He was a quirky little guy, about my height, not much more than my weight, with unremarkable features: gray hair, lots of wrinkles and squinty eyes that he swore could still see twenty-twenty.
What was remarkable about him was that he was thin and wiry, yet spooky strong and tough sounding, like he’d smoked several packs a day his whole life. His deep, raspy voice did not match his slight appearance, kind of like Popeye. He also had the energy level of a twenty-year-old, not that any of us really knew his age. There was actually a bet among the employees about this. It was open-ended, because Johnny knew about it and was not forthcoming with the information. Some were guessing he was in his fifties, while others had racked up the span of years to his nineties, which I thought was a little over-the-top. I assumed he was in his late sixties or so.
Johnny’s Spot was an extremely successful club, but Johnny still liked being in on all the day-to-day transactions. “I don’t trust no one to handle my money, doll,” he answered when I asked him about taking the time for himself that he’d so richly earned. “I put all my cash into this place, and when you do something like that, you keep a good eye. I don’t trust any of you, and that’s not personal, it’s flat-out smart. It ain’t your money holding the place up. If you ever get a place o’ your own, don’t let no one else manage it, or they’ll manage you right into the can!” He’d given this piece of advice so many times, I’m sure we all had it memorized.
I started my shift expecting the usual uneventful chaos, and I wasn’t disappointed.
“Two margaritas, a stout and a Jamaican lager.”
“Two Mexican beers, sex on the beach, fuzzy navel and a Seven and Seven.”
“Three shots of tequila, two more Mexican beers and an apple martini.”
I fell into the rhythm of a typical Friday night. I kept the alcohol flowing, sidestepped drunken come-ons and kept the chips and pretzel baskets full at my end of the bar.
The music got louder, the dance floor had a steady stream of participants and people had to yell to be heard above the music, making intelligent conversation impossible. Not that people were here for anything other than hooking up. It was a meat market at its lowest, though it kept from being a dive bar by playing live music on Friday and Saturday nights and by running sports of all kinds on the different TV screens around the bar.
At a distance, I caught sight of Cynthia making her way through the sea of people. She looked predictably gorgeous in a sexy slip of a pale blue dress that reached midthigh and outlined her shapely bod. Her blond hair was long and straight, reaching the middle of her back, and it was like she was the new swimsuit cover model the way eyes were watching her progress across the room, but then I saw the look on her face.
She was pissed off.
I noticed a big blond Adonis wearing a nice white button-up shirt following behind her, grabbing at her arm to stop her from walking away. She spun around to confront the guy, and then I couldn’t see any more because a large body cut off my view.
“Marry me, Taylor.” I recognized the Mr. Vodka–Cranberry Juice slur that was coming across the bar as I did a quick swipe with my moist towel and tried to see around him to whom Cynthia was talking to. I was sure I’d never seen him before, because I would definitely have remembered that guy, as hot as he was. She was standing there, listening to the guy, with body language that told me quite clearly she knew him.
Wasn’t this an interesting development? We were going to have a lot to talk about later on, when we got home.
“Be careful, Chuck,” I finally responded, and I washed some of the glasses that were piling up in my station. “I just might take you up on that offer one of these days.” He was wasted and it wasn’t even ten o’clock, his brown hair looking as though he’d been running his fingers through it, his teddy-bear eyes looking squinty. He usually didn’t propose until well after midnight on nights he came to the club. It made me wonder if something bad had happened.
“Taylor, honey, I would be so good to you. You could be my queen.” To accompany his slow speech, he gave me a little-boy grin that likely worked way back in his day on coeds in college, but now only emphasized the beginning of his double chin. Week after week, he reeked of desperation, unable to maintain his fit body with the amount of alcohol he consumed. He was finding it harder and harder to attract the same girls who used to vie for his attention when he was twenty pounds lighter on his college football team. I know all of this because during his various drinking binges (yes, he’s an ex-frat boy turned alcoholic—surprised?), he shared his stories. More than once.
“Be good to yourself, Chuck.” I stacked the newly washed glasses on a rack to dry. “Drink some water.”
“Ouch.” He clasped his chest, pretending to be in pain. “You’re a cold-hearted woman, Taylor.”
“Back off, Chuck. She’s my property,” Cynthia growled mockingly, pushing her way up to the bar. I automatically poured a glass of water, popped a lemon wedge in it and slid it across the wood bar to her.
Cynthia doesn’t drink. She’s never told me the specifics, other than to say she’s allergic.
With a quick nod of thanks, she took the glass and sipped it, trying not to look like she was watching for someone, though I could see that she was definitely watching for someone. The blond stud muffin, perhaps? Now didn’t seem like a good time to ask. She was doing a two-faced thing where she was trying to look all casual, but at the same time seemed to be fuming about something.
“You guys are a couple?” Chuck was enjoying that little fantasy. “Oh, God. Two hot chicks. I’d love to see that.”
“You’ll have to use your imagination.” I smirked.
“All right, all right. Goin’ home. While I still got one,” he muttered.
“Can I call you a cab, Chuck?”
“Naw. Just gonna walk. Not far.” He dumped a wad of cash into the tip jar and made his way unsteadily toward the front door.
While following his progress across the crowded bar, I caught sight of Ryder and froze. Our eyes met and held. Instantly, my breathing went shallow, and my heart pounded faster. I felt the familiar flash of heat curling through my abdomen.
He was leaning back against the wall with his thick, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest, half-immersed in shadow. He was watching me with that fierce look, and it was like his energy reached out to me. Seemingly half-wild, with a lock of black hair falling across his forehead, he was in beat-up jeans and a black T-shirt that stretched across impressive pecs, which I absolutely remembered.
His eyes blazed a path across the room that felt like a physical touch.
That man was dangerous.
Moving bodies cut off my view of him, and I strained to look around them, but by the time I could see that piece of wall again, he was gone. I looked around the club and didn’t see him. I figured he must have left, since I couldn’t find a trace of him, but I still felt like he was watching me.
It took a while for my body to normalize again.
Shep was getting ready to go on the small platform stage by the dance floor, but he spotted us at the bar and came over to say hi. He’d always been a ladies’ man, but he had a thing for Cynthia in particular when he was sober and discriminating. Cynthia was sitting there looking like the next best thing to an ice-cream cone, so he put an arm around her shoulder and asked how she’d been doing. Here’s how that went: