drink?” Sean asked, slapping the bar. “I can make a Cosmo, or one of them froufrou drinks. I got some of those umbrellas around here. Or maybe you’d like something more rock star?”
“Soda water with lime.”
Sean nodded sagely. “Very rock star.”
Monica sat down on one of the stools, crossing her legs. The small rat/dog at the end of her leash curled up under her stool. Her shirt dipped farther down her arm, revealing the bronze sheen to her skin, the small dent of her muscle.
“Are you here for my world-famous Pour House poker night?” Sean asked, and Monica took a long, slow glance around the empty bar. “Well, usually we’re a little more full, but Jackson’s scared everyone away with reminders of all the freaking yard work they need to do.” Sean shot him a disgusted look.
“It’s important, Sean,” Jackson repeated for about the hundredth time tonight.
“Hardly more important than community togetherness, not more important than tradition.”
“I’m with Sean,” Monica said, swiveling around to face him. Flirting again, or just angry? It was hard to say with that gleam in her eye, but the smart money was on angry. “Community togetherness is way more important than yard work.”
“Luckily, authors just passing through don’t get a vote,” Jackson said.
“Too bad,” Monica pouted, and Jackson shifted in his seat. There was something really obscene about how he reacted to that mouth of hers. “Why the yard work?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Sean wiped down his bar like it was a vintage Mustang convertible. “We’re going to be saved by a TV show.” He raised his hands to the ceiling. “Saved!”
“Calm down, Sean,” Brody said. His deep voice made Monica turn around.
She slipped off the stool and approached, her hand held out to Brody. “I’m Monica.”
Brody stood. As all six feet four inches of him came up out of his chair, he had to duck under the low light over the table. Sean’s parents hadn’t been able to have kids, so they adopted Brody when he was six, but three months later they were pregnant with Sean—their miracle baby. Sean inherited all of his mother’s Irish looks, but Brody had Filipino and African American bloodlines. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and something wild simmering just under a calm surface. He didn’t smile at Monica; not that it was anything personal. Brody was just really an unsmiling kind of guy. Part of his job, Jackson supposed. Bodyguards didn’t do a lot of smiling.
“Brody Baxter.” Even his voice was badass.
“I like your mom’s show,” Sean said, pulling Monica’s attention away from Brody. “ What Simone Wants .”
“And I will try not to hold it against you.” Monica said it like a joke, but it rang with bitter truth.
“I liked the show you did with your mom like fifteen years ago. Remember that one?” Sean asked and whistled. “You were like the original Kardashians.”
Jackson was watching Monica, unable to take his eyes off her, so he saw the small muscles around her lipsflinch, as if just the memory of the show had the power to wound her.
“What was it called again?” Sean asked, obviously unaware that Monica was not enjoying this train of conversation.
“ Mommy Dearest ,” Monica joked, deadpan.
“No, that wasn’t it,” Sean said, oblivious. “You must remember, you were on the damn thing.”
Jackson stood and walked behind the bar, compelled to stop this conversation, all because of a lip twitch.
Sean let him back there with only a scowl; part of Jackson’s payment for the blood, sweat, and tears he’d put into the bar was free beer. And Jackson liked to work the taps.
“So what brings you to town?” Sean asked, distracted from trying to remember the name of Monica’s reality TV show.
“Working on a book,” she said.
“More sex, drugs, and rock and roll?” Sean asked, his eyebrows wiggling.
“No. I’m going to write about my father’s murder.”
The buzz of the neon signs
“Soda water with lime.”
Sean nodded sagely. “Very rock star.”
Monica sat down on one of the stools, crossing her legs. The small rat/dog at the end of her leash curled up under her stool. Her shirt dipped farther down her arm, revealing the bronze sheen to her skin, the small dent of her muscle.
“Are you here for my world-famous Pour House poker night?” Sean asked, and Monica took a long, slow glance around the empty bar. “Well, usually we’re a little more full, but Jackson’s scared everyone away with reminders of all the freaking yard work they need to do.” Sean shot him a disgusted look.
“It’s important, Sean,” Jackson repeated for about the hundredth time tonight.
“Hardly more important than community togetherness, not more important than tradition.”
“I’m with Sean,” Monica said, swiveling around to face him. Flirting again, or just angry? It was hard to say with that gleam in her eye, but the smart money was on angry. “Community togetherness is way more important than yard work.”
“Luckily, authors just passing through don’t get a vote,” Jackson said.
“Too bad,” Monica pouted, and Jackson shifted in his seat. There was something really obscene about how he reacted to that mouth of hers. “Why the yard work?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Sean wiped down his bar like it was a vintage Mustang convertible. “We’re going to be saved by a TV show.” He raised his hands to the ceiling. “Saved!”
“Calm down, Sean,” Brody said. His deep voice made Monica turn around.
She slipped off the stool and approached, her hand held out to Brody. “I’m Monica.”
Brody stood. As all six feet four inches of him came up out of his chair, he had to duck under the low light over the table. Sean’s parents hadn’t been able to have kids, so they adopted Brody when he was six, but three months later they were pregnant with Sean—their miracle baby. Sean inherited all of his mother’s Irish looks, but Brody had Filipino and African American bloodlines. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and something wild simmering just under a calm surface. He didn’t smile at Monica; not that it was anything personal. Brody was just really an unsmiling kind of guy. Part of his job, Jackson supposed. Bodyguards didn’t do a lot of smiling.
“Brody Baxter.” Even his voice was badass.
“I like your mom’s show,” Sean said, pulling Monica’s attention away from Brody. “ What Simone Wants .”
“And I will try not to hold it against you.” Monica said it like a joke, but it rang with bitter truth.
“I liked the show you did with your mom like fifteen years ago. Remember that one?” Sean asked and whistled. “You were like the original Kardashians.”
Jackson was watching Monica, unable to take his eyes off her, so he saw the small muscles around her lipsflinch, as if just the memory of the show had the power to wound her.
“What was it called again?” Sean asked, obviously unaware that Monica was not enjoying this train of conversation.
“ Mommy Dearest ,” Monica joked, deadpan.
“No, that wasn’t it,” Sean said, oblivious. “You must remember, you were on the damn thing.”
Jackson stood and walked behind the bar, compelled to stop this conversation, all because of a lip twitch.
Sean let him back there with only a scowl; part of Jackson’s payment for the blood, sweat, and tears he’d put into the bar was free beer. And Jackson liked to work the taps.
“So what brings you to town?” Sean asked, distracted from trying to remember the name of Monica’s reality TV show.
“Working on a book,” she said.
“More sex, drugs, and rock and roll?” Sean asked, his eyebrows wiggling.
“No. I’m going to write about my father’s murder.”
The buzz of the neon signs
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