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“Good,” I say, turning away to tend to the other customers, letting the mask of indifference slip back into place. Yet, somehow, I feel his eyes on me, and despite the noise and the smoke and the endless cycle of drinks, I’m acutely aware of the space he occupies. It’s going to be a long night.
“Hey, Jane,” drawls one of the regulars, Carl, a burly man with a belly that strains against his shirt buttons. “How ‘bout you and me finally make some magic tonight?”
I pour him another drink, my lips twisting into a practiced smile. “You couldn’t handle me, Carl,” I quip back, sliding the glass across the bar to him with a thud that punctuates my refusal.
Laughter erupts from his cronies, and something inside me hardens a little more. The town’s whispers about me, they’ve become as familiar as the lines on my palms—Jane Everly, the girl too proud, too cold. They don’t know jack about the walls I’ve built, the steel in my spine forged by their relentless advances.
I’m wiping down the counter when Tex signals for another round. His presence is a beacon, drawing sidelong glances and fanning the flames of curiosity among the patrons. I feel it too, this gravitational pull, but I tamp it down, remind myself that attraction is a luxury I can’t afford.
“Another whiskey?” I ask, my voice neutral, betraying none of the disquiet he stirs within me.
“Please.” His gaze lingers, and there’s an undercurrent there, something that feels like seeing the first star at dusk—promising, distant, untouchable.
“Men around here not your type?” he probes, leaning on the bar, the sleeves of his jacket pulling taut over biceps that speak of both power and restraint.
“Men around here are nobody’s type,” I retort, pouring his drink with a steady hand. “They think a woman behind the bar is fair game. A trophy to be won.” I glance up, meeting those intense blue eyes. “I’m no one’s prize, Tex.”
“Never said you were,” he replies, voice low and even, his eyes holding mine in a silent challenge.
“Good.” I push the glass towards him, my heart picking up its pace. But I refuse to let it show. “Enjoy your drink.”
I retreat to the far end of the bar, taking refuge in the mundane task of restocking glasses. My mind, though, refuses to stay put, flitting to Tex and the uninvited warmth that blooms in my chest. No, I scold myself, I’ve seen his kind before—charming, dangerous, gone with the morning fog.
“Jane, sweetheart, do us a favor and smile more,” leers another patron, his words slurred and eyes ravenous.
“Smiles aren’t on the menu,” I shoot back, my tone frosty.
Tex watches me still, I can feel it, and it’s a testament to my will that I don’t look back. Not even once.
“Place could use a touch of warmth, you know,” Tex says when I pass by again, his voice carrying over the din of the crowd.
“The Tin Cup isn’t known for its hospitality,” I say flatly, but there’s a tremor in my voice that betrays me.
“Maybe you’re just serving the wrong company.”
“Maybe,” I concede, allowing myself the briefest moment of vulnerability.
But then the doors swing open, bringing with them another gust of cold air and a reminder of the harsh realities beyond these walls.
“Last call!” I announce, louder than necessary, drowning out the stirrings of something dangerous—a longing for something more than what this small town and its small minds have to offer.
I keep busy, avoiding Tex’s magnetism, focusing on the clink of glasses and the shuffle of feet. The bar empties slowly, leaving only the echo of laughter and the scent of tobacco in its wake. As I lock up, I steal a glance at Tex, who’s settled his tab and stands to leave.
“Stay out of trouble, Tex Blackwood,” I warn, the door closing behind him like the final note of a song left unsung.
But trouble has a way of finding you, especially when it rides a motorcycle and looks at you like you’re the only person in a room full of shadows. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m already wondering if he’ll come back.
* * *
Another night, the same old crowd and me once again behind the bar wishing I was someplace else.
“Another round, sweet cheeks?” Hank, with his bear-like frame and tobacco-stained smile, waves an empty bottle at me.
I slide him his poison without a word, the clink of glass against wood punctuating the transaction.
“Ya know, Jane,” drawls Sam from down the bar, his lecherous gaze crawling over my frame like a rash. “A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be slingin’ drinks. You should be warming my bed.” His buddies guffaw, slapping backs and spilling their delight onto the grimy surface.
“Keep dreaming,” I shoot back, wiping down the counter with more force than necessary. My knuckles whiten around the rag, every fiber restraining the urge to show them just how warm I can get. But I’ve learned long ago that fire only feeds the beasts.
