by Dani Wyatt
I don’t know if she has a boyfriend, if she’s married or hell, she may have a wife for all I know. But one thing is clear in my mind, whatever she is, there’s part of me that’s already decided I need to be part of her life.
She makes her way past a group of five city boys wearing jeans without a Levi’s or Wrangler label. In fact, I think they may have taken a wrong turn and shopped in the women’s department for those fancy pants.
There is something about a dude that cares a little too much about his appearance that ruffles my feathers. Like they don’t have enough to offer from the inside and that makes them a bit too concerned over what they look like on the outside. Doesn’t send up real-man signals as far as I’m concerned.
Whatever, what they wear is none of my concern, but what is my concern is the way the fuckers eye her as she tries to squeeze through and don’t give her the goddamn courtesy of stepping aside and giving her room to get by.
She’s forcing a polite smile, but I see the discomfort on her face. She’s pissed, but she’s too polite or too shy to say so. Instead I see her mouth the words ‘pardon me,’ her full lips shaping each syllable like the words are made of fucking clay, but the douche patrol ignores her and I’m seeing red.
Disrespecting her and not giving an inch in the opposite direction? That’s pushing all my buttons. They make her shove her way through, causing her ample tits to brush against the shoulder of one of them and my blood is on boil. She has to raise her tray above her head and tuck herself tight. Her embarrassment and desperation show in the way her shoulders pull toward her ears and she loses her smile.
Fuckers. Someone may have a lesson in being a gentleman coming very soon.
“Chad, hey.” Roger smacks the back of my arm from behind. “Jesus, man, are you gonna stare at that all night?”
I gather my restraint. He might be my friend, but right now that doesn’t seem to mean a whole lot to me. Hearing him call her ‘that’ makes my fists ball.
“Careful. Watch your manners.” I grunt at my childhood friend.
“What the fuck.” His face lights up into a toothy grin and he slaps the table sending a squeal out of the girls who, thankfully, seem to have lost interest in what is going on behind them. “You know her? Huh? Some old flame? Maybe you fucked her once, although I doubt you could remember that far back—”
“You better shut your fucking mouth. You say another fucking word and I’m going to send your teeth to your tonsils.”
Roger pushes his tongue into his cheek. His eyes still sparkle with amusement, but he gets the message. It’s nothing personal, but I meant what I said.
“Okay, buddy. I’m just glad to see you back in the land of the living. Go get what you want.”
I turn back around grumbling under my breath. “I intend to.”
She’s two douches into the crowd of city boys now, trying to squeeze by the five of them, when one steps behind her and blocks my view. His crew look on as he dry humps the air behind her ass, and they think that shit is funny, but I’m not laughing. In a heartbeat, I’m headed their way, heat gathering in my chest and radiating down my arms to the clench of my fists.
“Hey, where are you—” Roger calls after me but I’m on a mission as I clear my way through the crowd. I don’t know this girl, but I know that in my presence no one will ever disrespect her like that.
They are still cuttin’ up like they are in some comedy club when I bow up behind the air-humper with his cocky attitude and slicked back hair. I’m a quiet sort, but I’ve never been one to shrink from a fight.
Three of the guys see me coming, I’m hard to miss. The dick head about to be schooled has his back to me but it only takes him a split second to pick up on the signals from the looks on his friends’ faces that something big is happening behind him.
My head spins with the variations of how I’m going to play this. I’ve been in my share fights, but this piece of shit holds no sway. I have a sixth sense when it comes to people, and he’s no match.
By the time he turns around, the decision is made. I want to lay the fucker out and use the heel of my boot to grind some manners into him, but getting my ass thrown out of this place will not serve my new purpose for the evening, which is keeping my eye on her.
“What the fuck do you want?” The little fucker suddenly has a set of balls. They may be the size of a couple mouse turds, but balls nonetheless.
I smile, and palm my beard as I look down at him. I catch a glimpse of his back-up squad lining up to cover his ass, and it makes me embarrassed for them. That shit ain’t gonna be any deterrent.
“You’re going to go and tip that waitress that just walked by.” My voice is clear, rumbling out of me like the eleventh commandment.
“What? Fuck you.” He snaps with an over dramatic eye roll. “You better step back.”
I drop my hand from my beard and brush some invisible shit off the guy’s shoulder with my fingertips, invading his personal space like it’s my God-given right. Being around horses all my life, one thing you learn, you always stay calm. No matter what may be churning around me, I’m unflappable.
I clear my throat and nod toward where I can still see Lori moving through the crowd. “That waitress. You just insulted her and that shit doesn’t fly with me. So unless you want to be wearing your ass for a hat, you are going to apologize to her by digging in your wallet, coming up with a hundred bucks, walk your sorry ass over there and put it on her tray. You tip her, or we’ll have a different conversation.”
I drop my hand from his shoulder and thumb the stiff handle of the knife I always carry in my front pocket. I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger, inching it out before stuffing it back down inside my pocket with a grin. If my general size isn’t intimidating enough, with my hair nearly to my shoulders and my beard meeting it, I’m sure I look scary as hell to these city boys.
If this guy has any sense, he can read the crazy in my eyes, and realize it’s in his best interests to settle this without blows. I want to spend the rest of this evening admiring the miracle that just walked into my life, but I’ll do what I have to do to make sure he treats her with the respect she deserves.
His four comrades are flanking him but I lock eyes on him and repeat my order.
“A hundred bucks. Right fucking now. You go tip her and this can be over. Or...” I crack my neck and release a deep breath. “...you and your bridesmaids are going to be on the floor trying to pick up each other’s teeth.”
He gives me his best Scarface nose twitch and his buddies straighten up behind him.
“I’d say two hundred is more like it.”
I don’t need to turn around to know Roger’s voice. He’s to my left, he matches me in height and outweighs me by another twenty pounds he wears in his gut so we are a solid wall facing down their rhinestones and hair gel.
“Fuck off.” The dipshit’s voice is losing some bravado. “I’ll give her a hundred.” His whole group shifts back, their chests deflate and shoulders drop. Inside my head I’m laughing my ass off imagining this group of glitter boys going toe-to-toe with me and Roger.
But on the outside I’m all business.
I have to keep my eyes on the prize, and right now getting escorted out of the bar for stuffing my fist down his gullet would not bring me closer to her.
He reaches around and digs in his back pocket, pulls out his wallet and waves a hundred-dollar bill in my face.
“Okay?” He swallows and the fear in his eyes would be visible from a hundred paces, but he’s trying to save some of his pride.
“Go give it to her, say something nice and I’ll be watching from over there.” I jerk my head back toward where we were sitting.
He nods and turns to walk her way.
She’s at the tail end of the bar, giving drink orders to the bartender and it rakes my nerves that her tank top is cut too low. I can tell she’s sweet, kind and from the rest of her outfit, she’s not the type to dangle her goods for the world to see
, so that shirt will have to go.
Other waitresses are wearing the same thing, so I know it’s the bar’s uniform shirt, but I don’t give a shit about them. I give a shit about her, and any other fucker that has his eyes on her sends my protector instinct into overdrive.
Her tits are full and proud, like a goddamn American flag flying above the indent of her waist. And fuck if I’m not feeling mighty patriotic right now.
Just watching the swell and flow of that ass of hers has me rolling in the dust, thinking of how I’d train her, teach her things that an angel like her hasn’t imagined. She’s casual and understated, but she’s put together like a show pony. Neat and carefully groomed. Her hair hanging down over her shoulders gleams under the flashing lights and even from here I can see that she’s wearing just the right amount of make-up.
Most women overdo that shit but I like it natural, clean. Fuck, she’s as perfect as I’ve ever seen. I’ve never even touched her, and already this lush little dove has me whipped.
I imagine taking her out to the field, laying her out and messing up her hair, thrusting into her until she tears at the grass underneath as she tries to hold on. I want her wearing my cum like a badge of honor. I want her covered in me so everyone knows she is more than just taken by me – she’s ruined in the most magnificent and gorgeous way.
She’s tapping her foot to the music and tracing ChapStick over her lips as she waits for her drink order, so she doesn’t see the douche bag pushing through the last few people to get to her. She snaps around as he comes up next to her, then he lays the money on her tray, says a few words and turns back.
I’ve known her for all of five minutes, but I pick up clues. It’s body language, and I know body language. It’s another side effect of my work with horses. They’re great communicators if you know their language. And when it comes to people, we’re not that different. The set of her jaw, the slant of her hips. I think I know what she’s saying better than she does.
She’s happy. I see it in her eyes, her body. And I’m happy simply because she is.
I imagine the touch of my fingertips on those plump cheeks. How soft she must be, like the petals of wildflowers. How I’d draw her next to me, kissing her hair after I’ve fucked her and done things to her God didn’t intend. Teaching her the meaning of the word pleasure.
Her face lights up as she picks the money off the tray, stares at it in her hand for a long moment.
Then, it happens.
When her eyes finally raise under her lashes, they flicker across the mass of people and light on mine. It only lasts a second, but she breaks into a dimpled smile that starts on her lips but finishes in her eyes and that shit’s all mine.
That’s my new purpose in life. To make her smile all the way to her eyes. Every fucking minute of every single day just so I get to see that dimple again and again.
Chapter Three
RACHEL
“Seriously?” Tabitha smiles around the sides of the straw she’s sucking on. “Was he like, trying to pick you up?” She chuckles and carries on grinning while she slurps her seven-and-seven.
“I don’t think so. He just walked up, said ‘Thank you for the great service,’ dropped it on my tray and walked away. I wasn’t even their waitress.”
A shiver causes my shoulders to shimmy. Something is in the air and I can’t shake the feeling that the mountain man that looked at me had something to do with the guy that gave me that tip. But I can’t figure it out and it’s making me feel unsettled in an excited sort of way.
Tabitha drains her drink and shakes her glass at me, making the straw tap against the sides.
I give her a motherly look. “Aren’t you driving?”
“Not for a while.” She smiles. “Oh come on, you’re no fun. I mean, you work in a bar and you don’t even drink. Just one more, then I’m done.”
She holds up her pinky to illustrate the point, then pushes her empty glass across the table at me. Up at this end of the bar it’s staff only, which she isn’t, but that doesn’t bother her. The high top table is her home when she’s in here.
I roll my eyes and turn to the bartender, Leonard, with the empty glass held high. He shakes his head but reaches for the Seagram’s anyway as he grabs a clean glass and fills it with ice. He’s not supposed to give Tabitha free drinks, but everyone gives Tabitha free drinks. She’s got that something. Something I do not have.
“Are you done with these?” I ask, reaching for the loaded cheese fries on Tabitha’s plate.
“Yeah, help yourself. I already ate what I want.”
I’m holding the first fry to my lips when I hear Lacy’s voice from behind me.
“A moment on the lips, girls.” Her sing song sarcasm rakes on my nerves. “And your hips don’t lie.” She laughs with a shake of her ass.
Lacy looks like a tattooed Barbie gone Goth. It’s not that I don’t like tattoos, it’s just that on Lacy everything seems ugly. We’ve worked together for four months and she’s not warmed up to me one bit.
“Shut up,” Tabitha barks.
Tabitha is not only more personable than me, but tougher too. We both grew up in a trailer park a good hour and a half east of here, but we are so different. She’s got this strawberry blond hair in cute, little ringlets. And that alone is a constant source of amusement when people first meet her.
She looks like a little kewpie doll but she’s got talons behind that innocent exterior. She’s a few inches shorter than me but makes up for it with sass. I like being around her, she’s good with people, chats with anyone like they are an old friend. Me? I have trouble figuring out how to put a noun and a verb together in most social situations.
After all these years as friends I would have thought some of her personality would rub off on me, but no. I’m still that shy, plump girl who thinks nothing she has to say would be of any interest to anyone.
I reach into my skirt pocket for my ChapStick, and Tabitha watches me as I pop the cap and rub the waxy goodness over my lips. Then I rub them together and pop them playfully in her direction.
“You and your ChapStick.” She leans back in her chair, fiddling with one earring. “It’s an addiction. For real.”
“What. Ev. Er.” I turn my nose up and exaggerate an air kiss at her, then stuff the black and white tube back in my pocket.
“I mean it. I looked it up. There are websites and support groups. You, my friend, have a problem.” She points at me and I set down her empty glass on the service end of the bar then come back around to the small high top table where she’s planted herself for the evening.
I giggle, half because of the absurdity and half because it’s true. I’ve looked it up myself. Me and ChapStick go way back. And I am particular as well. Only original will do. Not mint. Not cherry. Original.
“So, did the jeans you ordered fit?” She asks as she gets up to retrieve the drink Leonard had set down for her. She grabs it and slips back into the stool at the table.
“Not really.” I have an ongoing battle trying to find jeans that fit. I ordered some online from a specialty shop with hope in my fingertips as I placed the order.
When someone says you have a beautiful ‘hourglass’ figure. Sure, great. Try finding jeans that fit those proportions. It ain’t easy. Usually Aunt Jessie alters the ones I do buy but someday I wish a company would figure out how to fit a girl like me straight off the rack.
We’re hunkered down at the corner table tucked away at the end of the bar, which is where the waitresses take breaks throughout the evening. Well, that’s what it’s here for anyway. A lot of them go outside instead to smoke cigarettes or do other things. Most of the time I’m the only one that takes their break here.
Tabitha doesn’t work here, so she’s not supposed to be in this part of the bar, but she’s not much for rule following and besides, the owner has known us both since he’d found us around midnight one night when we were seven years old dragging a suitcase and a lunch bag with two peanut butter sandwiches in
side like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer.
There we were, making our way across his back lawn on our way god knows where, and Crutch took pity, took us in and then drove us home. Said that running away would never solve anything. His house was just a few blocks from the trailer park, but since then he moved over this way since he opened the bar. When I moved in with Aunt Jessie it was nice to see him again. So Tabitha gets special treatment, and I think that’s part of the reason why Lacy hates us. Me.
She is my nemesis, and I certainly can’t think of any other reason why she would hate me. I mean, I’m the first to admit I’m not perfect, but as far as I know there is not a whole lot about me to hate.
I take a bite of a French fry, cheese and bacon dripping from the end, and my cheeks flush. Lacy rolls her eyes and goes over to shout her drink order at Leonard before turning back around and winking at me.
“I’m on this new diet,” she says, smiling, baiting me.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” Tabitha chimes in, tapping a finger over her lips like she’s thinking, then widens her eyes with a dramatic gasp. “The New Bukkake Diet. You only get to swallow what lands on your tongue.”
I snort out a laugh and Lacy glares.
“Oh, ha ha.” She flutters her false eyelashes then looks away to scan the crowd.
I’ve dieted. I started when I was ten and only gave it up when I moved in with Aunt Jessie. I don’t date, in fact, I’ve never dated.
I mean, is being a little ample here and there the absolute worst thing a person can be? Lacy doesn’t practice what she preaches about eating either. Her stomach may be flat as a board, and she might cut off her Crutches tank top so high it barely holds on under her bra, but I once watched her throw back a triple bacon cheeseburger and fries in ten minutes, and then top it off with three Budweisers. It’s just that her belly never puffs out one bit. She must have a hollow leg like Aunt Jessie says.
Lacy may be more what some consider pretty, but there are ugly parts to her as well. She’s got five or six guys at all times that she’s playing. Her family doesn’t speak to her and I hear she has two little kids that don’t even live with her.