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“How’s Michael doing? Looking forward to the new school?” I take a sidestep away from Belinda to keep some distance between us.
“I’m not here to talk about my kid, Mac.” She tilts her head. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I want to take you up on that motorcycle ride you promised me four whole years ago?” Her eyes flick from me to my bike, and there’s no mistaking the heat in her gaze.
“Listen, Belinda.” I take a deep breath and comb my fingers through my hair, looking for the right words.
It was never going to be more than sex with her. It’s never more than sex with anyone. I can’t do that lovey-dovey bullshit. It doesn’t make sense to me that people actually want that. To open up. To be vulnerable. Why give someone else the chance to hurt you? Why show someone else all your softest, weakest places?
Even if Belinda tried to convince me she just wanted sex, I can tell by the desperate edge to her voice that she wants more, and I simply can’t give it to her. I don’t have that in me to give.
Not to mention she was the first and only time I’ll ever hook up with a parent. It’s not worth the torture afterward, when they inevitably want more than I can give. It’s not worth throwing my job away. My reputation.
Then, just as I’m wracking my brain for the right way to tell this woman to leave me the hell alone, a car comes screeching into the parking lot and slides into a spot across the pavement from me. Four white-haired ladies shuffle out of it.
One of them is about four feet tall with eyes that shoot flames as she glances at another woman over the hood of the car. “Dorothy, you wouldn’t know good wine if I smashed a bottle of it over your head.”
I know Dorothy. She owns the Heart’s Cove Hotel with her twin sister, Margaret. She’s wearing an animal-print dress, cinched at the waist with a belt studded with turquoise. She gets out of the opposite side of the car and plants her hands on her hips. “And how would you know good wine, Agnes? I didn’t know they had sommelier classes in hell.”
Agnes sticks out her tongue.
A short-haired woman puts her hands up. “Ladies—” She stops talking when she sees me, points in my direction, and screams, “He’s here! It’s him! It’s the motorcycle man!”
Belinda lets out a huff. “Do you know these women?”
“Uh…” I frown, my eyes darting between the three women shuffling toward me, then to the driver who’s following behind. It’s Margaret, Dorothy’s twin sister and co-owner of the Heart’s Cove Hotel. “Yeah,” I finally say. “I do.”
“Mac Blair is the motorcycle man?” Dorothy screeches. She turns to Margaret, then swivels her head back to me. Then she squeals and jumps. “Yes! Mac Blair is the motorcycle man!”
“Excuse me, Belinda.” I walk away from her, angling toward the women in front of me. “Ladies. Can I help you?”
“Don’t know who you’re calling a lady, but I’m hoping it’s not this old hag,” the short woman, Agnes, says, jerking her chin at Dorothy.
I frown. “Um…”
“Oh, don’t mind her.” The pixie-cut lady with purple reading glasses around her neck grabs my elbow and yanks me closer. She peers into my eyes, then takes a step back and studies me from head to toe. Then she nods. “You’ll do.”
“I’ll…do?”
“What are we waiting for?” Dorothy cries. “Mac, we’re here for a drink. Lead the way.” She thrusts her arm toward the bar, then proceeds to lead the way herself.
The five of us enter the Cedar Grove in a whirlwind of silver hair and animal print. My father is behind the bar counting the till while Lee, my younger brother and part-time fill-in bartender, wipes bottles down with a white cloth. They both look up and freeze. My father’s brows inch down over his eyes.
“Ooh, moody,” Pixie Cut says. “I haven’t been in a dive bar in decades.”
“What are you calling a dive bar?” my father growls, but there’s no bite to his words. His lips tip up as he meets my gaze, tilting his head in question. Who are they and why are you with them? his eyes ask.
“She meant it as a compliment,” Margaret cuts in smoothly, looking utterly out of place in her peach pantsuit and pearls. “Didn’t you, Lottie?”
Pixie Cut—Lottie—still has her arm hooked through my elbow. She leads me toward the bar and hums her agreement. “Of course it’s a good thing.” Propping her reading glasses on the end of her nose, she glances at the bottles on the wall before removing the glasses and looking at Dorothy. “I thought you said this place had good wine.”
“This is what I was trying to tell you,” Agnes huffs. “She wouldn’t know it from vinegar.”
“No, I said I hope they have good wine,” Dorothy says with a roll of her eyes. “But I’m thinking maybe I’ll just have bourbon.”
Margaret groans. “Dor…are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Of course it’s not a good idea.” Dorothy plonks herself on a barstool right next to a grouchy old regular.
“New friends of yours?” my father asks me with a grin while the other ladies take their seats. His eyes linger on Margaret, watching the way her fingers run over her pearl necklace while she peruses the beer-stained menu. Having her in here is like having the First Lady visit my father’s bar. She makes everything seem grubbier. Suddenly, I see every speck of dust, every bit of dirt, every beer stain and layer of old grease.
