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I heard the roar of a motorcycle round the corner of the bar. It came into sight heading for the exit, but then it abruptly turned around and stopped in front of me. The motor shut off as the rider ripped off his helmet.
I steeled my shoulders, ready to deal with whatever this asshole was about to throw at me, but I wasn’t prepared to see James Malcolm’s furious face.
His eyes narrowed. “The fuck you’re drivin’.”
I shot him a glare. “Who said I was driving?”
His brow lifted slightly, just enough for me to notice in the white neon light cast by the Scooter’s Tavern sign. “Maybe the keys in your hand.”
My grip on the keys tightened, the metal edges digging into my flesh. “I’m going to sit in my car until I’m sober, not that it’s any of your business.”
His back stiffened. “It becomes my business if you get pulled over for a DUI. Or worse, you kill some poor family.”
I hadn’t planned on driving, but his accusation was like a stab wound to the heart. He thought I was that irresponsible? Then again, he didn’t even know me, so why was I taking it personally?
“You have three choices,” he said with a challenging gleam in his eyes. “One, you go back inside, hand Misti your keys until she deems you ready to drive, Two, you call an Uber and leave your car here. Or three, I call the sheriff and tell him one of my customers is about to drive home and she needs a breathalyzer test. Which is it?”
What the actual hell? He was going to call the sheriff on me?
God, that was rich.
It was also embarrassing as hell. “How about you trust me to judge whether I’m ready to drive or not?”
His eyes hardened. “No offense, but I don’t trust anyone, let alone a drunk. Now which is it? Option one, two, or three?”
While it wasn’t hard to pick, it was hard to spit out, “One.” Because I was broke, had nothing to rush home to, and I had no idea how I’d get my car in the morning.
“Good choice,” he said, pulling his phone out of his back pocket and tapping something onto the screen. “I let Misti know you’re coming back in. She’s gonna take your keys until she says you’re ready.”
“I’m not some kid,” I snarled.
“Maybe not, but your sense of pacing while drinking is shit. Now go inside.” He pointed to the door.
“Fuck you,” I grumbled, flipping him off as I opened the door.
His response was to start his motorcycle back up and gun the motor.
I was pissed as hell, but I went back inside and sat at the bar. Misti walked over to me and held out her hand with a sympathetic look. “Boss’s orders.”
I wanted to tell her that her boss was an asshole, but instead I handed her my keys.
“Would you rather have nachos or fries?” she asked.
“Surprise me,” I grumbled, pulling out my phone. In all honesty, I couldn’t be mad at either of them. It was the right thing to do, which was surprising coming from James Malcolm, especially given his alleged criminal history. If anything, I was embarrassed. This person wasn’t me. The real Harper Adams had a couple of drinks a month. She didn’t wallow. She sure didn’t have bartenders monitoring her consumption of alcohol.
Misti handed me a glass of water, then headed through a door to the back.
My cheeks burned but a quick glance around the room told me that no one had watched my walk of shame back into the bar, or at least they weren’t ogling me now, which I found to be a relief. I let my gaze drift to the TV screen over the bar, watching a basketball game as I sipped my water and tried to not think about the way my life had crashed and burned.
“Here you go,” Misti said, placing a basket in front of me. “Best damn nachos in southern Arkansas.” The basket was piled high with cheese, shredded chicken, sour cream, and guacamole.
I took a bite, then released a soft moan.
“I told you they were good,” Misti said with a big smile. “Eat those, down your water, and you’ll be right as rain in no time.” She wandered down to the end of the counter to take someone else’s order before I had a chance to say thank you.
An hour later, Misti declared me ready to go. I’d finished the nachos and two glasses of water, using the forced downtime as an opportunity to study the place. While there were a few rougher looking characters back by the pool tables, most of the patrons looked like people you’d find hanging out at a pub in Little Rock. Louise was right. Malcolm might own the bar, but he didn’t seem to have stuffed it full of his cronies.
She handed me back my keys, giving me a sympathetic look. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on in your life, but no man’s worth it. The best revenge is to have a life worth living. Show him not only do you not need him, but that you’re a hell of a lot better without him.”
