“I’m smart, fast but that don’t matter since I know where we keep our shotgun,” she replied. “Even wasted, men stop fightin’ quick when they got a loaded shotgun aimed at ‘em.” She pointed across the room to the wall where there were a bunch of visible pockmarks in the wood. “Buckshot. Mine. Round these parts it’s not only known that I know where the shotgun is but that I know how to use it and someone messes around in my bar, I will.”
I nodded again wondering why I was undeterred by the variety of craziness she was telling me and standing there listening to her rather than saying, “Thanks… but, um, I think I’ll just be leaving.
Instead, I said, “Okay.”
“All right,” she replied and the door opened.
We both turned to look and when I saw who came in I stopped breathing.
It was the Harley Guy from last night at the hotel. Even though I hadn’t seen his face straight on, I knew it was him. And I was right. He was sensational straight on.
He was tall, maybe taller than he seemed in the parking lot or maybe he just seemed bigger in the bar since his shoulders were so broad. But his hips were lean and his legs were long, his thighs obviously powerfully muscled and I could tell that even through his jeans. His dark brown hair gleamed even in the dull light of the bar. It was thick and it was clear he washed it and let it fall where it lay for the part was natural and not straight, it was swept back but some of it fell around his temples and curled a bit around his ears and at the back of his neck. His eyes looked dark, I couldn’t tell the color but there were sun lines emanating from the sides that were attractive. His brow was heavy; his nose wasn’t perfect but it was straight with a slight bump at the top of the bridge that made it interesting; his cheekbones were cut and his jaw was strong. His skin was tanned in a way where I knew he didn’t get that color lounging by a pool and he was wearing faded jeans, black motorcycle boots and a heathered-gray-blue, long-sleeved, skintight, thermal Henley.
He was beautiful.
“Hey Tate,” Krystal called and I turned woodenly to her.
Okay, maybe Krystal was right earlier, I hadn’t seen “Tate” yet (though I had, I just didn’t know it and thought his name was Jackson) and if this was Tate then I definitely wanted to get laid by him. Definitely.
Though a man like that who could get a girl like Neeta wouldn’t even look at me and he could, he already had Neeta but hell, he could get anyone.
I turned back to Tate to find I was wrong. He was close, stopped at the side of the bar where there was an opening. I saw his eyes were dark brown and they were on me.
“Who’s this?” he asked, his voice deep and a bit rough. He didn’t take his eyes off me and, like Krystal, he looked like he was in a bad mood.
“This is Lauren, our new girl,” Krystal answered.
I opened my mouth to say hello when he spoke.
“Lauren?” he asked and his tone was scathing. Downright scathing. And his face had gone from making him look like he was in a bad mood to sheer and utter contempt.
I felt my body automatically get tight.
“Yeah, Lauren, she’s –” Krystal started but he interrupted her.
“Talk,” he growled and then turned down the hall.
Krystal looked at me. “Check the fridges.” She pointed to a bunch of glass-fronted, half fridges at the back of the bar. “See what we need to stock up and go to the storeroom. Put the new ones in the back, the old ones in the front.” She handed me her set of keys and followed Tate down the hall.
I waited a second because I was recovering from that strange scene and wondering why all these people took an instant dislike to me. Krystal hired me which was good but she wasn’t exactly welcoming even through training. And Tate, well…
I shook this feeling off as just my inexperience of biker folk. Maybe they were a close knit group and you had to prove yourself. I could do that. I hadn’t waitressed since I was a cocktail waitress at a dinner theater during my summers in college but it couldn’t be difficult to pick it up again. I was a hard worker. As far as I could remember, my entire work life I’d called in sick once when I got the ‘flu. I hated being late and never was. In fact, usually I was early. Once they got to know me, I told myself, they’d like me.
I walked down the hall and the door was closed to the office. I nearly made it to the storeroom when I heard Tate’s raised voice.
“Jesus, Krys, maybe you wanna talk to me before you hire some sorry-ass, old, fat, suburban bitch to drag around our goddamned bar?”
I stopped and had to put a hand to the wall to hold myself up.
Sorry-ass, old, fat, suburban bitch.
That beautiful man’s words ricocheted around my head causing damage that was so excruciating I knew the way it was inflicted it would never, never heal.
Then my body jolted and I rushed to the storeroom, found the key on the fourth try and went in, flipping on the light switch and closing the door behind me.