Revved: A Singer's Garage Novel

by Helene Laval

  REVVED

  A SINGER’S GARAGE NOVEL

  HELENE LAVAL

  Copyright © 2022 by Helene Laval

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ALSO BY HELENE LAVAL

  Singer’s Garage Series

  Wrecked

  Revved

  Ignition (April 2022)

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Don’t Miss Out

  About the Author

  1

  Annie

  “Jimmy! We’re out of Miller!” I yelled across the bar.

  Giving me a thumbs up, indicating he heard me over the raucous crowd and thumping music, he turned to head down to the basement to change the tap.

  “Grab a case of Heineken while you’re down there.” Could the scrawny kid even carry a case of beer? Did he even hear me?

  At just twenty-one, Jimmy had some growing to do, more outward than upward. The lanky gamer type spent more time in his virtual life than the real world. I had him on as a personal favor because his dad knew mine. I reluctantly agreed, because my dad could be downright salty when I refused a request. If Jimmy had more social skills, I’d be more impressed with the kid, but he had the personality of a chair.

  At least he didn’t complain.

  I turned to the pair of college age looking boys leaning over and waving their bills at me. They looked young, but every year I got older, twenty-one year-olds looked younger.

  “What can I get ya?” No time for pleasantries tonight. Leaning in trying to hear, my fingertips gripped the edge of the counter, ready to push off any second.

  The taller of the two t-shirt clad boys took a skittering look around the bar and lifted two fingers. “Two rum runners.”

  “Okay, let me see those IDs.” I held out my hand palm up and wiggled my fingers expectantly. Short Kid shakily handed me an out-of-state ID. I snatched it away from him and examined it closely. It wasn’t him. The guy on the ID was supposed to be thirty years old and forty pounds heavier. It also said he was five foot ten. I was five foot ten and glared down at him. Christ, looking at him again, he was probably still growing. Maybe he was sixteen, definitely not thirty. I knew for certain this ID wasn’t legit.

  I looked from the ID to the kid, lowered my chin and my eyes at the two of them. “Yeah, right.” It was all I needed to say. Tall Kid looked at Short Kid, and they turned and bolted for the door.

  “Shit.” I looked around for Jimmy, but he hadn’t come back yet. I had two waitresses on the floor I couldn’t get eyes on, and Cliff was in the kitchen dipping assorted foodstuffs in the fryers. I watched the pair muscle their way across the floor and out the front door.

  I sighed and tossed the stolen ID into the drawer with all the others I’ve collected over the years. In all honesty, it wasn’t worth the hassle of catching them and calling the police. They weren’t drinking, and I wasn’t worried about them driving.

  When you’ve been behind a bar for as long as I had, you pick up on some things. First, most twenty-one-year-olds know they look young, and their IDs are at the ready, expecting to be carded. They usually hand them over with the cash, if not first. Second, the drink. Rum runner? Are you serious? Did they look that up on the 1990s Internet? Had they ordered a shot of Jack Daniels or a Makers on the rocks, I may not have carded them, but a rum runner? A sugary, taste good drink for the uninitiated? Dead giveaway.

  I had to be on my toes more and more lately. Most people from these parts, scratch that, anybody around here knows not to mess with me or my bar. There were rules at O’Dell’s, thanks to my dear old criminal father, who used to own the place, and his motorcycle gang’s reputation. Half of the Dirt and Roses MC were currently in jail now, and there wasn’t an active chapter in close proximity. But most remembered the old days when it was certain that if you were out of line, you might find your maimed and bloody self tossed on the side of the road for even looking at an O’Dell the wrong way.

  But Dad had been away five of his fifteen years, and new residents had moved into town. Just a few short years ago, this town was mostly dead, but thanks to its proximity to the lake, a new highway, and a few industrious folks revamping Main Street, we were getting all sorts of travelers coming in and rich college kids passing through on their way to their wealthy getaways. We had a new coffee shop, a bakery just this year alone, and rumor had it, two more of our previously boarded up businesses were getting new tenants.

  That was good and bad. Business was picking up. Nights like this one when we had a live band playing, we were slammed nearly beyond capacity. I even started opening for lunch a few months back because I finally had enough business to pay a dining crew. I was still the only bartender. That meant six days a week, and fourteen-hour days for me. I really needed to get more help. I just hadn’t had the time.

  Jimmy came up the steps with the case of beer and started restocking the cooler. I headed down to the other end of the bar to a girl waving money at me. My two waitresses were at the staff bar waiting on drink orders. Shit.

  “Jimmy.” I waved him over. The kid lumbered to me.

  “See if the girls need beers filled.” I pointed at my waitresses. “Can you handle that? Filling beers?”

  “Yeah, okay.” He didn’t give me any eye contact, but he was across the bar in a flash. I looked over a moment later as I shook the cosmo I was mixing and saw him leaning in to the waitresses. He dug into the cooler and grabbed two cold mugs, set them flat under the taps, and started pouring.

  “Shit.” I watched as the beers filled instantly with foam. Too much foam. All foam. Jimmy looked over at me, a helpless expression on his face, and I put up a finger indicating for him to wait.

  This is what gets me about people. They aren’t too observant. You’d think after working here an entire week, albeit this being the busiest night yet, the kid would notice how to pour a beer from a tap. I mean, I’ve poured five hundred beers since he’s been helping out. Sure, I’ve had Jimmy cleaning and hauling and unloading deliveries, anything that did not include actually pouring any alcohol. But you’d think he would’ve noticed.

  Deep breath.

  I set the cosmo down, plucked the bill from the girl, and headed over to Jimmy.

  “Like this,” I said. I dumped the foam from one of the mugs into the little copper tap drain. With one hand, I held the mug at a slant as the other pulled the tap handle. The beer rolled all the way down the side of the glass and started filling. As the glass filled, I straightened the mug, and a perfect one-inch foamy head formed on the top. “Get more beer in this way. Foam, a finger's width.” I indicated so with my hand. “Got it?”
I looked at Jimmy and handed him the second mug.

  “Got it, Annie. Sorry.” He filled the mug perfectly.

  I need to be better at teaching. “Good, now help these girls get these filled.”

  I cashed Cosmo Girl’s bill and handed back her change. She walked away without leaving a tip. Bitch. I couldn’t dwell on it though, as there were three more customers needing my attention. Damn, I really needed to pee, too.

  Lining up six shot glasses neatly in a row for a round of Jack Daniels, I noted a cool draft filtering across the room, indicating the front door opening. This had been happening all evening, of course, but as I looked up toward the entrance, I saw a familiar tall figure with a full head of jet-black hair standing out above the sea of bodies. Steve Vega.

  My chest tightened watching the six foot tall man in the black leather jacket push his way to a nearby table. He swung his hundred-watt smile my way, and I quickly diverted my gaze and focused on pouring the shots and calming down my beating heart. I did not have the time or the inclination to think about Steve Vega. I had work to do, damn it.

  “Here ya go boys,” I said placing the shots on the bar proper in front of the group of college boys, obviously inexperienced at slumming it at the local dive bar where most people had a casual drink and settled in to enjoy live music. This group was clustered together, chanting “Drink! Drink! Drink!” like they were at a frat house, and desperately trying to scope out the crowd for women they’d never get a chance with.

  “Put it on the tab, babe,” one of the oldest looking of the group said directly to my chest and turned away, shot in hand, raised up to his group and declared, “To the weekend!”

  The rest of the boys cheered in response and drank their shots.

  I scowled deeply. I really hated being called babe. It comes with the territory sometimes, along with “Sweetie,” “Honey,” and “Sugar.” Same with men talking to my chest. I know I’m tall, but I was pretty certain it wasn’t the reason.

  I made a mental note to keep an eye on the group. They were getting a little sloppy in their movements and a little too cocky in their attitude. Experience told me this could be trouble.

  We had a decent rhythm going for the next hour. Jimmy would fill beers and let me know what mixers I had to make to fill orders. He ran back and forth between me and the service bar. Kid was doing alright, but I was uncertain if this was the job for him. He had no interaction with customers. He was proficient, but damn, the kid was a robot.

  One hour later of non-stop filling drinks, I couldn’t hold it anymore.

  “Jimmy!” I called over once again and walked near the service bar, which was next to the exit. “Watch the bar. I have to go pee.”

  Jimmy looked horrified. Whether it was having to deal with customers alone, or because I used the word “pee,” I didn’t care. My bladder was going to burst.

  “You’ll be fine.” I patted him on the shoulder.

  I scooted under the lift top counter as there were drinks waiting for pickup, and over a few feet to the wall. Passing by the kitchen saloon doors, I scooted down a long dim hallway that housed the public restrooms, through another set of swinging saloon doors to my locked office on the left, and the tiny staff lounge on the right. I bee-lined to the staff restroom. My pants were halfway off before I even got the door shut.

  My anxiety decreased by a hundred. Who knew that relieving yourself would have such an impact on your state of mind? I left the staff area, which was nothing more than a few lockers and a beat-up old sofa, feeling five pounds lighter, literally, and ready to go.

  Once in the hall, I heard a smooth, familiar voice call, “Hey, Annie!” and I turned to see none other than Steve Vega headed my way with his confident swagger. Leather jacket nowhere in sight, he wore a tight black t-shirt, perfectly fitted to show his lean muscled torso, light- colored, worn-out jeans and black Van slip-ons. My chest tightened again. Shit.

  Six feet of dark Latin hotness that had my mouth watering. Everything about him oozed sex.

  I swallowed once. Twice. “Steve, I didn’t know you were here tonight?” Lie. “You just get here?” Lie again.

  Nobody misses the Singer’s Garage crew when they come in. Usually, they sidle right up to the bar, but tonight they all grabbed a table near the back door. Steve worked at Singer’s Garage and frequented my bar on a regular basis. I could barely breathe when he was around, and steeled myself up to make sure that I’d never let that show.

  “Nah, we’ve been here a while. It’s crowded tonight and Jesse thought we should keep near the door.” He ran a hand through his thick, short black hair, his biceps tightening the sleeve of his t-shirt. Not that I was looking.

  “Aha. Gotcha.” I tried to sound casual, hoping my voice didn’t waiver, and crossed my arms in front of my chest. I didn’t know what else to do with them. I was afraid they might independently reach out and grab him.

  “The place is really packed tonight. I don’t think I could make it up there if I tried. Traci’s been getting our drinks and treating us good—not as good as you, though.” He winked, his ever-present smile flashing perfect teeth.

  I swallowed again. His tall, hard, muscled frame loomed over my smaller, but still tall self. I wasn’t a waif. I was fit. A natural fit, built with cheap bar food and lifting trays. Steve worked out, and it showed.

  “Um, yeah, I’m slammed, and I need to get back.” I had to move away. I really, really did. I took a step forward and stepped around Steve. “I left poor Jimmy up there alone. He’ll die soon if I don’t rescue him. See you,” I said over my shoulder as I fast walked back to the bar, my heart pounding the entire way. Damn, I better get a hold of this.

  I looked over at the table where my friend Rina was sitting, surrounded by three very large and handsome men. Jesse Singer, her fiancé and the owner of Singer’s Garage, was one of the nicest men in town, with a lumberjack’s body and the heart of a saint. His employees, Michael, the hulking, broody Viking type that spoke little but saw everything, and Steve, the flirty, smiling, dark and oh so handsome man that I was insanely attracted to. God help me.

  A few months back, Jesse’s girlfriend Rina went through some shit with Jesse’s crazy ex. Rina was stabbed, stuck in a trunk, and almost killed. She managed to get herself out of it, even though she almost died. I don’t blame her for staying away for a while and I was glad to see her out again. This is why they were near the exit, in case Rina had anxiety and needed to split. Understandable. I wanted to go over to and say hello in person, but a wave would have to do for now. I had drinks to pour.

  Steve caught me looking over and waving. He smiled and waved back. My heart started racing at that damn smile again. I wasn’t waving at you, damn it! I scowled. Hard. I did not like my body reacting to things without me willing it to, and it was doing that a lot tonight.

  Here’s the thing with Steve Vega: he is exactly my type—tall, dark and dangerous. Not that I have much experience with what my type was. My father and his motorcycle gang made sure of that. Not a lot of dating opportunities if your dad was somebody who’d beat you within an inch of your life for looking at his only daughter.

  I don’t know why I thought Steve was dangerous, either. He’d never been anything less than friendly, charming, and helpful. His best friends were the Singers for crying out loud, and those boys were as homebred American good boys as you’d find. The younger Singer, Jameson, who was currently at college, fucked half the young women in town, but I’ve never heard a single word spoken against him, and as the owner of the local small-town bar, I heard shit talk on everybody.

  Let’s just say I knew a thing or two about hiding and running from your problems. Steve was too nice, too smiley. I didn’t trust it. Those dimpled cheeks were not hiding the fact that there was something underneath all that charm. I watched him many times converse and flirt with women. He was very good at getting others to talk, but I didn’t know a single thing about him. I didn’t trust it, so it was best for me to stay the hell aw
ay, no matter what my body kept telling me.

  2

  Steve

  It was busy as hell at O’Dell’s. It was dark, loud, and too many people were pressing into my personal space. I didn’t like it one bit. I wanted to go to the bar to our usual spot but opted to stay near Jesse and Rina. Traci, one of the O’Dell waitstaff, kept our pitchers filled, negating a reason for me to go to the bar to sit near Annie. That sucked. I really liked watching Annie work.

  I looked over to catch a glimpse of the aforementioned woman, when I saw her smile and wave. Smile and wave? Annie did not smile and wave, but I smiled right back before I realized it was meant for Rina. Annie looked at me and scowled. Damn stupid Steve. One day, that girl is going to smile at me.

  “How come she smiles at you?” I leaned over to Rina’s ear.

  “Because she’s my friend.” Rina had to shout back at me.

  “She’s my friend too. I’ve known her longer than you.” I sulked.

  “She’s scared of you.” Rina leaned over, her light brown ponytail nearly falling in her cup.

  “What? Me? Why? How? What have I ever done?” I put my hand over my heart, looking wounded.

  “You’re too much for her. She doesn’t know what to do with you, so she just defends herself.” Rina leaned back and shrugged her shoulders.