Collide

by Juliana Stone

  Chapter Two

  The Hard Rock was nothing like the ‘other’ bar it was named after. There was nothing rocking about it, no fancy souvenirs from famous singers like cars or guitars, or even signed pictures scattered throughout the bar. It was a dark hole-in-the-wall kind of place where people came to play pool, shoot the shit, and lose themselves in the shadows.

  The only thing rocking about the joint was the endless tunes that Danny ‘big boy’ Davis played over and over…and over again. The large man, a tattoo artists dream, had a fondness for Seger, Springsteen, Skynard, and—no judging—the Dixie Chicks.

  Most of the time Shane Gallagher had no problems with those particular bands either, except his ass had been parked in a booth near the back for nearly three hours and he’d already heard Free Bird twice. If Danny dared to play the song again, Shane wouldn’t be responsible for

  his actions. A guy could only take so much.

  Shane leaned his head back and closed his eyes. What the hell was he doing here? When he had set out on the road this morning his only thought was that he didn’t want to be in New Waterford. Not today.

  And like a time machine had paved the way, he’d ended up here, at The Hard Rock. And just like a bad movie or some episode of the Twilight Zone, the place hadn’t changed a bit. Sure, only five or so years had passed since he had last been here, but shit...

  It still had the same sticky floors, the smell of stale beer and of course, the music lovin’ fat boy behind the bar, Danny Davis. The guy was a permanent fixture that hadn’t changed one bit and neither had the beer. This bar had the coldest draft on tap, hands down.

  It was nothing like The Grill back home—Duke Everett’s place—but it had something. Some special quality that had made it Shane’s place several years ago, and on this cold, February afternoon—for whatever reason—he’d found his way back.

  Except that was bullshit. He knew what the reason was and he sure as hell didn’t want to dwell on it. Didn’t want to dwell on her.

  “You want another drink?”

  Shane glanced up at the waitress and noted the interest in her eyes. He saw the way they lingered—how she licked her lips suggestively and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—while thrusting her incredible rack straight out so that it was inches from his face. She was a redhead, with heavily made up eyes—something he wasn’t keen on—but her mouth was interesting. It was full and—she ran her tongue across it once more—gleaming wet.

  She was overly suggestive and he supposed with her attributes and obvious attitude, the girl was good at a whole bunch of things that weren’t in any way related to waitressing.

  “I’m off in ten minutes so I can get it for you before I leave or…”

  The question was left hanging and for a few seconds Shane considered his options. It was obvious what the woman wanted. He just had to decide if he wanted to take what she was offering. He wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who was into one night stands per say. That boat had come and gone and he was more than willing to leave that kind of stuff to the young bucks out trolling for nothing but a quick lay.

  And therein was the problem. Shane wasn’t looking to score a piece of tail, at least not some random piece that probably gave it up to any decent guy that walked through the door. He knew the type. Small town girl who had never made it out and who was looking for one of two things—either some guy to rescue her and take her away to something better, or a bit of excitement on the side.

  His gaze dropped to her hand. He noted the faded tan line from a ring. Bingo.

  Suddenly the whole situation left a bad taste in his mouth. What the hell was he doing here anyway? He had a lot of work at home that could have kept him busy until midnight.

  “I said I’m off in ten—”

  “I heard you,” he interrupted, a flash of anger in his voice as he shifted in his seat. “I’m not interested.”

  Her eyes widened for a second and then she took a step back, lips tight as she glared at him. He’d obviously insulted her, but did he care? Hell no.

  “Did you want anything else?”

  He shook his head and was about to answer when the door flew open, a gust of wind propelling it backward so that it slammed into the wall with a loud bang. Everyone in the bar turned and for a moment Shane wasn’t exactly sure what it was he was looking at, because at first all he saw was white.

  A whole lotta white that wasn’t all snow.

  He cocked his head to the side in order to see around the waitress and his gut clenched when the wall of white materialized into a woman. A slim, sophisticated looking thing, with a profile he knew all too well.

  Her hair was a bit of a mess, the usual sleek fall that cut to just past her chin, kind of wild and all over the place. And the dress, well the dress wasn’t exactly something you’d see in a place like this—though the fur thing hugging her shoulders was interesting. Shane arched an eyebrow and settled deeper into the shadows as she angled around a full table of men—several of whom issued the tried and true catcall. Which, she paid no attention to, other than a flip of the bird in their direction as she passed.

  Holy shit. Bobbi Jo Barker. In her wedding dress.

  What the hell?

  He watched her stride through the Hard Rock as if she owned the place, her gaze focused on the bar. Danny, big boy, Davis, smoothed the thinning hair on top of his head and squared his shoulders, throwing his impressive chest out. Impressive, because it was matched in equal size to the gut that protruded and pinched into the top of the bar as he smiled toward the newcomer.

  Bobbi grabbed her long skirt and threw it to the side so that she was able to slide onto one of the bar stools with relative ease. She set a delicate white bag to her side—it sparkled something fierce which was a miracle considering the lighting was crap—and blew out a long breath. One, fine strand of hair curled into the air like a feather in the wind, and Shane watched as it slowly fell to earth and rested on the edge of her nose.

  She tugged it out of the way impatiently, and spoke. “Tequila.”

  Shit, this was gonna be good. Tequila? Tequila and Bobbi meant only one thing. Trouble with a capital T.

  The look on Danny’s face was comical. He cleared his throat and stuttered, “Ma’am?”

  “Do I look like a Ma’am to you?”

  He shook his head, “Um, no Miss...ah…”

  “Here’s the thing, Danny. I want a shot of tequila and then I’m going to want something else. I’ll let you know what that something else is as soon as I get my tequila. Sound good?”

  For a second Danny was speechless—it was obvious that he was surprised the woman in white knew who he was because he sure as hell didn’t recognize her. And how could he? This plastic and fake version of Bobbi was nothing like the one from back in the day—though her attitude was certainly the same.

  Shane had been home in New Waterford for just over four months. He could count on his hand the number of conversations he’d had with Bobbi and while he had been away, she’d become something he didn’t recognize.

  But this? This was interesting. Almost as interesting as the fact that she was here in the first place. Without her new husband.

  “Tequila?” she said pointedly, settling herself onto the stool, her wet heels dripping melting snow onto the floor beneath her.

  For a moment there was absolute silence in the bar, even the waitress who stood a few inches from Shane held her breath.

  “Actually, make that two shots and don’t forget the lemon.”

  Danny cleared his throat, scratched his head and took a step back as he glanced down to the end of the bar, at the old guy who was staring open-mouthed at Bobbi. He then turned and grabbed the bottle of tequila from behind him and poured out two shots, scooping a couple lemons from beneath the bar. He set them in front of Bobbi and waited.

  “Salt?” she said pointedly, slipping her feet out of her heels so that they fell onto the floor. Shane’s eyes grazed the delicate ankles, and the fire-engin
e red toenails.

  Suddenly aware that she was the focus of every eye in the bar, Bobbi turned to the side and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m not an exhibit at the zoo so I’d appreciate it if you’d paste your eyes somewhere else.”

  She grabbed the first shot, salted the back of her hand, and tossed it back. As soon as she shoved the lemon into her mouth, Sweet Home Alabama, shot out of the speakers overhead and she whooped, head bobbing as she grabbed the remaining shot and repeated the whole thing over again.

  Conversation started up immediately and though most eyes still strayed her way, the bar returned to somewhat of a normal state.

  The waitress cleared her throat and turned back to Shane. “Well that’s not something you see every day.”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

  She sighed. “Look, I’ll be straight with you. You’re hot. I like ‘em tattooed and dark and dangerous.”

  Shane had to give her props for being so direct.

  “I saw you looking and I’m not going to lie. I’m married but my husband is out of town and he doesn’t really care what I do when he’s not around.” She winked. “Hell, sometimes he joins in when he is home…so are you interested or not?”

  Shane’s gaze moved from the waitress back to Bobbi, who was reaching for a tumbler of whiskey. Bad news. Unless her constitution had changed the girl was in for a rough evening and an even rougher morning. What the hell was she doing here? Why wasn’t she at her fancy wedding reception with Dooley and the rest of New Waterford?

  Why did he care? He and Bobbi were over—way over.

  He didn’t give a flying fuck as to the why of it, but when she tossed back that glass of whiskey as if it was a cup of apple juice, he thought that just maybe his evening had moved from boring as hell, to plain old interesting. He didn’t want to analyze the spark of something that hit him in the gut. He was just gonna go with it.

  The waitress snorted and earned another look from him. “That over there is some fancy lady who’s either a runaway bride or she’s on drugs.” She shrugged. “Probably both. Either way, you’d have to give your head a shake if you’re thinking about getting involved with someone like that.”

  He didn’t like her tone, but then again, he supposed she was probably right. Still he had to ask. “Like what exactly?”

  The redhead shrugged. “She’s obviously bat-shit crazy. Who the hell would come to this dump on Valentine’s Day in a wedding dress?”

  Shane couldn’t disagree because the waitress was on the right track. Except that he knew someone who would do something that crazy—or he used to know a someone.

  Bobbi reached for another glass of whiskey and this time, ordered a double.

  Shit, if he didn’t know any better he’d think this was five years ago and none of the crap that had happened in between mattered. Except the woman in white had broken him and he was pretty damn sure he’d done the same to her. They had always been like oil and water, better off not mixing. Better off not involved.

  “Honey.” The waitress leaned over the table and he frowned, pissed that she’d blocked his view of Bobbi. “Are you coming home with me? I promise we’ll have a good time.” Her breasts were nearly falling out of the low cut T-shirt she wore and with her arms pulled in tight to her sides, she was trying her damnedest to push them all the way out.

  Shane’s cell phone vibrated for the tenth time since he’d been here and he reached into his jeans, eyes not leaving the back of Bobbi’s head as he retrieved it. With one glance down he saw that there were several text messages from Billie Jo Barker, though it was the last one that grabbed his attention.

  Bobbi’s disappeared. She never showed for her wedding. If u hear from her let me know.

  “Hello,” the waitress said sarcastically.

  Shane shot her a dark look that said, hold on. He quickly typed a response—I know where she is, don’t worry—and turned off the alerts so he wouldn’t have to answer the hundred and one responses he was sure would come. He tossed his cell phone onto the table, his eyes drawn to Bobbi as he settled back into the dark corner. He should leave. He should just get as far away from this bar and that woman as he could.

  But then Shane Gallagher and common sense weren’t always real tight. In fact they hadn’t been buddies in a long, long time. He propped up his booted foot on the bench across from him, decision made.

  “Before you go, I’ll take another beer.”

  Chapter Three

  The second whiskey had tasted better than the first and subsequently, the third was so much better than the second.

  Bobbi twirled her finger in the cold, wet liquid, pushing the ice cubes against the glass and watching them tumble around in a sea of amber. She stuck her finger in her mouth, slowly sucking the drops of booze off the end, very much aware that the old man at the end of the bar watched her, a look of disapproval on his face.

  Which was the total opposite of the table full of rednecks just to her left. Each and every one of them watched the display as if they were picturing her mouth licking something else entirely.

  Gerald would be disgusted. If he was here right now, his face would get that pinched look—the kind that said his boxers were on too tight—and he’d look down his nose at her. His eyebrows would thread together as he frowned, and he would no doubt try and lecture her on the etiquette of public displays that weren’t exactly lady-like.

  Of course, Bobbi had never been on the receiving end of one of those looks. Nope. She was—or had been—the perfect girlfriend/fiancé. But she’d witnessed his self-righteous derision first hand, when dealing with her sister Betty.

  No, Gerald Dooley would definitely not approve of a woman chugging whiskey like it was going out of style and he certainly wouldn’t appreciate his fiancé—she made a face—former fiancé sitting in a crappy bar, wearing a wedding dress that cost a small fortune, with his mother’s fake fur stole along for the ride.

  She tossed the fur wrap onto the bar and grinned, feeling either crazy or happy, she didn’t know which. What she did know, was that the pressure on her chest was gone and she could finally breathe again. She pushed her hair out of her face and then took another long drink. The whiskey burned on its way down, but her tongue was pretty much numb to it after two shots of tequila and two stiff drinks.

  Danny paused in front of her, a rag in his beefy hand. She glanced up. “Shit, you lost a crap ton of hair, my friend.”

  His eyebrows rose so high it was comical and Bobbi studied him carefully, suddenly feeling talkative. And free. And talkative.

  “You know, if you shaved that tuff of feathers off the top, hit the gym and lost that gut, you’d make a hell-of-a lot more in tips.”

  His face flushed red, the jowly cheeks puffed up so much that he looked like he was gonna blow. “Who do you think you are girlie?” he rasped. “Coming into my bar, wearing,” he nodded, “that getup and acting like you’re the fucking Queen of England?”

  “Danny,” she began slowly, because all of a sudden her tongue felt thick and she had to concentrate hard in order not to slur her words. She couldn’t be drunk already…could she? Had she become that much of a lightweight?

  “First off,” she said slowly, “the swearing is another reason you won’t make huge tips and secondly, don’t you know who I am?”

  He shook his head and crossed his arms over her chest, his thick bushy eyebrows knitted tight as he frowned at her. “Nope, never seen you before.”

  She tipped her glass back and finished it, slamming it down and indicating she wanted another. “Hmm, it’s been a while.” She watched him as he slowly filled her glass again, “I didn’t think I changed that much.”

  “Hmph,” was all she got in reply.

  “I’m just saying you used to have a lot more hair.”

  At his dark look she leaned forward. “The good news is that bald guys are in. Hell, Captain Picard from Star Trek? Hot guy. Oh,” her grin widened, “Georges St. Pierre? You know
the UFC guy? Totally freaking hot.”

  His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer. Bobbi knew she should just probably keep her mouth shut. Obviously Danny didn’t give a rat’s ass what she thought, but for some reason her tongue seemed to have a mind of its own. Just like the old days. The ones she’d tried so hard to forget.

  She looked up pointedly, her expression intense. “And honestly, you should feel pretty damn good because you’ve got a really, really nice shaped head.”

  His frown deepened as one of his hands crept up top, apparently to smooth some of that fuzz he had going on, but she saw the slight caress—the way he cupped his head and she smiled. “According to my Auntie Lacey that means your mama turned you every night when you were in the crib so if you want to thank someone for a head as round as a basketball, you should thank your mom.”

  His eyes widened even more.

  “Lady, are you for real?”

  Christ, but he didn’t get it. She was complimenting him, or at the very least, trying to. “Danny, it’s me. Bobbi Jo. I calls ‘em as I sees ‘em.”

  Danny took a step back, shaking his head as his eyes traveled from the top of her glossy head, down her face and back up again.

  “Bobbi Jo Barker?” he said gruffly. Danny’s eyes narrowed and he rubbed the stubble that graced his chin as his eyes shifted and moved behind her.

  Bobbi turned her head but all she could see were a bunch of booths, none of them occupied, save for the one on the end, but it was too dark to see who sat there. She saw faded denim, large Doc’s and a red headed waitress with attitude.

  “One and the same,” she answered turning back. She finished her whiskey and nodded for another.

  “I think you need to take a break.”

  She glanced up at Danny. “Am I causing trouble?”

  “Not yet you aren’t but now that I know exactly who you are I’m figuring trouble is on the way if it’s not here already.”