by Kaylee Ryan
Feeling like a kid again, I do as I’m told and wait for her in his office. Sitting behind his desk brings back memories of times I would sit here and spin around until I was so dizzy I couldn’t walk. Gramps would just laugh that deep belly laugh of his and tell me that I looked good in his seat and that someday maybe it would be mine. He has three framed pictures on his desk. One of Grams, it’s of their wedding day, one of me and my parents, and then one of him and me. It’s of the two of us sitting in the grass around the pond, both wearing big grins. That was my last summer here.
“Ready?” Dorothy asks.
Looking up, I see her arms loaded down. I stand to help her, but she just shakes her head and drops the load on the desk.
“Right, let’s do this,” I say, grabbing a pen from the desk drawer. For over four hours, Dorothy and I comb through reports, contracts, staffing, and what feels like a million and one other items that needed approval. Production is low, product is on backorder. Apparently, there is a machine down and no one wanted to bother Gramps with the order to sign off to fix it.
Dorothy packs up her stack and stands now that we’ve been through every piece of paper. “I’m glad you’re here, Rhett. We needed you. He needs you.” Those are her parting words as she carries the mound of paperwork back to her desk, leaving me alone.
Molly and Jake are godsends. Last week, Molly and I picked up paint and had ourselves a little painting party. Wine was involved. It was a good time. It’s been a week since I met them, and I feel like I’ve known them for years. I only broke down once at the end of the night. Molly, being the sweetheart she is, just hugged me tight and assured me everything was going to be okay.
Turns out she was right, but I wouldn’t be this functional without her and Jake. Within two days of meeting her, I had a freshly painted, fully furnished apartment. All my stuff was picked up from Pete’s, and to my surprise, he wasn’t there, just like I asked him not to be. He left me a dozen roses on the counter with a note saying he was sorry and hoped we could be friends. Funny thing, when we were together, he never sent me flowers. Not once.
I insisted that I start work on Saturday night. Molly told me to take some time, but I didn’t want more time to sit and think and feel sorry for myself. I knew I had to keep moving, keep pushing forward. That night, the three of us, Molly, Jake, and I, worked the bar. By the end of the night, they deemed me able to work on my own. Slinging drinks is slinging drinks, and I just so happen to be good at it. I worked my ass off to pay for college. Elaine used to tell me that working hard for what you want is an honor. You have to put the blood, sweat, and tears in to appreciate all that you have. Those are words I try to live by, even with my previous failed relationship.
When I got here tonight and found out that Anna had called in because her kid was sick, I pushed Jake and Molly out the door. They had both been here all day. I was sure I could handle it and promised that if things got crazy I’d call them and they could come rescue me. It’s just a short ten-minute drive to their place—well, and now mine.
Tonight, being a Monday, is slow as usual in my experience. Most people went back to work today after the weekend. It’s not usually until mid to late week when the evenings start picking up. It’s as if the entire world tries to be responsible the first half of the week, but true to nature, the stress of life, jobs, family, and whatever else plagues them brings them in for a drink. Most just a few to relax or shoot the shit with friends, others as their only means to unwind.
This evening there has been a few regulars, who I’ve already learned in my short time here. Those are the customers that come every day regardless of what’s going on in their lives. Some might have an addiction, others no one to go home to. Some just want a beer to relax before going home after a long day.
I’m wiping down the bar, trying to stay busy or at least appear to be, when the door opens, bringing in a chill from the cold November air. Looking up at my next customer of the night, my breath hitches. Holy shit, this guy… he’s tall—well over six feet—with dark hair, longer on the top and a mess as if he’s been running his fingers through it all day. He’s built, if the way his black dress shirt clings to him is any indication. He smirks when he sees me looking, so I avert my gaze and lift the bowl of peanuts that I’ve already wiped under what feels like a thousand times tonight. It’s not until he takes a seat at the bar, right in front of the bowl of peanuts that has my full attention, that I look up at him.
Damn.
Those eyes.
Brown as if the sunlight were shining off a glass of whiskey. They seem to sparkle as I stand before him, just staring at the brown orbs that seem to have me mesmerized.
“What can I get you?” I ask. My voice is clear and professional, regardless of how I’m lusting after him. In a word, he’s… pretty. I know it’s not the word you would use to describe a man, especially a man’s man, you know, the rough rugged type, not that I know that’s his type, but first appearances and all that.
“Whiskey.” His voice is deep and the rumbles race through me, sending shivers down my spine.
“That’s vague. You have a preference?” I ask, still maintaining indifference even though I feel anything but.
Those warm brown eyes, so much the color of the drink he’s just ordered, capture mine. “Baxter’s, any of them. Make it a double.”
All right then. Baxter’s it is. It’s a local distillery, and Molly tells me it’s a local favorite. I’m not new to Baxter’s; we served it at Tuff’s too. Although not as much as here at the Corner Pocket. Turning my back to him, I grab the bottle of Baxter’s that I’ve served the most in my short time here. Grabbing a tumbler, I pour him a double. Setting the bottle back on the shelf, I take a deep breath before turning to serve his drink. “Here you go. You want a tab?” I ask.
“Do I look like I need a tab, Short Stack?” he asks.
Asshole! “Not my place to judge, just to serve. It’s six dollars for the whiskey.” I turn and walk away to refill the beer of one of the locals, Bart. He’s been here every day that I’ve worked. He’s a nice older man. Molly told me he lost his wife a few years ago. He comes in and sips his beer for the companionship. “Another, Bart?” I ask.
“Sure thing, girlie, this is my last of the night,” he says.
I pour his beer and cash him out, ignoring the pull of this sexy stranger’s intoxicating eyes. I take my time wiping down the opposite end of the counter, trying like hell not to look down at the bar at Whiskey Eyes. And who does he think he is with that nickname? Short Stack? I’m short, at five four, but not terribly so. Of course, from the looks of him, he’s a good foot taller than I am.
“You keep whipping that counter, it’s going to crack,” he says, throwing back the rest of his whiskey.
“Crack?” I ask, confused. “Another?”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, crack. You’re going to rub it thin.” He smirks. “You’re good at that, rubbing,” he adds.
Great. He’s one of those. I’ve heard more sexual innuendos to last a lifetime. Disappointment washes over me. Figures, with his looks, he’s also a jerk. I know his type—entitled, never want for anything because it just falls at his feet. Sure, I’m a little jaded on the male species right now, but this guy is making it easy. I ignore his comment and keep wiping down the counter. It doesn’t need it, but the alternative is striking up a conversation with this guy, and well, I’d rather make myself look busy. He slides a ten-dollar bill across the bar.
“Thanks, Short Stack,” he says, bringing the glass to his lips and swallowing the last little drop.
I watch his lips—full kissable lips surrounded by a dark beard. My vocabulary is seriously lacking as the only word I can come up with is pretty. The corner of my mouth lifts as I try to keep from grinning. I wonder what Whiskey Eyes would think of me calling him pretty? A shot to his ego, I’m sure. The phone rings, pulling me from my thoughts. “Corner Pocket,” I say in greeting.
“Hey, Saylor, it’s Molly, just
checking in on things.”
I smile. “I’ve got it under control. Poor Harold is bored to tears in the kitchen,” I tell her.
“Good. Well, not good being slow, but good you’re doing okay. Oh, you know what I mean.” She laughs.
“That I do,” I say with a chuckle. “Did you all go out to dinner like I told you to?” I ask her.
“We did. Nothing fancy, just pizza, but it was good. We’re actually on our way back. Want me to bring you the leftovers?”
“No, I’m good. I think I’ll have Harold grill me a burger or something. Don’t want him feeling like we don’t need him.”
“Good plan. All right, call if you need anything.”
“Will do.” I end the call and turn to take in the bar. Everyone is gone now except for the sexy asshole. I do my best to ignore him and busy myself putting glasses away.
“Jake around?” he asks once I’ve finished. I know he was watching me; I could feel his eyes.
“Nope,” I say, ignoring him as I walk from behind the bar and clean the two tables that were occupied tonight. When I get back to the bar, I see that Mr. Brooding is walking toward the door. Grabbing his glass, I see his cell phone sitting on the bar. “Hey, Whiskey!” I call out, not knowing his name. He stops abruptly and slowly turns to face me. The look on his face is one of resignation and maybe… bitter? I hold up his phone. “Forgetting something?”
He stalks back toward the bar. Reaching out, he grabs his phone, and my skin tingles where our fingers touch. He pauses, those whiskey-colored eyes boring into me. He doesn’t say another word before turning and walking away. I watch him as he goes—trust me, if you were me, you would too. He fills out those jeans like it’s his job. My body is tingling from his brief touch. Arms to the side, I shake them out, as if I can rid myself of the feeling of his hand on mine. Whoever that sexy stranger is, he’s not for me. I wouldn’t ever survive him.
With my phone clinched tight in my hand, I stalk out of the bar. As soon as the cool air hits me, I stop and suck in a deep breath. After a long day of travel and getting caught up to speed at the distillery, I just wanted a drink and maybe to shoot the shit with my old buddy Jake. Sure, I should have called, but I still needed that drink. What I wasn’t expecting was that little spitfire behind the bar. Hair black as night and eyes as blue as the sky, I noticed her the minute I walked in. She didn’t know me from the next guy and treated me so. I liked it, more than I would have ever imagined. I like the fire inside of her and how she’s not afraid to speak her mind. Usually women tell me what they think I want to hear. They fawn all over me and are willing to drop to their knees and suck my cock. All I have to do is say the word; some try on their own. Sure, I’ve enjoyed it. What single guy wouldn’t? But it’s getting to the point where I don’t know who to trust. I’m far from celebrity status, and it’s grueling to date when people know who I am, who know my family’s background. I can’t imagine what the A-list celebrities go through. No wonder there are so many divorces and prenuptial agreements in Hollywood.
When she called out for me, calling me Whiskey, I froze. Then I remembered there is no way this girl knows who I am. It had to be because of the drink I ordered. She doesn’t strike me as the type to be a gold digger, or one of those women who are looking to be a trophy wife. Definitely not. There is too much sweetness lurking beneath the surface.
She’s a tiny thing. My cock twitched at the anger in her eyes when I called her Short Stack. Sure, she’s short compared to my six feet four, but she’s also stacked. Firm, round tits behind that T-shirt. The name fits her. Maybe if I’m lucky, she’ll be working the next time I stop by to see Jake. I’ll need to make that happen soon.
Real soon.
I call a cab, which in this town will cost me an arm and a leg, but driving isn’t an option. That’s all either company needs is a scandal with me being caught driving drunk or worse. Not going to happen. Leaning against the building, I pull out my phone and scroll through my e-mail while waiting for the cab to arrive. I’m barely through my reply to Carrie to answer her long list of questions when the cab pulls up. I’m pleasantly surprised and relived. I’d contemplated going back inside to wait, but I don’t trust myself to not pursue the sweetness that is the bartender. Not tonight anyway. Sure, she was full of piss and vinegar, but I could work that out of her. Adjusting my thickening cock, I climb into the back of the cab and give him the address.
Back at the house, I kick off my shoes and head upstairs to check on Gramps. He’s awake, watching television. “Hey, you’re up,” I say, stepping into his room.
“I’m up,” he confirms.
“How you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No.”
He’s still being short with me. “I went to the distillery this afternoon. Met with Dorothy and went over a few things.”
He turns to face me. His face showing his age, the wrinkles around his eyes, the lines across his forehead. He looks as though he’s aged twenty years since the last time I saw him. It was last Christmas, but it’s been years since I’ve been here to stay and visit outside of a holiday. Shame hits me in the gut.
“I told you I have it under control.”
“You did, but I’m here, so you might as well let me help you.”
“Go home, Rhett.”
His voice is void of any emotion, causing a tightness in my chest. This isn’t my Gramps. This isn’t the loving old man who was so full of life and would take me fishing. This man, he’s frail and angry. I can’t help but think that I caused this. He and I were two peas in a pod until I changed the dynamics. I let life, college, and work take me from what matters most.
Family.
“Gramps, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here until you don’t need me anymore. Maybe when you get to feeling better, we can take the boat out,” I suggest.
“I don’t need you.” With that, he turns away from me, ending our conversation.
I take him in as he lies there. His breathing is labored, but I don’t know if that’s from anger or the illness. He’s yet to cough tonight, so I’ll take that as a step in the right direction. “Night, Gramps. I’ll see you in the morning.” Standing, I place my hand on his shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze before slipping out of his room.
The house is eerily quiet as I make the walk to my room, which depresses me even more. I never remember Gramps’s house being quiet. Even if it was just the two of us, there was always a game on the television or music. Gramps is a fan of old bluegrass and always had it playing. Now, it’s just quiet.
In my room, I strip out of my clothes and head straight to the shower to wash away the day. The distillery has taken a back seat, and the production numbers show it. I wish I would have known sooner. Then again, if I was reaching out and visiting more, I probably would have known. Resting my head against the shower wall, I let the hot spray rain down on my back and neck, hoping to ease some of the tension. I stand there until the water runs cold, which is starting to become a habit. Snatching a towel and quickly drying off, I rummage through my suitcase to find a pair of boxer briefs. If I were at home, I wouldn’t bother, but if Gramps happens to need me in the middle of the night, I want to at least have the family jewels covered.
Climbing into bed, exhaustion hits me. Grabbing my phone, I set my alarm for six in the morning. Gramps always was an early riser. I want to eat breakfast with him before heading into the distillery. He might say he doesn’t want me here, or need me, but I know better. Even more so, I want to be here. I just need to prove it.
Startled awake by the alarm on my phone, I slip my arm from underneath the covers and slap at the nightstand until I feel the offending device under my fingertips. Lifting my head, I open one eye and work to turn off the alarm before letting my head fall back against the pillow. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, but it feels as if that was only minutes ago, when in reality it was a little over six hours. Rolling
onto my back, I force both eyes open and stare up at the ceiling. It’s still dark outside, my room lit with only the dim light of the moon. Remembering that I want to eat with Gramps before heading to the distillery, I climb my tired ass out of bed and get dressed for the day.
As I get closer to the kitchen, I hear movement. I’m ready to yell at Gramps to get back in bed when I round the corner and see Rosa. She’s been my gramps’s housekeeper for as long as I can remember. “Rosa.”
She jumps and turns to face me with her hand clapped against her chest. “Rhett, boy, you scared the life right outta me. Come here and give me a hug.” She opens her arms wide.
I can’t help the grin I’m sporting as I make my way toward her. Bending, I wrap my arms around her and hug her tight. “Nice to see you,” I say, standing to my full height.
“It’s been too long, child. Come, sit.” She points to the island. “Look at you all grown up and handsome.”
“I agree, it’s been too long,” I say, taking a seat. “How have you been, Rosa?”
“Oh heavens, just fine. Spoiling my grandbabies. I’ve got four now.” She beams with pride.
“Four, wow, so Gabbie or Rick?” I ask, referring to her two children.
“Both. Gabbie has two little girls, and Rick a boy and a girl.”
“Congrats, Grandma,” I say, smiling at her.
“Thank you. What about you, dear? Married? Kids?”
“No to both.” I’m ashamed that she doesn’t already know this. Just another reminder that I haven’t been here. What’s worse is Gramps knows these things. He’s not been talking about me. Sadness washes over me when I realize how selfish I’ve been.
“You work too much. You need to visit more often; he needs you,” she scolds me.
I’m hit again with the reality of how my actions have hurt my grandfather. “Yeah, I let life get in the way, but I’m here now,” I assure her.
“How long are you staying?”