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Chills cascade down my arms and legs. Okay, that doesn’t make me feel any better. Or stop my earlobes from tingling. “Whatever.” I try to mask my fear, but he sees it. He opens my door, and I slide into his monster ride. Leaning in, he buckles me into my seat. “Thanks,” I whisper. He nods, shuts my door, and jogs around the SUV, climbing into the driver’s seat.
I don’t bother telling him where I work or the address. Of course, he knows it. I’m tempted to ask him what my bra size is to see if he knows that too. He whips into traffic, and I can’t help thinking about what he said. Why would someone want to get to me? I’m nobody. I don’t have money or anything of value. I’m attractive, but so is the rest of New York. It has to be a fluke. Wrong place, wrong time.But the flowers?I turn to the window, squeezing my eyes closed.Don’t think about the flowers.Girls get weird shit in the mail all the time. I mean, porn isn’t the highest-grossing industry because no one watches it. That statistic is totally made up, but someonecouldrecognize me. Thank God both my parents are dead.
We pull into the parking lot of Bev’s, my home away from home. I started working here almost five years ago after turning nineteen. My mother and my love of dancing brought me to the Big Apple. I always wanted to become a professional dancer on Broadway. It was all I dreamed about. Too bad they call them dreams for a reason. My life turned out far from the fairytale I’d envisioned.
I jump out and start walking toward the bar, not bothering to wait for Tate. “Hey, Clay.”
“S’up, Mindy. Thought Mer was working tonight?”
“Sick. I’m the lucky one to fill her spot.” I wink.
“Nice. Country night. Gonna be a good night for you.”
“Sweet.”
Walking past him, I hear him say, “Sorry, bruh. Not open ’til five.”
I turn around, finding Clay with his hand out, making a lame attempt at stopping Tate, more nervous than anything else. Clay is a big dude, but Tate dwarfs him.
“I’m with her.” Tate points to me.
When I don’t say anything, Tate glares at me, silently reminding me of the rules: no pullin’ shit. I sigh. “He’s with me.” Clay looks back and forth between us, but I don’t have it in me to explain why he’s with me. The last thing I need is everyone treating me like a victim. “He’s my boyfriend.”
Tate’s brows rise. Then Clay’s.
“Damn, when did you get a man?”
About three hours ago. “He’s been around a while. Just wasn’t ready to share him with the world. He’sextraspecial.” I look at Tate and wink. He doesn’t return the gesture. Lame-o. “Anywho, he’s allowed.”
“Got it. Nice to meet ya, man. You got a great girl here.”
Tate nods and follows me into the bar. Bev’s is exactly how I described it—a dive bar. But damn, it has character. I walk in and wave to Leroy, the barback.
“That’s—”
“Leroy. I know.”
I cock my head. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You know that’s creepy, right? I met you three hours ago, and you have my entire life memorized.”
“It’s my job.”
“Your job is creepy.” I face forward and continue walking. “I have to set up. You’re free to take a squat wherever. Not sure how exciting it’s going to be. We open in an hour. It won’t pick up ’til around nine or so. If you get hungry, let me know. Actually, don’t let me know. We don’t serve food, so there won’t be anything I can do for you—unless you want olives. I have the olive dinner special often.” I lift the latch door to the bar and climb under, shutting it behind me.
“You always leave your purse out in the open?” he asks as I slip my bag under the bar.
“Yeah, why not?” I disappear into the back room to grab the drawers for the registers.
“It’s not safe. Anyone can snag your shit. Steal your information.”
“Like who? Leroy?” I look toward the end of the bar where Leroy is cutting lemons.
“Anyone. It takes two seconds to reach over and take it.”
I chuckle, sliding a drawer into the register. “Not worried, pal. No one is going to steal my shit.”
