Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Home.
This bar was home to me, and about the last thing on this planet I actually loved.
Hope you like it, Dad.
Every now and then, in the quieter moments, thoughts of my father would slip past my barriers. Not that I needed to keep memories of him locked away, but damn did they sting. It never got easier, missing people you lost, but the pain...morphed. Sometimes into something more manageable. Other times it twisted into emotions sharp enough to cut.
I’d lost enough people to know that, to have a fucking master’s degree in it. Losing people was my curse in life, and no amount of spells or wishes or prayers would ever change that for me.
People died.
People left.
But my life? Kept on going.
The entrance door swung open and I straightened, thankful to be jerked back to the present. I plastered the bartender mask I’d perfected years ago on my face—the look that screamed I’m inviting but I could also kick your ass. Bartending 101: you must look both friendly and terrifying, or the inebriated patrons will never respect you or your space.
“What’ll it be?” I asked as I scanned my stock of mixes, fixes, and glasses beneath the bar.
“Do you have anything on this menu that isn’t deep-fried?”
I froze. My inventory forgotten with the sound of that deep, slightly tortured voice, and my smile turned into a full-on smirk.
I slowly trailed my eyes up, finally settling on the man sitting before me.
Broad shoulders, cut chest, neatly trimmed beard decorating that strong jaw, and eyes that were storm-cloud gray.
I held his gaze, slowly twirling my finger to indicate the entire area. “It’s a bar, West Coast.”
He set the tiny plastic menu facedown. “Bars can have fish.”
“Yeah, when it’s beer-battered and deep-fried.”
His laugh was short, too quick. “Some bars have grilled fish.”
“Scythe isn’t one of those hipster breweries with glazed brussels sprouts as an appetizer. We’ve got cheese smothered burgers, salted fries sizzling out of the deep-fryer, and our fish is beer-battered.”
He nodded, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. After he’d taken a few too many seconds to respond, I broke the silence.
“Twice in two days,” I said. “You must’ve taken a liking to me.”
“Maybe,” he said, that amusement doubling. “Or maybe the bar you work at happens to be right across the street from the apartment I’m now occupying.”
“So I guess that means you survived the first cut?” I asked.
“Six goalies down, five to go.”
I grabbed a glass and filled it to the brim with ice, then water, and slid it in front of him.
“This isn’t bourbon,” he said, taking the glass and drinking from it.
“Nope. And we both know whiskey isn’t going to solve your problems. Especially not when you stomped in here looking for health food.”
He chuckled, setting the drink down. “I didn’t stomp.”
I arched a brow at him. “Please. I could practically feel you all Jurassic Park style before you reached the door.”
His grin flared before he glanced down, surveying himself. “Now you’re making me feel self-conscious,” he teased.
I leaned my elbows on the bar, drawing as close to him as I dared. Close enough to know he smelled like cinnamon and rain. “You know you’re a perfect specimen, Sawyer McCoy.”
“But?” he challenged, never breaking our gaze.
“But,” I said, leaning back to my normal position behind the bar. “I can feel the nerves vibrating off of you.”
His shoulders sank a fraction.
“Relax, West Coast,” I said and set a small bowl of celery—the stalks I usually adorned my bloody Marys with—in front of him. “Chew on that for a sec.” I spun around, heading toward the kitchen in the back.
“While you what?” he called after me, but I was already through the kitchen doors, cell in hand.
Ten minutes later, I’d called one of my co-workers to cover the rest of my shift, and texted the Reaper crew. Making fast friends with Langley Pierce, Harper Thompson, and Faith Vestergaard had been one of the best developments in my life, and it also gave me access to the rest of the team when necessary.
Tonight absolutely called for it.
“All right,” I said as I came through the doors and around the bar instead of behind it. Sawyer spun on his stool to face me, his head slightly tilted.
“All right, what?”
“Let’s go,” I said, motioning for him to follow me as I headed toward the exit.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked, but followed as I left the bar. “Don’t you need to work?”
“I called someone to cover my shift. She’ll be here in a few minutes, and we’re slow right now so the waitress inside can handle things until then. No worries, West Coast.”
“Won’t your boss be pissed that you left?”
I smirked. “Yeah, she can be a real bitch, but I know how to handle her.”
I led him around the building to the back where I parked my car. Early evening had turned the sky a wicked mixture of indigos and grays and coated everything in a light shadow. The outcropping of trees hugging the back lot did nothing to help the somber setting, and from the worried look in Sawyer’s eyes, he felt it.