by Brill Harper
Every day, we do the same as the last. We eat, we work, we watch some interminable sports program on the television. The bar runs itself. He closes early every night. He has no patience for drunk people. I don’t understand why people keep coming. I do understand why it doesn’t make more than it needs to keep the doors open—but Nash is reluctant to do anything about it.
He likes Ironwing the way it is. And if I didn’t need to figure out how to get out of here, I’d like how it is too.
It’s a slow evening, so I brought my textbooks for next semester downstairs with me. I haven’t actually been accepted into the program yet, but I figure getting a head start can’t hurt. Nash is pretending to polish a glass, but I can feel him looking at me. I try to ignore him while I take an inventory of all the ways I’m not ignoring him. His scent, I’m not ignoring that. It’s alluring and sexy, and I know for a fact he doesn’t use cologne. It’s all him. It’s powerful and virile and all the things I never thought I liked. The undertones are bone-meltingly good and zing me in all the places I ought not to be zinging if I value my pride.
I also don’t ignore the weight of his stare. It presses on me like he’s always trying to uncover something more. Like my secret shame is somehow up for grabs.
And then there’s the energy around him that I can’t ignore. It’s like a swirling vortex of...no...actually, it’s like a bug light. It attracts me even though I know it will zap me if I go anywhere near it.
Finally, unable to deny him any longer, I look up at him from my book.
He searches my gaze for a minute, but I don’t know what he’s looking for. “You can't learn life from books.”
Books are safer than men. “Of course you can.”
He winks at me, possibly knowing it will cause an all-out body tingle for me. “Tell me what your degree in poetry has done for you. What real-world skill have you acquired?”
I don’t want to be a loser. I don’t want to be the butt of a joke or the mark of someone’s con. It’s true, my degree has been useless in many real-world situations, but there is one thing that a degree in poetry has given me.
I know how to rhyme.
I take off my reading glasses and stand up. He pulls back, wondering what I’m up to, and I walk to a table and pull out a chair. As I start to climb on it, Nash rushes over to hold my arm and stabilize my climb.
“What the hell are you doing, Gertrude?”
I rise to my feet, and all seven patrons look at me when I yell out, “Excuse me, I have something to say.”
The volume on the jukebox magically goes down, something I still haven’t figured out how to do even though I’ve fiddled with every button on it, and I take a deep breath. “There once was a princess from the city. One day, her life got very shitty. She moved to the Bay, the beast said she couldn’t stay, and now everyone has his pity.”
Everyone claps and I mock bow, pleased with myself for doing something so unTru. When they ask for another, I blush but do my best.
“The once was a fellow named Nash. Who claimed he had the best ass. It’s not what you thought, not supple or taut, but brays too much and eats grass.”
Nash folds his arms over his chest. His very broad chest that is stretching the limits of his Hanes t-shirt. He’s pretending to be chagrined with me, but I see the smile behind the smirk and I think I just impressed him a little.
He offers me a hand down, but when I get to the floor, he doesn’t move back right away, and the chair is pressed up against my legs. My stomach quivers and my nipples perk up like they think they can reach him if they try hard enough. I move my eyes up, way up, and he looks so big and bad and ...sexy. The breath catches in my throat. I can’t touch the bottom here. I don’t know what to do with sexy. No one has ever been sexy in my vicinity before. His gaze is amused and heated, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and isn’t the least bit sorry about it.
“Ahem,” a woman clears her throat from behind Nash, and he turns and steps away.
“Stella,” he intones. The way he might to a little sister who is asking to play with his toys or hang out in his “boys only” treehouse.
“I want to borrow Tru for a bit. She hasn’t met Dixie, and I think she needs a break.”
He puts his hands on his hips, drawing my attention to the V of his waist. “She hasn’t been working hard enough to need a break.” His gaze meets mine, relaxed despite his pretend gruffness.
“Good, then you don’t need her.”
“No dogs, Stella. I’m serious.”
I don’t know why he bothers with the pretend gruffness. I haven’t seen it work on anyone yet.
Stella pulls me away to the corner and introduces me to Dixie, her soon to be sister-in-law.
“So you’re getting married,” I say and bite my tongue so I don’t warn her to do a title search on the groom first. “How did you meet Stella’s brother?”
“Oh, you’re gonna love this,” Stella interrupts. “Dixie was a wrong number text to Leo and they fell in love.”
“In a text?”
Dixie laughs. “Not just one text, no. Leo flirted with me in the text.”
“Gross,” Stella interjects, taking a sip of her wine.
“And then we just kept talking.”
“Talking.” Stella huffs indignantly and good-naturedly. “They had dirty, dirty phone sex and then found out they lived three blocks away from each other.”
“Wow, that’s quite a coincidence.”
“That’s destiny,” Dixie answers on a sigh. A sigh that says she might actually prefer Leo’s company to ours right now.
I roll my eyes and catch Stella doing the same and discover a woman I might actually be able to be friends with in a way I never could with my sorority sisters.
Stella clinks my glass. “I was thinking. I think Fifi needs a friend. You’re going to be busy learning the bar business and then school. It would be good for her to have a dog companion so she doesn’t get lonely or bored.” Stella leans across the table conspiratorially. “I know these things because I work for a vet.”
“You’re a receptionist,” Dixie reminds her.
“I still know what I’m talking about.”
Fifi is currently behind the bar with Nash right now. They are both watching the game. I don’t know what game. I can’t keep them all straight. But Fifi likes to watch the action on the screen, something I never knew she liked until we moved here. “I can’t take care of two dogs right now.”
“Nash could use a dog.”
Dixie looks over her shoulder. “It looks like Nash has a dog.”
I shrug, trying not to feel a little hurt that Fifi likes him so well. “We’ll be leaving in a few months.”
Stella claps her hands together. “Then I shall start working on this immediately. No, actually, the moon is void of course until tomorrow morning. I’ll do it after. Void moon is terrible for dog matching.”
“What is void moon?” Dixie asks.
Stella’s eyes light up. She must really like the moon. “So, you guys know the moon has phases, right? Full moon, new moon, waxing and waning.” We nod. “Well, she also moves through each zodiac sign. Void of Course means she’s transitioning in the sky between signs—but isn’t in either. It’s a really good time to do self-care and inner work, but I try not to match anything or sell anything too hard during a void moon. Things just lack oomph.”
“That’s interesting. I don’t know much about moon phases, but I know my grandfather got a lot more restless during a full moon the last few months.” They both pat my arms and I’m overcome by the reassuring touch. Touch is not something I’ve had a lot of in my life. I don’t want to cry or garner their pity. “Anyway, I don’t think Nash wants a dog.”
“Nash doesn’t always know what’s good for him. That’s why it’s a good thing he’s got me for a friend.”
Nash wanders over about ten minutes later. “Last call, ladies.”
“Dude,” Stella looks at her phone, “It’s 8:30
. What kind of bar closes at 8:30?”
“I need my beauty rest,” he tells her and starts picking up chairs.
“Well, that’s certainly true. But still, you could hire actual people to work and keep the place open until a reasonable time.”
He picks up her glass. “You done with this?”
I push away from the table, saying goodbye, and go get the broom. While I sweep, Nash does the other closing procedures. I turn off ESPN and turn the radio on. A Frank Sinatra song comes on, and memories of my grandfather make me smile. A kind of watery smile, but it’s good to remember him. Boy, did he love Frank Sinatra.
Nash takes my broom, and I’m suddenly whisked into his arms. He starts dancing me around the tables, and I stiffen for just a moment before I relax, cotillion practice coming back to me. “Where did you learn to dance like this?”
“My high school football coach made us take ballroom dancing lessons in the off season.”
“That’s amazing.”
He shrugs. “It’s really good for coordination.”
I don’t think he needs any help with coordination. He seems to know how to use his hands and his body, and dancing is making me think of the kind of sex I’ve never had. The kind I didn’t think I ever wanted. The kind that his arrogance and good looks probably excel at.
He flashes me a smile. A simply devastating smile. “Are you thinking naughty thoughts right now, Gertrude?”
“I don’t have naughty thoughts.”
“I somehow doubt that is true.”
I shake my head. “I’m not like most women my age. I never have been.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
I exhale loudly. I really don’t want to have this conversation with him. But maybe it’s best to just get it out there. “I’m just not sexual.”
He snorts on a laugh. “Sure you are.” I try to pull out from his embrace, mortified that he’s laughing at me, but he tightens his arms. “Did someone tell you that you shouldn’t be sexual?”
“I’m just not.”
He pulls me in closer, lowering his head so his strong jaw brushes against my head. In a voice so deep it should be illegal, he says my name. I pull back and look up at him, and our gazes lock and hold. We stop swaying to the music and somehow my heartbeat slows even while my pulse races.
A warm flush spreads through my body again, and I panic. “I have to go.”
His loose expression tightens, and he lets go of me and steps back. “Where you running to now?”
My thoughts jumble into a mix of unintelligible gibberish. I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want him to let go of me. “I just...I can’t...I have to go.”
And run I do. All the way up the stairs to his apartment. My refuge and the lion’s den.
Chapter Five
Nash
TRU HAS BEEN AVOIDING me most of the day, which doesn’t surprise me, and I’d like to say it doesn’t bother me but it does.
Something has her spooked about men, though I guess finding out your husband is a lying thief could do that to a person. But I feel like there’s more to the story.
Despite her assurances that she’s not a sexual person, I feel the chemistry between us and I know she does too. How could she not? It’s enough to set off the smoke alarms faster than her cooking.
My dad brought a pizza over, so we’re having a slice at the bar when he whistles under his breath. I know that whistle, so I follow his gaze to the door.
There’s a redhead, though the first thing I notice about her isn’t her hair color. It’s not like she’s trying to hide that rack from anyone. She struts in on heels so high she must fight off nosebleeds. The dress that barely covers her is leopard print, and she’s got bangles up and down both arms.
The aura of sex surrounding her is potent, stunning almost. She’s the kind of woman men fall all over themselves to get near even if they think she’s out of their league.
My dad, the dirty old man, is instantly in his version of love.
“What is a beautiful woman like you doing in a dump like this?” he asks when she makes her way up to the bar.
“Seriously, Dad?”
She smiles and runs a long fingernail down his shirt. And then she blinks. “Well, fuck me, you’re Brandon McKendrick.”
Dad just laughs, used to the reaction. “I am. You’re too young to be a fan, though.”
“I’ve got ears, don’t I? I didn’t realize when I came into Ironwing, I’d actually meet Ironwing.”
My dad gestures to the empty bar stool next to him. “What can I get you to drink?”
She slides onto her barstool, avoiding a show somehow, and orders a glass of red. Of course, my dad is not paying for her drink, I am. That’s how it works around here. But I don’t think she wandered in off the street for a glass of wine, so I pay close attention to this Jessica Rabbit newcomer.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks her.
The feline smile that crosses her face promises him the kind of rewards a son doesn’t want to think of his father reaping. Just because I’ve seen him in Spandex doesn’t mean I’m immune to more embarrassment. “I’m Pauline. I’m actually looking for a friend of mine. I heard she was in town. Her name is Tru.”
I slide the glass to her, my ears perking up. “You’re a friend of Tru?” I try to keep the surprise out of my tone, but don’t do a very good job.
She raises one brow, chastising me for my misstep.
“We’re acquaintances. Is she around?”
It’s not my place to question her, but I don’t have a great feeling about this. Tru’s already been chewed up and spit out by someone who played a different game than she was ready for. Pauline’s rules are not PG-rated from where I’m standing. Too late, I notice Tru come through the door with a tower of books in her hands and a dog carrier hanging off her arm.
She’s wearing jeans, for a change, but she’s paired them with a top that buttons all the way up to her throat with a schoolmarm bow tied right there in case one comes undone. She’s wearing her reading glasses, but since she’s not reading, she has to look over the top of them to see where she’s going. She bobbles the stack until she gets it set down on the bar, and I swing another look at Pauline, noticing the differences between them. Pauline uses her breasts to distract the men around her, and it works. Tru pretends she doesn’t have breasts. Pauline leans into my father, watching him speak like he’s the most fascinating man she’s ever spoken to, touching him lightly on his wrist. Tru can’t get within a foot of me without tensing up and looking like a rabbit ready to bolt.
Pauline probably has moves that are illegal in some states. Tru...well, for some damn reason she’s the one that makes my jeans get tight just because she walked into the room.
And I’m worried about whatever trainwreck is about to happen but can’t stop because Pops notices Tru finally and tells Pauline, “There she is.”
My dad waves her over, and Tru stands next to me behind the bar. Pauline goes a little pale underneath her makeup, and she holds out her hand to Tru, but the bangles on her wrist tremble in a way she can’t cover. “Hi, Tru. I’m Pauline.”
Tru inhales a sharp breath and loses all the color in her face, too. My dad stiffens, finding his loyalty resides with the woman trying to steal the bar out from under his son and not the sex on legs sitting next to him. “You okay, honey?” he asks Tru.
My arm curves around her waist for support as she stares at Pauline’s hand. “Why are you here?” she asks.
Pauline bites her lip and slumps as she withdraws her hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t think calling was the right thing to do. But I shouldn’t have just shown up, either.”
Dad and I exchange confused glances. “Everything all right, Yeats?” I ask, gently squeezing her hip.
She nods but I know she’s not really okay because she hasn’t reacted to the fact that I’m touching her. To Pauline, she stammers, “I’m so, so sorry,” her eyes getting water
y in a way that makes me want to heft her over my shoulder and carry her out of this bar. “I didn’t know. You have to believe me. I didn’t know.”
“Oh, honey.” Pauline’s maneater facade goes away like a puff of smoke and a maternal, soothing voice replaces her purr. “I know you didn’t. Richard was scum, pure and simple.”
Holy shit. Is she Richard’s other wife?
I look again at the two women and comparison doesn’t work. Richard didn’t have a type unless Pauline is rich too. Or was.
Tru still looks a little sick. “Maybe we should...” she looks around the near empty bar... “go sit down.”
I squeeze her hip again. “Are you sure you’re all right, Gertrude?”
“Yes, of course.”
But I don’t think she is. I think she’s holding on for dear life.
“Look,” Pauline says, not looking nearly as at ease as she did when she came in. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I just wanted to give you some money.”
“What?” Tru and I ask at the same time. Tru finishes with, “I don’t understand.”
“He was a louse, but he sent me money for our son. It’s not mine. You should have it. It belongs to you.”
The breath seems to stutter in Tru’s throat as she inhales. “You have a son?”
Pauline’s face lights up. “Yeah. He’s great. Did you and Richard...”
Tru shakes her head firmly. “No. No children.”
My heart tumbles around my chest. Damn it. She wanted kids with the rat. I can’t decide it it’s unfair he never gave her any, or a blessing. I feel her pain, though, and it’s a special kind of torture that there’s nothing I can do about it.
My dad watches Pauline the whole walk to the table in the corner. Then he turns his head and grins at me.
Dirty old man.
They’ve been over there about ten minutes when Pops reaches over and smacks my shoulder.