one of the many sheets of paper on his desk a few times before nodding. After a few more clicks of the mouse, he gives me his full attention.
“What can I do for you, Jenny?”
“I found a second job,” I blurt out, ripping off the Band-Aid.
He appraises me for a few minutes. “Glad you found something. Where?”
“Bennet’s.”
He lets loose a knowing snicker. “Really now?”
“Why’s that funny?”
“You know that Bennet’s is a cop bar, right?”
“What’s your point—oh…”
“Yeah. Speaking of, I heard dinner last night was…interesting.”
I groan in frustration. Sometimes working for your best friend’s husband rocks, and other times, like now, it sucks. “It was fine. Totally uneventful.”
He nods, but I can tell he’s not buying what I’m selling. “Not what I heard.”
My eyes widen. I swear to God… “Whatever Nate said is a lie!”
Alden’s all out laughing now. “He said you’d say that.”
“I’m going to freaking murder him,” I mutter to myself as anger and embarrassment races through my veins. I know Nate’s a hook-up guy, but I never took him as a braggart. Especially not…about me. Him telling his buddies about a nameless, faceless girl is different than telling them about me—they know me.
When Alden notices the tears brimming my lashes, he sobers. “Oh, shit, Jenny. I’m just messing with you. He didn’t say anything about you. Please don’t cry.”
I lift my watery gaze to meet his remorseful one. “Promise?”
“Swear it.”
It may make me a fool, but I believe Alden. “Then wh-what did you mean?”
“Tatum came home talking about you and Nate hugging and when I dropped Tatum off this morning, Luke was grumbling about cold steak still. That’s it.”
“Okay,” I whisper, feeling silly and small for letting my emotions get the best of me.
