Too tender a wound to expose to others.
For now.
He spent some time in his little shed workshop, on the wooden console table he’d been putting together from a piece of live edge slab. While he preferred commissions, for the simple fact that he got some money up front, he always had good luck selling his finished furniture pieces online. And working on specmeant no deadline breathing down his neck to complete the piece, when he also had his regular work and the kids to occupy much of his time. He used those as perfect excuses for why he didn’t date.
Shaping table legs on a lathe was simpler than dating.
Never mind the fact that he’d never gotten over his first love, and now he finally had an opportunity to make things right. Iggy hadn’t scoffed at his apologies. They’d had an enjoyable meal today. Iggy was haunted but didn’t seem to hold a grudge against Malcolm, specifically.
Maybe Malcolm held that grudge against himself?
At eight, he cleaned up his shop, went into the camper to change his shirt from a work polo into a spiffy red-and-blue plaid button-down, and then hit the road. They lived on the west side of town. Far enough it was easier to drive, but close enough he could walk home on the rare occasion he drank too much. Howie would take your keys and stuff them down the front of his own pants if he thought you were wasted.
He cursed the nervous wiggles in his belly as he found a spot in the Saddle Up Saloon parking lot. It was decently busy for that time of night. Since they only served burgers and finger foods to go along with the beer and liquor, it wasn’t a prime late-night dinner destination, especially for families. They were busiest after eight, especially on nights with live entertainment or line dancing.
Malcolm wiped his sweating palms on his jeans and pulled open the exterior door to the vestibule. Once upon a time, the building had housed a family restaurant, and the vestibule had helped buffer the interior from the cold. It still had the original standing peanut machine, but the cracked glass globe was empty. A cigarette machine from the seventies still held court in one corner, next to a vintage newspaper rack. Everything was aremnant here, a slice of nostalgia to rev you up for the trip into the past that was the bar’s interior.
The familiar odors of wood, leather, beer, and sweat perked him right up, and Malcolm navigated his way around seated patrons sharing pitchers of beer and nacho platters. Along the perimeter of the wooden dance floor and the empty stage beyond, and over to the long bar where a small crowd had gathered. The bar had two stations, but only one was typically in use during the week, two on weekends or special events. Tonight was a Thursday, no events, but people weren’t seated along the entire length of the bar, they were standing and clustered.
A few folks shouted greetings at Malcolm, which he absently returned, too honed in on whatever was drawing attention to the bar.
He should have figured it was Iggy.
Malcolm realized why when a clear liquor bottle flipped high into the air, followed by a chorus of whistles, claps, and a few cheers. The folks watching were less than three deep, and Malcolm could see past them. Laurel was filling a pitcher at the draft beer tower, while slyly watching Iggy over her shoulder.
Iggy was pouring into a shaker from the bottle he’d just tossed. He expertly rolled the bottle across the back of his hand as he slid it into the well. Capped the shaker with a tall glass, and then used his entire body, including his hips, to shake the drink high over his head. Tapped the shaker on the edge of the bar to pop off the glass. Used a strainer to pour the yellow-ish liquid across three old-fashioned glasses full of ice. Smooth as silk, Iggy added cherry garnishes and a skinny straw to each drink.
Flawless. Dramatic. And sexy as hell.
“Hey, Montgomery!” Clive Denison shouted from his spot by the bar. “Come see this!”
The yell got Iggy’s attention, and his sharp gaze met Malcolm’s eyes briefly. Malcolm swore he saw a glint ofamusement there. Was Iggy having fun? Is that what the glint was?
Clive grabbed Malcolm’s elbow and pointed to where three young women were sipping the freshly-made mixed drinks. “You see that shit?” Clive asked. “Threw the fucking bottle in the air and didn’t spill a drop. I’m lucky to get my beer bottle to my mouth without spilling some.”
Malcolm laughed. Clive worked at the hardware store—which made him a great source for word-of-mouth business—and he’d hired Malcolm to replace his backyard fence last summer. They’d gone to high school together, and were friends in the sense that they didn’t hate or bully each other, but they’d never hung in the same social circles. Not that Malcolm had had much of a circle. His friend group had consisted of Iggy and the rotating stage crew kids.
“Bet no one in this town’s seen such fancy throwing since the last time the circus came through,” Malcolm said.
“Just so long as Old McRainey don’t see this guy throwing bottles around,” Clive replied with a bray of tipsy laughter. “He’s likely to come up here and try to juggle full bottles just to relive his clown days.”
“Don’t want that.” Malcolm had only met Old McRainey once, back when he was sixteen, and only because he and Iggy got caught in a flash flood. McRainey was a recluse, living south of town in a little cabin by the creek, and folks only saw him on his once-a-month trip for supplies, like the gold miners of olden days. Rumors flew about his old life, and one of the most enduring was as a rodeo clown in Montana, back in the seventies.
In the two years Malcolm had been back in Chance, he’d yet to see the hermit, and doubted he would again.
“How high can you flip a bottle?” someone asked Iggy.
“Just high enough,” Iggy replied with an exaggerated wink. “Everything depends on the size of the bottle and how much is in it.”
“Can you flip it behind your back?”
“Only for a stupendous tip.”
Someone held up a ten-dollar-bill, and Iggy went to serve the customer. Laurel had delivered the pitcher of beer, and she was back behind the bar, taking orders. Iggy multi-tasked perfectly, pouring beers, snapping caps off bottles, and doing a round of shots for a table. When he finally got to Malcolm, Malcolm said, “MGD.”
The draft came to him with a perfect head. “Tab?” Iggy asked.
“Yeah. Guess your boss doesn’t like you to drink on the clock? Take shots from customers?”
