institution. It was a hole-in-the-wall bar that had seen a good bit of line-dancing and table-dancing, all the more remarkable since Smitty’s had no dance floor, only a clientele that didn’t care. There was one main room with square tables for dominos, a pock-marked wooden bar, two pool tables in the back and an old barrel that was usually filled with crackers.
Ernestine Landry, the granddaughter of the original Smitty, paid the taxes on the place and poured the beer, but she wasn’t a big fan of the name Ernestine and went by Landry instead, which was a holy word in the Texas football vernacular, usually spoken with awe and hushed tones of respect. On Thursday nights, Smitty’s was always crowded, but tonight seemed especially packed, and Gillian didn’t want to speculate on the cause, mainly because she knew she was the cause, and it would make her stomach queasy, and it was never a good idea to drink on a queasy stomach. It was an even worse idea to see a former nonlover on a queasy stomach, but she didn’t want to dwell on that either, because it would only make her stomach troubles worse.
As Gillian made her way toward the bar, she refused to look around. She wasn’t there to see anybody. She was there because it was hotter than Hades, it was Thursday night, and besides, Mindy would do the looking for her.
After Gillian was done not looking around, Landry approached, her gray-frizzled head reaching just above the wooden counter. “Tuesday night is ladies’ night—tonight is Thursday. If you want half-price pitchers, you’re out of luck.”
“Lite beer for me and a Shirley Temple for Mindy,” Gillian ordered, then she and Mindy seated themselves on two of the more stable stools.
Landry poked her head above the bar and stared pointedly at Mindy’s belly. “People don’t like pregnant women in bars. They come to a bar to practice sin without consequences. You are a walking consequence.”
Mindy smoothed out the pink-checked ruffles over the swell, beaming angelically, because she was devilish that way. “You got a packed house tonight, and check out that tip jar, already full. If you don’t want the pregnant lady, I will leave, but I’ll take the evening’s entertainment with me. You make the call.”
“I don’t like being referred to as the entertainment,” protested Gillian.
In answer, Landry popped the cap off the bottle, and slammed it on the counter. Foam bubbled up, spilling over the sides, making a mess and wasting good beer. It was a clever ploy designed to increase sales, and once Landry’s point was made, she stalked off to harass the next customer. Never one to waste good beer, Gillian drank while Mindy discreetly sipped at her drink, taking stock of familiar faces, the folks who had known her since birth. This was her home, and it had always hurt her that Austen had never been a part of it.
“He’s here, isn’t he?” Gillian asked. She could feel the eyes, and hear the whispers, but there was something more. A flutter of nerves and the pulse of a rabbit. Not a scared rabbit, but a frisky one.
“He’s here,” confirmed Mindy. “Eight o’clock, sitting alone, chair rocked back against the wall.” She laid a twenty on the counter. “That’s if you go talk to him.”
Shocked, Gillian turned. “You think you need to pay me?”
“No. Brad bet you wouldn’t have the guts. I knew better. If I win, I get to buy that new swirling footbath.”
Normally, Gillian could not be bribed, coerced or blackmailed into doing something that she knew in her heart was wrong. In fact, those very strong ethical foundations were what made her good at her job. However, there was a heat sink burning at her back, a line of uneasy sensations walking down her spine. Austen had no idea what he did to her sanity and it was the main reason she was dying to get up and sashay across the room. Oh, how she wanted to deliver a stunning cut-down to Mr. Hart, flash him her sexiest smile, then walk
Ernestine Landry, the granddaughter of the original Smitty, paid the taxes on the place and poured the beer, but she wasn’t a big fan of the name Ernestine and went by Landry instead, which was a holy word in the Texas football vernacular, usually spoken with awe and hushed tones of respect. On Thursday nights, Smitty’s was always crowded, but tonight seemed especially packed, and Gillian didn’t want to speculate on the cause, mainly because she knew she was the cause, and it would make her stomach queasy, and it was never a good idea to drink on a queasy stomach. It was an even worse idea to see a former nonlover on a queasy stomach, but she didn’t want to dwell on that either, because it would only make her stomach troubles worse.
As Gillian made her way toward the bar, she refused to look around. She wasn’t there to see anybody. She was there because it was hotter than Hades, it was Thursday night, and besides, Mindy would do the looking for her.
After Gillian was done not looking around, Landry approached, her gray-frizzled head reaching just above the wooden counter. “Tuesday night is ladies’ night—tonight is Thursday. If you want half-price pitchers, you’re out of luck.”
“Lite beer for me and a Shirley Temple for Mindy,” Gillian ordered, then she and Mindy seated themselves on two of the more stable stools.
Landry poked her head above the bar and stared pointedly at Mindy’s belly. “People don’t like pregnant women in bars. They come to a bar to practice sin without consequences. You are a walking consequence.”
Mindy smoothed out the pink-checked ruffles over the swell, beaming angelically, because she was devilish that way. “You got a packed house tonight, and check out that tip jar, already full. If you don’t want the pregnant lady, I will leave, but I’ll take the evening’s entertainment with me. You make the call.”
“I don’t like being referred to as the entertainment,” protested Gillian.
In answer, Landry popped the cap off the bottle, and slammed it on the counter. Foam bubbled up, spilling over the sides, making a mess and wasting good beer. It was a clever ploy designed to increase sales, and once Landry’s point was made, she stalked off to harass the next customer. Never one to waste good beer, Gillian drank while Mindy discreetly sipped at her drink, taking stock of familiar faces, the folks who had known her since birth. This was her home, and it had always hurt her that Austen had never been a part of it.
“He’s here, isn’t he?” Gillian asked. She could feel the eyes, and hear the whispers, but there was something more. A flutter of nerves and the pulse of a rabbit. Not a scared rabbit, but a frisky one.
“He’s here,” confirmed Mindy. “Eight o’clock, sitting alone, chair rocked back against the wall.” She laid a twenty on the counter. “That’s if you go talk to him.”
Shocked, Gillian turned. “You think you need to pay me?”
“No. Brad bet you wouldn’t have the guts. I knew better. If I win, I get to buy that new swirling footbath.”
Normally, Gillian could not be bribed, coerced or blackmailed into doing something that she knew in her heart was wrong. In fact, those very strong ethical foundations were what made her good at her job. However, there was a heat sink burning at her back, a line of uneasy sensations walking down her spine. Austen had no idea what he did to her sanity and it was the main reason she was dying to get up and sashay across the room. Oh, how she wanted to deliver a stunning cut-down to Mr. Hart, flash him her sexiest smile, then walk
Similar Books
