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“Crackhead? What the fuck, Blake?”
Yeah, what the fuck? Feeling my nails digging into my palms, I relaxed my balled-up hands.
“Libby Williams told me all about Kensey’s little habit,” said Blake.
Sherry snorted. “Kensey doesn’t do drugs, never has. And yes, I know that for an absolute fact. Libby’s always talked smack about her.”
Yep. Even though Libby had split from Joshua six years ago, she’d happily badmouth me to anyone who’d listen. She was one evolutionary step away from a mole rat, in my opinion.
“The Lyons house was raided by the police countless times over the years. There’s got to be a reason for that, Sherry.”
There was a reason. The old sheriff, Donald, was the brother of Maxwell Buchanan’s ex-wife, Linda—who Maxwell had later reconciled with—and Donald had made it his mission to drive Clear and me out of Redwater. Mission failed. He’d given up eventually, round about the time that Maxwell and Linda died in a car accident. I was nineteen at the time.
“With all due respect, Blake, you only have part ownership of the bar,” said Sherry. “It belongs to Dodger as much as it belongs to you. I’m the one who runs the bar. Not you. I know what I want and need in a waitress—Kensey’s it. I know that she can be trusted, and I know I can depend on her. There’s never been a time when I couldn’t.”
He fell silent, and I decided I was done listening to this shit. Squaring my shoulders, I walked inside CCC. He turned, eyes meeting mine. And it was like being plugged into an electric socket. Even as my mind screamed, “prick,” sparks of electricity seemed to play across my skin as a powerful need punched right through me. The sensations were instant, heady, and totally beyond the realm of my control.
The air charged until it almost crackled. Whatever pheromones he was giving off were playing my body, pulling at it like some kind of magnetic force. Just like before, I felt compelled toward him yet also felt extremely reluctant to be near him. The sexual buzz was a high like no other, but it was the kind that made you do stupid things and make ridiculous decisions.
Sherry’s smile was small but genuine. “Hey, sweetheart. This is Blake Mercier; he bought Skinner’s share of the businesses. Blake, this is Kensey Lyons, my goddaughter.”
Surprise flashed in his eyes, and I smiled wryly as I said, “Yeah, I’m the suicidal, attention-seeking, crackhead you were talking about. Good to meet you.” I didn’t hide my irritation with him; I let him see that, yeah, I’d heard everything he’d said to Sherry.
He didn’t avert his gaze or shift uncomfortably. No, he stood straight, his broad shoulders back, his chin up, head tilted slightly. I kind of respected that, even though it pissed me off that he’d spoken of me with such distaste.
Ordinarily, I didn’t care what people thought of me—where was the sense in letting the opinions of perfect strangers affect you? But surely no one liked it when a guy they felt such an instant and elemental attraction to felt nothing but contempt for them. It meant the scales weren’t even. It gave him a level of power.
He twisted his sensual mouth. “At least you got rid of the reptile lenses. Did you know you’re not wearing matching ones today?”
“I’m not wearing any lenses,” I said, tone even. It took everything I had not to tense when he slowly walked toward me with the unruffled ease of a jungle cat. Without thought, I nervously swiped my tongue along my lip. His gaze dropped to my mouth. He blatantly traced its shape with his eyes, lingering on the small scar that sliced into my upper lip. Countless guys had called it, “sexy.” Personally, I disagreed.
Finally, his eyes snapped back to mine, glittering with something dark that made my stomach roll. He’d let me see that raw need, I thought. I had the feeling that nothing this guy did was accidental—if he’d wanted to hide his hunger, he could have done. Instead, he was trying to intimidate me with it. Trying to shake me and throw me off-balance. Well, fuck that. I looked him directly in the eye, keeping my muscles relaxed and my breathing easy.
I distantly registered the roar of a motorcycle. The sound got closer and closer until, finally, it came to a stop. Moments later, I heard heavy footsteps and a familiar whistle. I looked to see Cade stalking toward us. Dressed in a worn black tee, washed-out blue jeans, and scuffed leather jacket, he couldn’t have looked more different from Blake if he’d tried.
I’d bet his Aviator shades were hiding bloodshot eyes if he’d been on yet another bender. His short, choppy dark hair was as unkempt as always, yet it suited him and worked well with his edgy style and devil-may-care attitude.
He curved his arm around my neck and kissed my cheek. “That for me?” He took the take-out cup and had a quick sip. He groaned. “Kensey, baby, you’re a goddess. No one makes better coffee than you.”
“Hmm.” I inwardly sighed as he pulled me even closer. It was a territorial display. Not that Cade thought of me as his or anything. We hadn’t slept together in years, and neither of us had been serious about each other—it had just been two close friends either fooling around or comforting each other during bad times, and it hadn’t affected our friendship whatsoever. But he knew me well enough to sense when I was uncomfortable, no matter how well I hid it, and he obviously didn’t like the way Blake was staring so hard at me.
Dodger crossed to us and griped, “Hey, don’t be drinking my coffee, asshole.” He snatched it from his son, who gave him an unrepentant grin.
Cade then turned to Blake. “What brings you here on this fine afternoon?”
“We have some paperwork to go through,” Blake told him.
“I’ll leave you all to it,” I said. Cade’s arm slipped away, but not before he planted one last kiss on my cheek.
Sherry crossed to me. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get to work.” The moment we entered the bar, she said, “Sorry about that. Blake’s not a bad guy, but if he has an opinion, you’ll hear about it.”
I shrugged. “He’s not the first or only person to feel that way about me.” It still pricked at my mood, though. But a day of work would help wash that anger away.
There probably weren’t many waitresses who truly enjoyed their job, but I did. I’d been working there since I was twenty-one. It felt more like “home” than my apartment did, especially since the Armstrongs were like family to me. Reed was a nice enough guy, too, though I did find him kind of weird. Then again, if your father was a mortician who’d been training you in the process of embalmment since you were young in the hope that you’d join the family business, it would surely be hard to be normal.
Sarah and I frequented clubs and hot-spot bars; places where the pace was intense, the volume was loud, and the drinks were often complex. Things were different at Chrome Canvas Bar. The pace was slow and easy, it was rare that anyone ordered a foo-foo cocktail, and the noise level wasn’t bad at all. There was mostly just the chatter of the patrons, the low jukebox music, and CNN playing on the wall-mounted TV. Things occasionally got rowdy, but people had enough respect for Dodger to take their shit outside.
I wouldn’t describe the low-key hangout as a dive bar—mostly because the restrooms were clean, the floors weren’t sticky, and you didn’t feel the need to have a precautionary penicillin shot. But it certainly had that feel of a dive, especially with the stiff drinks and cheap food.
