LUNA
The bar smelledlike stale beer and cheap whiskey that would rot your gut if you drank more than a few sips. Half the floor was covered in crushed peanut shells while the other half was sticky with spilled drinks that hadn’t been mopped up properly. The stools were wobbly, the vinyl seat cushions cracked or torn, the stuffing popping out like a busted tin of biscuits, and every drink was served in a thin, cheap, clear plastic cup, not a literal glass in sight.
It was a dive, barely half a step up from a pit, but it was absolutely perfect for me, given my mood the past couple months. Truth was, I wasn’t feeling much better than the shit making my shoes stick to the grimy floor.
This wasn’t where I was supposed to be, especially at eleven o’clock on a Wednesday night. And I absolutely wasn’tsupposed to be slinging drinks behind the bar, and not only because I didn’t have the first clue what the hell I was doing.
I’d been my own boss up until a few months ago, living the dream most people had of running their own company. I worked as a freelance graphic and web designer, and I’d been damn good at it.
I’d had nothing to complain about. I was riding high and living my best life. Then everything started going downhill. Business had started to slow down once I’d tapped the local market. The change had been gradual at first, but then the pace picked up, going from a deluge to a steady stream to barely more than a trickle.
That was the thing about small towns, the client base wasn’t very big. Everyone in town did their best to support me, but there was only so much need for a graphic designer. I’d attempted to expand my client base, putting my name out in the bigger cities nearby, but people in those cities tended to go with larger firms. No one wanted to take a shot on a self-taught designer when they could have someone with that coveted degree.
I ran through my nest egg faster than expected, trying to keep my business afloat, holding out hope that things would start looking up. Of course, hindsight being the bitch it was, I was able to look back and see all the things I’d done wrong—like bail my mom out every damn time she needed money instead of putting my foot down, or buying a house I couldn’t really afford just because it was my dream home. But focusing on that wouldn’t do anything but make me feel even worse than I already did.
Determined to climb out of the quicksand that threatened to suck me under, I’d pulled myself up by the bootstraps and found work wherever I could. Well, almost wherever I could. There were bars and restaurants in my hometown of Whitecap where I could have gotten a job, but I was still struggling with the embarrassment of my business going under and wasn’t quite ready for the people in my life to know just yet. That meant I’d gone one town over to this shithole, all because none of my friends would set foot in this place, and applied for the bartending gig.
I could have gone to my best friend, Cheyanne, who still worked part-time at Warren’s General Store despite having her own growing pottery business. She’d mentioned more than once that orders were coming in faster than she could handle and how she was considering bringing on help, but my pride had prevented me from telling her the truth.
Or I could have gone to her fiancé, Trent, who was opening a branch of the security firm he’d worked at back in Hope Valley, Virginia before making the move to the opposite coast to be with his woman. Even my friend Monica, who owned Drip, the local coffee shop, would have happily taken me on. But going to any of them would have meant admitting that, while they were thriving, I’d failed colossally. I just couldn’t do it.
Even though I hated this job. Even though the only drink I had any clue how to mix was a margarita... something the drunks, criminals, and outlaws who made up this place’s clientele weren’t too big on. Even though my boss was a lecherous, sleazy pig, I couldn’t bring myself to tell my loved ones the truth. Not while the shame still festered.
It was on that thought, while I was in the process of scooping up the empty plastic cups on the bar top and throwing them in the trashcan beside me, that the door swung open with the arrival of another customer, bringing the grand total for the night so far to a whopping ten.
Thank the good Lord I was the only one on the schedule for tonight because the tips so far were laughable, and if I’d had to split them with someone else, that laughter might have turned into tears. Not that these drunk wastes-of-space were likely to tip well in the first damn place.
The guy who just walked into the bar looked like he belonged in this place just as much as I did, maybe even less so. He wore pressed slacks and a crisp white button-down. The shirt was open at his throat and the cuffs of his sleeves were folded to his elbows, revealing thick, veined forearms, the skin tanned a lovely golden caramel from the sun.
His gaze remained downcast as he moved through the bar. He didn’t seem to notice the stares he was getting from the regulars or the fact that his expensive dress shoes were making a horrifying slurping sound with each step he took on the disgusting floor as he made his way toward the bar.
It didn’t take insightful bartender juju to realize this dude wasn’t in a good way as he closed in on the bar and hefted himself onto an empty stool. It was obvious by the slump in his shoulders, the slight bow in his back, and the simple fact that he was here that screamed the guy was having a pretty rough day.
I started in his direction, ready to save him from making his evening even worse by sticking around a place like this. This crowd wasn’t really hip on the clean-cut suit and tie types. Hell, I wasn’t sure they were hip on just plain clean, so this man stuck out like a sore thumb. “Hey there, listen—”
He cut me off midsentence. “Scotch, neat,” he said on a grunt. “Macallan if you’ve got it.”
The bark of laughter that erupted from my chest jolted the man into finally looking at me for the first time since he entered the bar. “Sorry, but have you bothered to look around at where you are?” I asked once I’d gained control of my hilarity. “This look like the kind of place that carries Macallan to you?”
His head swiveled on his neck, taking in the rundown bar—for the first time if the shock in his gaze was anything to go by. Instead of shooting up and hightailing it out like I’d expected, he finally looked back at me and asked, “Then what do you have?”
“Stuff not even suitable for the bottom shelf,” I informed him honestly. “That is, unless you’re looking to burn a hole in the lining of your stomach.”
He let out a sigh that sounded like it held the weight of the world. “Fine. I’ll just take a beer then. Whatever you have on tap.”
The beer wasn’t much better than the liquor, but I figured I’d done my part in trying to run this guy off. Wasn’t my fault it didn’t take. Hopefully the designer shoes and expensive watch meant he’d be a better tipper than the snaggle-toothed patron farther down the bar. Last night, that guy had tipped me with an expired coupon to a sandwich shop that had gone out of business back in the 90’s.
Moving to the tap, I flipped over one of the slightly larger plastic cups we kept for beer, and pulled the brew that tasted the least like piss. “Here you go,” I said as I set the cup down in front of him. I shrugged my shoulders when he looked from the cup to me in dismay, then pointed at the beer. “Hey, man, what did you expect? This is a dive. We serve rot gut and cheap beer in plastic cups. But my guess is you didn’t walk in here for the ambience, so cheap or not, that’ll do the job you need it to do.”
With another sigh, this one more weary than heavy, he lifted the cup and took a huge gulp, only wincing slightly at the aftertaste. “It’ll do,” he said before taking another pull. “And I’ll open a tab.”
My gaze darted around the bar one more time. Most everyone had gone back to minding their own business, drowning their sorrows in cheap booze, but there were two or three guys who looked like they were in the mood to start some shit. “You sure you want to do that?”
His brow furrowed and I noticed this man wasn’t just attractive like I’d initially expected, but downright hot. Expressive, arched brows rested over the most distinctive blue-gray eyes I’d ever seen. As he looked at me, I was reminded of the morning fog rolling over the choppy sea outside my bedroom window, or the angry crash and slam of the waves on an overcast day.
A fringe of thick, dark lashes encircled those beautiful eyes, leading down to cheekbones sharp enough to slice through a wedge of Manchego cheese. His Grecian nose was perfectly straight, and his powerful square jaw was coated with a five o’clock shadow that only accentuated his classic good looks. In fact, he was so damn attractive, I wanted to lean across the bar so I could drag my tongue up the column of his thick throat.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, pulling me from my ogling, as he asked, “Why wouldn’t I?” Yeah, this guy definitely didn’t belong in this bar, but I couldn’t say I was bummed he’d come waltzing in. Out of all the shitholes in all the towns, that man came walking into mine.