Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3)

by Lauren Landish

  I move on to rearranging the most used liquors to the side of the bar closest to the beer taps. It’s a huge overstep on my part. Rearranging someone’s bar is akin to pulling their socks and underwear from their dresser drawers and organizing them a different way, but I think this will be a good change for Unc in the long run.

  The phone rings and I answer, “Hank’s, Willow speaking. How can I help you?”

  “Oh good, I was hoping it’d be you who answered,” a female voice says so fast I barely catch it.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Shayanne. We’re wrapping up at the famer’s market and we already ate our lunch and snacks. I wanted to see if Ilene would package us up some food to go? Well, that and I wanted to talk to you too.” Every word is fast, nearly on top of the last, and I have to pay attention to catch each one.

  “Uh, sure. What do you want to eat and I’ll go ahead and get that started?” I say, focusing on the easy part.

  “Have her do a big box of fries, fried pickles, and fried mushrooms,” Shayanne answers, damn near asking for a heart attack in a box. But they all work hard, so maybe they can handle eating like that?

  I scribble the order on a piece of paper, making a note that it’s to-go for Shayanne, and slip it to Ilene, who sticks it to her order rack before turning back to the grill.

  “I was hoping to get by the market this morning too,” I tell Shay. “I thought it would be a great photo op, but I didn’t have time before opening. Maybe next time?”

  “That’d be great! I can show you all the cute little booths and you can take pictures for your blog!” She sounds super excited about the idea, but then she screeches like a record scratch. “Oh, not that I mean you need to advertise for us. I totally didn’t mean it like that, promise. I meant that it’d be fun and cute, not to take advantage, and . . . I’m going to shut up now.”

  I laugh, especially when she immediately starts talking again.

  “I wanted to see if you’d come out to the farm sometime. I know you’re off Monday—Bobby’s been talking about that already. Believe me, we know. But being the lady of the Tannen house, well . . . kinda, considering I don’t live there anymore, but the point being, I wanted to invite you out. What do you think?” She stops on a dime, the one run-on sentence ending abruptly.

  “Oh, well . . . thank you. I’d love to, but I think it’d be better if I wait for Bobby to invite me? I wouldn’t want to intrude before he’s ready.” Or before I’m ready, I think.

  “He won’t mind a bit. It could be our little secret. You’d be like a surprise gift, and I’d be the best sister ever. Well, technically, I’m his only sister, but the point stands that I’m the best. Obviously.” She sounds utterly convinced, and nothing or no one could sway her otherwise. “You could take pictures of my goats. They’re the cutest critters ever, except for Baarbara. She’s gotten a bit persnickety in her old age. But I have a few babies. C’mon, nobody can turn down fluffy, cuddly, adorable baby goats that curl up in your lap for ear scratches.”

  She’s wearing me down. I suspect she does that to a lot of people. Her exuberance is . . . engaging, for sure.

  “Well, I’m actually unexpectedly off tomorrow. I have plans early in the day, but maybe in the afternoon? We could catch some good lighting then.”

  “Yes!” I can almost hear her fist punch of victory at my agreement. “Okay, but here’s the deal, girl. Bobby’s coming in for dinner tonight and you’d best not say a word. Got it? Don’t ruin the surprise. Holy shit, I can’t wait to see his face when you pull up. I’ll send you the address.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly, feeling like I might’ve been danced into something I didn’t intend. “Do you need my number?”

  She laughs heartily at that. “Nah, I already swiped it out of Bobby’s phone. Dumb fuck’s password is Betty. As if we don’t all know that.” I can definitely hear the eye roll. “I’ll be by to grab the food, but this conversation . . . it never happened, capiche?”

  “Yeah, got it,” I say, feeling like I don’t get it at all. But the idea of seeing where Bobby lives and works, the land he talks and sings about with such affection, is a damn good dangling carrot. It’s more like a dangling cupcake, drawing me near. Hopefully, he’ll be happy to see me there. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.

  Fewer than fifteen minutes later, Shayanne and Brody come in. Shay wanders up to the bar, beaming like the Cheshire Cat. “Hey, Willow, good to talk to you again. I mean, see you again.” She winks, likely thinking she’s being subtle, but she’s not. Not at all.

  Brody looks from her to me and back, then grunts. He’s on to her, I’m sure of it. But he doesn’t say a word. Literally.

  “Yeah, good to see you too, Shayanne,” I mimic, knowing I’m a bad liar too.

  I make them huge sweet iced teas in Styrofoam cups to go with their fried box of heart attack snacks and send them on their way. As they head toward the door, Shay waves her fingers at me, also not discreet at all. Brody’s dark eyebrow raises, then he looks to the ceiling as though praying for the patience to get through another day with Shayanne.

  The Saturday night rush is decent, not too bad but not killer either. The jukebox plays song after song nonstop and most folks order beers, making my job easy. Ilene and Daniel crank out food, and Olivia doesn’t even need my help to serve her tables. We’re a well-oiled machine until nine o’clock, when Bobby comes in.

  Every cell in my body knows the second he walks in, like they’re in tune to his presence.

  Bobby! they shout.

  My heart stops in my chest. My hands freeze too, which means this draft is a bit overfull, but the guy at the bar doesn’t seem to mind when I set it down, spilling a bit over the edge of the mug. He even offers me a smile like he thinks I did it intentionally for him.

  But my eyes are all for the man crossing the room toward me. Bobby looks good, like sinful sex personified in naturally faded jeans that are molded to his thighs, a red T-shirt stretched across his chest but loose at the waist where it’s lazily half-tucked behind a big buckle, brown boots, and a ball cap. He’s even got the scruff of yesterday’s beard on his cheeks and chin, so he must not have even taken time to shave before coming to see me.

  Those dark eyes meet mine and lock me in place as he comes over to the bar, sitting down right in front of me. I love that he doesn’t have a preferred barstool but rather sits down wherever will put him closest to me.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he drawls out. I swear to God, it sounded like ‘wanna have sex in my truck?’ Or that’s what my vagina heard, anyway, and the answer’s a resounding yes, even though he didn’t really ask.

  “Hey there yourself,” I reply, going for smooth and chill but sounding a bit breathless. He hears the difference, judging by the purse of his lips as he fights a cocky grin. “Beer?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, sweet tea.”

  I quickly pour him a tea and set it in front of him, a little off to the side because I know what’s coming next. Or I hope I do.

  He doesn’t disappoint, leaning far across and holding around the back of my neck to guide me to meet him halfway. God, I love the way he kisses. Like there’s nothing more that he needs or wants—not oxygen, not sex, nothing more important than claiming my mouth with his and that’s enough.

  The bar goes silent, or maybe my ears are full of the whoosh of my racing heartbeat, but it’s not until he pulls back that time begins moving again. That smile of his is out in full force now. “Should’ve done that first,” he hums. “Been wanting to all day.”

  “Hard day at the office?” I joke.

  “No monkey suits for me, thanks. Brutal and I checked two of our biggest fields today, though. Makes for a long day in the sun, and we found some beetles so they’ll have to be treated. Luckily, not on Shay’s heirloom tomatoes or she’d blow a gasket. How about your day?” he asks.

  “Yeah, took some of Darla’s doughnuts to Unc this morning, then here by lunch.”

  His eyes sear
ch mine, for what I’m not sure, but carefully, he asks, “How’s Hank doing? Not used to a workhorse like him skipping out.” He looks around, noticing that Unc’s not here again. “’Specially not two days in a row.”

  Not wanting to tell Unc’s story since that’s his place, and technically, he hasn’t even told me, I shrug. “He’s okay, I guess. Said he’ll be in tomorrow for sure.”

  “I’m glad you’re here to help him. Stubborn old coot needs it but is too proud to ask for any,” he says, spot on with both Unc’s need and unwillingness to accept help. Except he is letting me, and though I’d like to think it’s because he’s welcoming me with open arms, I think it has more to do with how bad the situation has become.

  “Me too.” Glancing down the bar, I see a customer flagging me. “I’ll be back. Let me check on these people.”

  “No worries, do what you need to do. I’m gonna wander over to the pool tables for a bit until you’ve got a second to eat, ’kay?” He’s truly asking, and if I preferred for him to sit right there and wait for me, I have no doubt he would without hesitation. Being the focus of his attention is a heady thing, but I would like to double-check that I’ve done everything I can for Unc for tomorrow’s shift.

  “Sounds good,” I answer, already mentally checking whether that customer had a Bud or Coors.

  “Hey,” he says, drawing my attention back. “I’m glad you’re here for me too, for us.”

  “Wow.”

  He chuckles, and I realize I said that aloud. The couple sitting two stools down even seem in awe, watching us like their daily soap opera. I’m pretty sure I hear her whisper, “Why don’t you say stuff like that to me?” He doesn’t do himself any favors when he answers, “Because you don’t say it to me, either.”

  “Us?” I parrot, still lost in his orbit.

  “Us.”

  He turns to head to the back area where the pool tables are, and I finally close my mouth. The lady tells me, “Girl, lock that man down. Put a ring on his finger and yours, have his babies, and never let him go.” To her man, she adds, “It’s true.” He shakes his head but looks like he agrees.

  “Oh.” I start, remembering that I’m supposed to be getting a beer. “Coors, right?” I ask, pointing at the guy who flagged me down. He nods kindly and even says ‘thanks’ when I set it in front of him.

  After a couple of hours, the place slows down considerably, to my surprise. The Saturday with live music had been an absolute madhouse, but even the regular Saturdays were busier than this. I’m not complaining, though. It’s given me time to watch Bobby.

  I guess I expected tonight to be a continuation of where we left off. Hot and heavy, in other words, but he’s been happily playing pool with a group of guys he seems vaguely familiar with. He’s still shooting sexy looks my way and keeping a close watch over me and the whole bar. I have no doubt he could tell you how many people are here, who’s tipsy, who’s looking to get laid, and who’s looking for an escape into the bottom of a glass. He also probably knows that today is wearing me out, my feet are tired, and my back is aching. I feel like he’s observant of things like that, the same way I am.

  Actually, I’ve taken several pictures of him tonight with my phone. Thank God for digital zoom. Those photos are for me, though. To my blog, I posted a tub of lemons with a caption that read, “When life gives you lemons, chop them to bits and suck their insides out.” I’d thought it was funny, and it’s gotten several comments agreeing with me. Now, I take a shot of my shoes on the slick floor and rubber mats add, “Feet numb. Floor slippery. Bad combo for your girl. Pray for verticality.”

  Having a few minutes, I make my way across the room toward the pool tables. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going straight to Bobby like he’s pulling on my strings.

  The small group shifts automatically, like they know I belong at his side and make space for me to be there. “Did you eat yet?” Bobby asks with real concern, his arm going around my waist and pulling me close.

  “Yeah, Ilene set me and Olivia up with some extra fries she had.” They hadn’t been extra at all. She’d made them for us, delivered them to the bar, then nearly ran back to the kitchen where she prefers it.

  “Good.”

  “What about you? You want something?” I ask, knowing he usually eats with me too.

  “I ate already. I was starving and grabbed a bite from Mama Louise before I came,” he says with a touch of regret, like I could fault him for it. “I figured I’d snack again with you, though.”

  “Guess we’re both good then.” I laugh. Turning to the table, I ask, “Who’s winning?”

  “Way to back the shark’s play,” a guy answers me from across the table. He’s got a pool stick in his hand and is looking at Bobby expectantly. I guess he’s waiting on Bobby to shoot while he’s talking to me instead.

  “Shark?” I repeat, confused. Looking to Bobby, I ask, “You any good?”

  He shrugs modestly, and I know the answer is a resounding yes.

  Somehow, that challenge turns into a chance for him to show off, and a casual and friendly tournament breaks out in the group. I even play a bit, though I’m usually behind the bar too much to be any good at games. It’s fun, and as we clear out, I can easily work my way back and forth from the bar to the table since I’ve done so much side work already, and people are slowing down on drinks now that the kitchen is closed and Ilene and Daniel are cleaning up back there.

  After a bit, Olivia even plays a round, winning easily. “Take that, sucka,” she hollers to the guy she beat. While she waits for her next game, she comes over to the table where I’m perched, filling salt and pepper shakers. Another guy is helping out by wrapping silverware, telling us he used to be a waiter so he’s used to it and doesn’t mind a bit. The camaraderie is unexpected and sweet, and we get the front of the bar ready for tomorrow too as the games rage on.

  Eventually, Bobby plays against a guy named Greg, and they’re both really good. Not trick shot good, but strong enough that it’s a close matchup.

  “Were you stripes or solids again? I forgot,” Greg teases, knowing full well that Bobby is stripes and has one more ball on the table than he does.

  “Keep talking, man. Fuck up your shot and give me an easy win,” Bobby retorts, but there’s no heat and everyone laughs.

  I see Bobby in a new light, like he was on stage that first night, owning the crowd and them eating out of the palm of his hand. I like this side of him too, the charming guy everybody wants to be around. I especially like it because I know that after this game is over, they’ll leave and it’ll be just me and him again.

  Greg doesn’t miss his shot, or the next one. But after he scratches on his third one, and Bobby takes the cue ball and lines up his shot. I watch him survey the table, planning out each one.

  “You got this, Bobby,” I cheer, and the fiery look he shoots my way burns through me.

  He comes over to stand beside me, hands on the pool cue and eyes on me. “Kiss for luck?”

  It’s the first time he’s asked, usually more the type to take what he wants. I like it when he’s commanding, but this seems sweet and flirty. The kiss is over too fast, a quick press of his lips to mine before he returns to the table.

  Quick as can be, he pockets one, then another, then another, and finally, the eight ball. Boom.

  I clap, offering up a ‘woohoo’ that’s echoed by the rest of the group.

  Greg and Bobby shake hands. “Good game, man,” Bobby tells him, a good sport.

  “You too,” Greg replies in kind.

  Bobby comes right back to me, crowding in between my knees this time. “Ready for my victory kiss,” he growls. There’s no question this time.

  “What—”

  I start to ask what he means since he just kissed me, but he takes advantage of my mouth being wide open by filling it with his tongue, kissing me thoroughly and deeply. The group offers up a round of ‘oohs’. I love that he doesn’t shy away from showing me affection. If he wants a k
iss, he just kisses the hell out of me, right then and there, no matter who’s around or what’s going on. It’s refreshingly bold, and coupled with his bare-boned words, it leaves no doubt in my mind that he wants me.

  He finishes the kiss with a sweet smack, smiling widely when he stands straight once again. When I can breathe freely again, I say, “Bar’s closed. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

  Someone whines, “You didn’t say last call.”

  “Yes, she did,” Bobby corrects. I actually did, but it doesn’t matter now. I can’t serve after two, and I want these people out as soon as possible so that it can be me and Bobby alone again.

  The few stragglers gather up their things, leaving with waves and handshakes and promises to come hear Bobby sing next time he plays. Olivia locks the door behind them and we do a quick clean-up of the pool table area.

  Ilene and Daniel show up asking if we’re ready. “Yeah,” Bobby answers for Olivia and me. I’m surprised, having figured we’d stay back like last night, but Bobby walks me out with my co-workers and to my car.

  He backs me against the door, sandwiching me between the metal and rock hardness of his body, and runs his thumb over my cheekbone. “You’re exhausted, sweetheart. I can see it in those mood-ring eyes of yours, though you’re trying hard to hide it with excitement over seeing me. It’s okay, I know you want me desperately. I want you too. But I need you well-rested when we go for more. Don’t want you tapping out, too weak to go on after round one.”

  I grin at his cocky, arrogant joke and his dry delivery. He’s right, I do want him, but I would need some serious inspiration to be a good bed partner right now. I have no doubt that Bobby has that inspiration and then some, but I would like to be fully rested if he’s talking multiple rounds.