Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
“See, that’s why I’ve been hesitant to have you working here,” Remy says without taking his eyes off the guy.
“He’s a dumbass.” I glance down at the floor. “My legs would get all sticky if I came to work in a skirt.”
“I doubt he was concerned about your comfort.” Remy pats my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I had it. I told him I wasn’t here as decoration.”
“Good, but”—he points to the opening of the hallway leading to the office, kitchen, and basement—“I could see your shoulders crawl up to your ears from there. That’s why I came over.”
“Thanks.”
“I need to get someone else in here on the weekends. Starting to realize how much I—” he stops and clamps his mouth shut.
Pain pokes my chest. “Depended on Griff to help you out around here?” I finish for him.
He shakes his head. Of course he doesn’t want to admit that to me.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. “That guy bothers you again, aim the soda gun at his face.”
Chuckling, I nod and pick up the sprayer. “Got it.”
Remy turns and pulls out his phone, swiping and tapping over the screen while he walks to the other end of the bar.
I keep busy by cleaning. The counter has a layer of something sticky that’s probably been there since my grandparents opened his place decades ago. Lots of scrubbing to do.
Sweat rolls down the side of my face and I flick my fingers against my cheek.
The door swishes open. I tip my head to see who our new customer is and smile at the tall guy walking inside. His bright, almost-orange hair sticks up in all directions. Eraser’s cousin, Torch. Our eyes meet and he lifts his hand, waving. He hooks his thumbs in his pockets and approaches the bar.
“Hey, Molly. I didn’t know you’d be here.” He settles on the stool in front of me.
“Remy’s actually letting me help out now.” I sweep my hand toward the beer taps. “What can I get you?”
“Whatever’s on tap.” His eyebrows pinch together. “Are you allowed to serve me?”
That question could have a few different meanings and answers, but I supply the most obvious one. “Yup. I’m allowed to serve beer.”
I pull the beer and pass him the mug, then stand there awkwardly. Go back to cleaning…or make small talk?
“Your hair looks different.” He ruffles his fingers through his own hair and nods at me.
Surprised he even noticed, I tug on my ponytail. “Uh, I trimmed it and lightened it a little. For summer,” I hurry to add, desperate to hide the truth—that I thought a change might stop people from recognizing me as that-poor-girl-whose-boyfriend-cheated-on-her.
“You doing okay?” A hint of pity colors the question. Great, if he hasn’t watched the show, I’m sure Eraser told his cousin all about it.
“Yeah. Fine.” I smile all the way up to my eyeballs.
“Torch.” Remy clasps his friend’s shoulder in a tight grip. “Thanks for stopping by. How you been?”
Torch swivels the stool toward my brother. “Not too bad. What’d you need?”
Ah, so Remy called Torch to come in? Interesting. Torch is in Remy’s friend circle, but I never thought they were particularly close. More like, he tolerates him because he’s Eraser’s cousin and Pax’s nephew.
Remy turns and points at me. “Jigsaw’s supposed to stop by. Have him sit at the bar. I’ll be back in a few.”
“Uh, okay.” Jigsaw doesn’t seem like the kind of biker who wants to take instructions from a teenager but whatever.
Torch slides off the stool and pulls out his wallet.
“Bro, it’s fine,” Remy protests.
“For my lovely server.” Torch holds out a twenty to me.
“I can’t.” My nervous gaze darts to Remy who shrugs.
Torch sets the bill on the bar and sticks his glass on top of it.
“Thanks,” I mutter, scooping up the twenty.
The two of them disappear down the hallway. Remy better not go too far. The old guys keep glancing at me. I avert my eyes and return to scrubbing the counter.
“Miss?” someone calls.
Crap.
I turn and find someone else from the party on the other side of the bar. “Can we get another pitcher?”
“Sure. I’ll bring it right over.” I tilt sideways to check if the table needs anything else. Maybe some nuts to soak up all the beer.
I pull a pitcher and shake some mixed nuts into a bowl, then carry them over. Avoiding the guy who’d been so concerned about my wardrobe, I set the pitcher in the middle of the table.
The front door swishes open again but I don’t bother looking over to see who it is.
“Took long enough,” fashion-police guy grumbles at me.
“Cut it out, Bob,” one of his friends scolds. “Thanks.” He lifts the nuts. “For this too.”
I let out a relieved breath. “Do you want to order anything from the kitchen?”
“Nah, we’re good.”
Something grazes my leg, behind my knee, then travels higher. Hard enough to feel it through my jeans.