“Not in a few years.”
Briar nodded. Shelley’s life was busy. She had her hands full with her children and only minimal relief from her ex--husband. When she did go out it was usually on a date with some guy through an online dating site. She was naturally picky about those dates. She wanted a professional man, and Sweet Hill was full of blue-collar types. Which was ironic since she was pushing Briar to hook up with a convict. Ex--convict, a voice inside her reminded. It was the same voice that reminded her that he had saved her life.
When they entered the room it was to the sound of a small, three--man band playing classic rock at the far end of the room. Shelley was right. The place was packed. And it seemed predominantly full of men. An assortment of leather--clad bikers, good ol’ boys, and redneck types still wearing the wrinkled clothes they went to work in.
She followed Shelley across the wood plank floor.
“Was it like this when you were last here?” Briar asked as they made their way to a high table with three stools surrounding it.
“Yeah, it was a little rough then, too, but I didn’t know any better in those days.”
“Uh, but you do now?”
“Yeah, I’m older now. I don’t do the dumb shit I used to.”
Briar fought a smile. She sounded so ancient. At twenty--seven, Shelley was only two years older.
Hopping up on the high stool, Briar was suddenly grateful that she had decided to wear jeans. Shelley approved because she deemed them snug enough. You need a pair of jeans painted on so tight that nothing is left to the imagination.
Briar smoothed her hands over her thighs and glanced down at the skintight denim. Mission accomplished. She just had to pretend her ass didn’t look huge in them.
She glanced around the bar, searching.
“Do you see him?”
“No.” Her heart sank like it probably shouldn’t. Knox was the only reason she was here. And the reason for the hair and the jeans and the makeup. Not to mention the slinky camisole--style top that showed off her shoulders and cleavage in a way that made her feel naked.
Several men and women danced on the sawdust floor on one side of the building.
“Want to dance?” Shelley asked.
Briar shook her head. “I haven’t had enough alcohol for that yet.”
Shelley signaled the waitress. “Well, let’s rectify that.”
A platinum--blond waitress walking past detoured for their table. “Hey, there, girls, what can I get you?”
“Two Shiners.” Shelley winked at Briar and her stomach sank again, sensing what her friend was going to ask next. “Is Knox working?”
The waitress froze and looked Shelley over speculatively. “Who’s asking?” The woman was pushing fifty and still looked good. She was plump with a fresh face. The only makeup her bright red lipstick.
Shelley nodded at Briar. “My friend here knows him.”
The waitress glanced at her. “That so?”
Briar lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. It was as far as she could go to admitting that they were friends—-or something.
“Yeah, he’s working,” she admitted. “I’ll let him know his ‘friend’ is here. You got a name, honey?”
Briar started to shake her head, but Shelley went ahead and answered for her. “Tell him Briar is here.”
“All right.” She nodded slowly, as though she wasn’t too sure about either one of them. “I’ll be back in a moment with your beers.”
As soon as she slipped away, Briar turned on Shelley. “What did you do that for?”
“Just to speed things along.”
“God, Shelley, now he’ll know that I’m here -because—-”
“Because of him,” she finished. “Yes. You are here because of him. You don’t think he’ll figure that out the moment he sees you? Men appreciate directness, Briar.”
Still annoyed, Briar turned to stare straight ahead at the dance floor, crossing her arms in front of her.
“Oh, come on. Don’t pout. Look, our waitress is getting our beer at the bar . . . and holy hell, who is that? Please tell me that’s not him. If that’s your guy I think I’m going to face--punch you, Briar. You have been holding out on me, girl.”
Briar swung her gaze to the long stretch of bar that backed against the wall. It was Knox, all right. In the flesh. Looking better than ever in a pair of faded jeans and black T--shirt with Roscoe’s logo stamped on the pocket.
She blinked, finding the sight of him here, in his element, a little strange. This was his world. Not the prison. Not her apartment. She glanced around, noticing that she wasn’t the only one looking at him. A few others slid him sidelong glances. Women checking him out. Men looking at him almost warily. She guessed he got that a lot. His reputation preceding him.