Dave raised an eyebrow, squeezed his fingers deeper into the vital areas of a certain motorcycle enthusiast’s throat, and stared at the pack of tattooed and drunk gang members – all of them armed with pool cues, huge serrated hunting knives tucked into their belts, and guns that had to be on them somewhere.
Dave was armed with a soapy dishrag and a bottomless well of crazy.
The bikers glared at him as if they were deciding which of his kidneys to dissect first. He glared back at them like a kindergarten teacher facing down a pack of surly toddlers. A few faint-hearted babies from out of town edged toward the door, but all of my regular customers sat tight and waited for the show.
Thirty seconds passed, or maybe it was thirty years. Some steroid monster on the TV sent a pop fly sailing into left field. Toby Keith bawled from the jukebox about losing his sweetheart. Chunky Asshole Biker choked and gurgled, and everybody waited for the apocalypse.
One man at the center of the crew of bikers tossed aside his pool cue. This guy stood six feet and five stringy inches – way taller than any of his buddies, a little taller than Dave, and taller than everybody else in the place. He was thin and starey-eyed and looked more than a little grey and ill – the Camel cigarettes he was chain-smoking probably had something to do with that – but his scars and whipcord muscles and ready-for-battle stance said that hurting people was his favorite sport. The way the other bikers closed ranks around him as he stubbed out his latest cancer stick and walked toward the bar said that he was their leader.
Future Lung Cancer Patient Biker strolled up to the bar, thumbs hooked in his belt and looking all casual about the possibility of murdering a cook in the next few seconds. His buddies gathered a few feet behind him, looking eager about murdering cooks and anybody else who made the mistake of breathing around them.
The man locked eyes with Dave. Dave stared back at him. I calculated my chances of getting to the shotgun under the bar before all hell broke loose, and decided they were not good.
What was going on in Dave’s head? Why did he have to get me into this mess? I’d dealt with men with wandering hands before, it was part of my job – and I’d always handled it without anybody involved getting beaten up or stabbed or shot, and what if our sheriff walked in on all this? He’d find six different ways to shut me down, I’d end up losing the bar, and how would I –
A smile cracked across the head biker’s leathery face. “Pinup Boy here’s got brass balls, I’ll give him that.”
Dave shrugged. “I just don’t care to see any woman treated like a squeeze toy, and particularly not my girlfriend.”
“Dave, so help me, if you don’t stop calling me your girlfriend, I’ll –”
They both ignored me, because men are men.
The leader of the pack turned to Grabby Biker, who still gasped and squirmed in Dave’s iron grip.
“As for you, Pinky, I’m sick of your bullshit.” A ringing crack echoed across the bar, and it took me a second to realize it came from his right hand slamming into the side of his underling’s face – and since that hand featured heavy rings on each finger, blood now streamed down my would-be molester’s right cheek.
“The club’s wasted too goddamn much cash bailing you out of one shitty little jail after another for jumping women who don’t want you, Pinky, and it stops now. I should let Blondie here kill you, you know that? Get it through your limp dick of a brain – our club bitches are for fucking, civilians are for looking, and the next time you get the two confused, I’m cutting your ass loose for good. Are we clear?”
Pinky rolled one panicked eye at his lord and master to indicate ‘yes,’ because Dave wouldn’t let him move enough to nod.
“Great, that’s settled. Now, you do as the man asks and apologize to HIS woman, and I’ll let you come back over to the tables with me so you can refresh our memory about what a shitty pool player you are.”
He nodded at Dave, who took the cue and released his hold.
Pinky flopped face first onto the bar, gasping. He coughed, he gagged, and he spat up some blood. Then he planted his hands on either side of his head and pushed himself up off the scarred wood of the bar top. A few bewildered seconds later, he focused both of his piggy little eyes on me.
“Ma’am, I’m real sorry.” His voice sounded like he was gargling razor blades, and it took him another fit of hoarse coughing before he could add, “Won’t happen again, I swear.”
Dave shrugged to indicate that he found this apology barely acceptable, Biker in Charge nodded, and I was not consulted. Nobody even glanced at me as Pinky wheezed, his boss dragged him by the scruff of his thick neck over to the pool tables, and a few cowboys sighed their disappointment at missing out on what could have been a great fight.
Most of my customers, though, cheered and whistled for Dave like he’d scored the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl.
“You can save me anytime, Dave!” That was from the slutty little number who ran the register at the Eli Springs Gas-Em-Up and shook her ass at anything male that came in the door.
Two guys who worked on the Shackleford spread in Finney County hooted like apes, both of them clapping while one advised me, “You be REAL nice to him tonight, Cassie!”
And yes, somebody chose that moment to punch up “Holding Out For a Hero” on the jukebox, because life felt this situation needed to be way more embarrassing for me.
My alleged boyfriend flashed the crowd a modest, aw-shucks-it-weren’t-nothin’ smile, and then turned to me. He dropped his voice down low as he put a hand on my arm.
“Cassie, are you okay?”
I did not look at him. I glared at the mess of blood, spit, and sweat Pinky had left behind on the bar top, I reached under the bar for a bottle of Lysol and a roll of paper towels, and I continued not looking at him while I wiped the bar clean of bodily fluids.
“I’m fine. By the way, we need to have a little talk about –”
“Well, you let me know if there’s any more trouble, all right? No woman should have to put up with crap like that, not while I’m around – anyway, I hear some greasy dishes back there calling my name, so, um, later, okay?”
He stood there for a few more seconds, just looking at me.
I slid him a look out of the corner of one eye, and I couldn’t figure it out – what was that expression on his face? Tenderness? Relief? Fear? Nerves, stress, the aftershock of coming within a hair of being pounded flat by a motorcycle gang?
It was all of those things, none of them, and something that I totally couldn’t read – why? Reading people was one of the skills I needed in order to survive, and why did this guy always leave me short-circuited and unable to figure out what was going on inside his head?
Then the jukebox soldiered on to another tune, Shana called out that one of her tables needed another two orders of stuffed potato skins stat, and the spell was broken.
“I’ll go get those potato skins started – yell if you need me, all right?”
Dave disappeared into the kitchen, and that was most firmly that.
The night wound down, the crowd trickled away, and I sent Shana home early. By one in the morning, only a handful of serious drinkers were still on duty – when I told them they’d be on their own for a few minutes while I took care of something, they mumbled their agreement, nursed their Budweisers, and got back to the hard work of thinking about how soon they’d have to go home.
The kitchen was empty. The dishes were washed and dried and put away neatly enough to satisfy Martha Stewart. The grill and the deep fryer were turned off, cleaned, and ready to be put to bed for the night. Jorge couldn’t have done a better job, and I found myself wondering where that kid was, and how he was getting by in this world that dropped shit on hard-working people without warning.
I found Dave sitting on the bench outside the back door, taking his last break of the night. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking across the bare earth, past the shed, and into the silent prairie d
arkness beyond.
He glanced over as I plopped down beside him on the bench. “Hey, Cassie – give me two more minutes here, and I’ll get started on mopping everything under your roof. Be prepared to send in a hazmat team if I don’t survive the bathrooms, though.”
Nice try, Mr. Irresistible, but you and I need to get a few things straight. I crossed my arms and put on my best disapproving glare, but it wasn’t easy – his tired grin worked on me like Kryptonite.
“The floor’s not going anywhere, Dave – I’m more interested in hearing an explanation of what happened earlier. You know, as in where do you get off trying to strangle a paying customer? I appreciate the whole gallant knight to the rescue thing, sort of – but those bikers have green money to spend like everybody else, and they’ll probably never come back now. That’s money down the drain, mop man, money that could go toward –”
“Are you serious?”
The easy smile was gone. Dave’s voice sliced sharp as a knife, and those eyes? He could have stared down a charging rhino with those eyes. Yellow light from the bulb mounted over the back door spilled over his face, turning it into a patchwork of shadows and harsh planes, his eyes burned into me, and did I even know this guy?
“Cassie, that animal tried to put his hands on you. He disrespected you, he treated you like a piece of meat – and I’m sorry, but if it happens again, with him or some other guy, I am not going to stand around and whistle a happy tune while you’re sexually assaulted.”
Now I was working my own way up to a boil – what made Angry Choking Guy think he could tell me how to run my own bar?
“Earth to Dave, women get grabbed and groped by loser rejects like Pinky every day, and it doesn’t change the fact that we have bills to pay. And another bulletin for you from Reality Central – I’ve had guys grab at my breasts or my ass before, and guess what? I survived. I chewed them out, in some cases I threw them out, and the world kept right on turning.”
“Cassie, no – I don’t how or why you got used to being treated like that, but it needs to stop. Your self-respect means more than any amount of money –”
“That’s easy for somebody with a lot of money to say. I don’t know or give two shits how many zeroes you have in your bank account, but out here in the real world, real people who have bank balances that don’t include commas need to make sacrifices to get by. Until you find yourself having to do things you’re not proud of to survive, you have no right to tell me how to live my life or run my bar, got it?”
Wild and angry and lost, he stared at me for a few seconds – then he jerked his glare away and looked down at the ground between his feet.
A minute passed, then two minutes. I waited.
When Dave spoke again, the anger in his voice had bled away into the darkness.
“I have done things I’m not proud of, Cassie. I’ve done things, I’ve seen things, and those things … they’re part of what I’m running from.”
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Not that any of that’s your problem, but … a man told me something once, something I tried not to hear. He was the man who taught me that chokehold.”
Dave shivered, and his face turned pale. “He told me that any man can find the beast within when he needs to, that every man drawing breath can be a monster when the moment calls for it. I didn’t want to believe him, I knew I was different … until tonight.”
“So was this guy, I don’t know, a martial arts instructor or something? One who was way too into his job, I’m guessing?”
“No. Cassie, he used – uses – that hold to kill people. And you’d like him, if you didn’t know who and what he was – he’s calm, thoughtful, well-read, witty in a dry sort of way, and he knows all kinds of things besides how to choke the life out of another human being.”
“Swell, remind me to have lunch with him sometime.” I wanted to ask why this sweet, gentle college boy would take choke-to-kill lessons from some creepy stranger who was into books and killing people – but my temper reminded me that this nice guy I’d known for all of a week had also claimed me as his girlfriend in front of everybody in my bar, and what was up with that?
“Dave?”
“Yep?” His eyes sank shut. We’d had a long and eventful night, the man was tired, and I should have let him get back to work – but I had to step on this girlfriend thing before he started to believe it.
And also because I wanted to believe it, yeah. You got me.
“Look, you freaked out when Pinky the Neanderthal almost made it to Titty Land, I get that, but why did you have to announce to the rest of his pack that I was your girlfriend? And in front of a room filled with people who’ve known me all my life?”
One eye opened. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Dave – I appreciate the rescue, more or less, but you do realize that my regulars will never, ever, let me live this down, right?”
Now both eyes opened as my would-be boyfriend boarded the train for Sarcasm Town. “Wow, I had no idea being my alleged girlfriend would be such a heavy cross for you to bear.”
“You know what I mean –”
He sat up straight, and that angry gleam in his eyes said Pissed-Off Dave was back on duty. “No, I don’t know what you mean – what I know is that I stood up for you against an animal trying to assault you, I called you my girlfriend so his pals would see it as a matter of respecting another man’s property, and now you’re mad at me?”
No. Just no. College boy, you’re not getting away with this possessive caveman crap – not on my watch, not in my bar, and not in my life.
I got up, I stood over my mouthy employee as he sat on the bench staring up at me, and I’m not entirely proud to say I shouted in the man’s face.
“I am NOT your property, Dave! I am not some cow you branded, I am not a fair maiden in need of rescue, and I am not your girlfriend – my shitty little bar is all I have, and I’ve only kept it for this long by being strong, by standing up for myself, and by not letting people see me as some delicate hothouse orchid who needs a man to protect her!”
Now he stood up. “Cassie, you don’t even WANT this bar!”
He jerked his head toward the Jayhawk Tavern, his fists clenched at his sides, and he glared down at me from about a mile or so above my head. “I don’t know why a smart, beautiful woman like you –”
“Don’t patronize me, asshole!”
“It’s true, look in any mirror on the planet! You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you have way more going for you than pretty much everyone I know, and I don’t know why you think you’re stuck in this hole-in-the-wall town, but I do know it doesn’t have to be this way – ”
“I have bills, you moron, and dreams don’t pay the rent or keep the lights on!”
Dave stepped closer, directly inside my comfort zone, inches away from being right on top of me. “Stop using your bills as an excuse! Stop being afraid! You can get out, you can be somebody, and hey, you can even have the strength to admit you need somebody else, too – why the hell not?”
“Because dreams and people and life rip my heart out every time, and I’m SAFE here!”
Now he leaned down from about a mile overhead to shout into my face. “You’re safe to ROT here!”
His anger vibrated in the air. I felt the heat of his body, I wanted to punch him in his perfect nose, and I stepped up onto the bench, so that I could look this tower of primitive male hormones right in the eye.
“Dave!”
“WHAT?”
Silence. His face filled the world. I watched a trickle of sweat run down his cheek.
“Dave …?”
“What?”
Every argument and insult I’d planned to throw at him vanished from my brain. Gone, just like that, as if they’d never existed. In fact, I think my brain clocked out for the night and left me on my own at that point.
I trembled with … well, with I don’t know what. I just shook, my breath deserted me and then came back, and my heart sh
uddered in my chest.
I couldn’t turn away from him, any more than the planets could desert the sun. “Dave, are you as – I mean, are you, um, feeling this here? Like I am?”
“Hell, yes.”
Dave wrapped me up in his arms and we kissed like the world was burning down.
His warm mouth closed on mine, his tongue teased at my lips, and I opened to him. I drank him in, leaning into his hungry mouth, moaning with a year of pent-up frustration and need as he tasted me. He responded to my wordless need, sucking gently on my tongue as I clawed at him, pulling him closer.
We both wanted so much more.
Dave spanned one strong hand across my back, pinning me in place, helpless against the muscled wall of his chest. My breasts flattened against him, our hearts thundered, and his other hand slid low, following the curve of my hip. His fingers spread over the soft swell of my ass and then gripped tight, digging into the skin and pulling me to him, forcing me against his hard, surging erection.
He pressed into me, needy and demanding, and wetness gathered between my legs. I wanted him there. I more than wanted him, I needed him to be with me, to keep me warm and safe, to move between my trembling legs and make me his, to take –
“CASSIE!”
A fist pounded on the back door, I jumped and lurched against Dave, he lost his balance and toppled over backwards, and we landed on the ground in a tangle of arms and legs that was way less romantic than what I’d had in mind.
Meanwhile, the unseen somebody who saw fit to interrupt one of the greatest kisses in the history of the Midwest kept hammering and bellowing on the other side of the back door.
“Cassie, peel yourself off that cook and get back in here so I can settle my tab! Last time I came home this late, my wife made me sleep on the damn couch for a week, and I ain’t looking to repeat that experience, ‘kay?”
I knew that voice – and he was right, that narrow-eyed, suspicious little woman he’d married was probably plotting how to kill him right now. “Gotcha, Mr. McLean, be right there!”
Footsteps stomped away from the door, and Darryl McLean’s voice dwindled away as he headed back to his barstool. “I can hear her crying on the phone to her bitch of a mother already, goddammit …”
No Dreams Allowed: A Billionaire Romance Page 6