“And if anyone in there gives you shit, I’ll punch them for you.”
“My hand still hurts from yesterday, so thanks. I appreciate that.”
“No problem.”
We stood, staring at each other, smiling for one perfect moment. Then I smacked myself in the forehead. “Crap. It’s your first night at work and I’m putting all my drama on you again.”
He hung his head. “Yeah, you are.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Such a long and gusty exhalation. The man had big lungs. Also, bad friends, namely me.
“Vaughan?”
“On the plus side, when you get worked up your tits start heaving up and down with each breath. Magnificent. Honestly, I can’t get enough of it.” Little lines appeared on his forehead as his hands demonstrated the apparently bouncy-boob-like motions in front of his chest. “I’m tempted just to say shit to get you started, I love it so much.”
In the face of his broad grin, I had nothing.
Actually, that’s a lie. “I felt bad, you asshat.”
The good-looking asshole just smiled. Far in the distance the first star started twinkling and doing its thing in the gray and violet sky. Mountains loomed dark and ominous in the distance. Nature, the show-off. But it had nothing on Vaughan standing there, smiling. Lust, like, or whatever this was … I had it in the worst way. Maybe if he seemed in a good mood after finishing work, I’d raise my new-friends-having-sex idea with him. We were both only in town for a few days and the clock was ticking. His gaze flickered between my boobs and face, never quite settling on one or the other.
Nipples are little beasts, always reacting to everything, especially when you’d rather they be discreet. There’s a reason titillation starts with the word “tit.” So of course they got hard now, reveling in his attention. Ever so quickly, I crossed my arms, covering them up.
“I don’t even…” The words, they disappeared. “You make no sense. I mean, they’re covered. My shirt is buttoned up past any and all hint of cleavage.”
“Doesn’t matter. I can still see the shape of them. It’s enough to keep a man like me happy.”
“It’s like you have some sort of breast obsessive-compulsive disorder. Have you considered seeking counseling for your addiction?”
He sighed, face carefully set. “Nothing wrong with a man admiring a fine female chest. But if you disagree, feel free to hold it against me.”
I rolled my eyes.
*
“Right, so we’ve discussed both my shit and your shit. Are we done here?” he asked in an abrupt return to serious. “Can we go inside now?”
“Let’s.”
A nod.
“You’re going to be great,” I said, all enthused.
“You’re the one who’s nervous, not me. I’m all good, babe,” he teased.
“Very funny. Call me babe one more time and I’m out of here.”
Instead, he firmly guided me up the couple of front stairs and through the old glass doors.
Even though he might not have been nervous, I wasn’t so sure about his general state of mind. I think going to work for Nell was messing with his Zen cool guy guitarist philosophy big-time. Combine that with memorizing prices, cocktail recipes, the location of everything, keeping up with orders, keeping out of any other bartender’s way, restocking, and doing everything else involved in tending a bar and Vaughan had a busy night ahead of him. Hell, I think all of it, being back in town, breathing the northern Idaho air, living in what had once been his childhood home, his parents being gone, it had to be all screwing with his head. Add in the money woes and his band breaking up for extra damage. I couldn’t help but feel for him. We’d both had dreams go lopsided.
All day, he’d kept close, helping me find, then clean and pack, my belongings. We didn’t talk about anything deep and meaningful. Mostly just movies and music and places he’d been. Stories from life on the road. I’d gotten the distinct sensation that he wanted to keep himself occupied.
Understandable. Drama, gah. We’d both had our fill.
When we walked in I didn’t notice any recognizable faces, but I was still a wee bit agitated to be out in public.
“I’m here to be wowed by your bartending skills,” I said, slowly moving through the maze of customers and tables.
“Uh-huh. I’ll be sure to juggle some bottles and shit, light something on fire while I make your espresso martini.” He flicked the word off his tongue like pronouncing it was a trick all its own. “Or are you more of a margarita girl, hmm?”
“Today, I’m more of a water and ice girl. If you feel like getting fancy, Mr. Bartender, I’ll take a slice of lemon on the side. A straw, maybe.”
“Yeah?” Only a small smile curved his lips. Not nervous, my ass. He might be better than me at hiding things, but those things lingered there just beneath the surface nonetheless. Anyone willing to watch and care could see.
“Still feeling the pain from the tequila last night?” he asked.
“A little.”
He looked down at me, gaze softening. “Lydia—”