Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough by Isabel Sharpe Page B

Maybe a bake sale in the corner.
      But this one place at least, in this fake movie set town, seemed real. Real stink of cigarettes, real battered wood bar with real stools. Real beer-gutted patrons and—she swept the bar one end to the other—no women? Not one?
      Oh come on. Every town had at least one blowsy drunk who hung out at the bar. Maybe she was in the bathroom?
      Every male eye—she'd guess about sixteen total—was currently on her. Someone murmured something, and a grim chuckle spread across the bar like the wave in Yankee Stadium.
      Her adrenaline started pumping. She loved being the center of attention, even attention from hefty rural Wisconsinites suffering from cheese spread.
      "Good evening." She smiled at each man in turn, taking her time, noting mostly stares of appraisal or disapproval, but registering leering lust on the face of one particularly creepy looking guy. And hallelujah, there at the end of the bar, with an unoccupied stool next to him, was sexy neighbor Mike. So he wasn't home to receive his hot little casserole.
      She sauntered over and perched next to him, leaning forward as she settled herself on the stool in case he felt the need to ogle her.
      Which he didn't seem to, but the icky guy behind him definitely did. She could practically smell his stale, fumey breath.
      "Can I buy you a drink, Mike?"
      He held up his beer, the same kind she bought for her house and pretended to enjoy this morning, Leinenkugel's Red. Good beer, but not at that ungodly hour.
      "I'm fi ne, thanks."
      O-kay. She hadn't figured Mike out. Either he didn't like her, or he just hated her boldness, or he didn't give a rat's ass either way. Or maybe he was 99.9 percent bullshit -free. Rare in her experience. She'd bet on one of the former.
      "I'll buy you one anyway. Excuse me." She called to the bartender, shook back her hair, aware most of the men's eyes were still on her, some leaning forward, some back along the length of the bar. The burly bartender, scowling face pink like a ham, kept drying a glass with a white towel.
      "Yo, bartender." She spoke louder. What, was the sonofabitch going to ignore her completely?
      Apparently. That glass was really dry by now.
      "What'll you have?" Mike spoke around the mouth of his bottle, then took a sip, not even glancing her way. "I'll order for you."
      Vivian let out a low, easy chuckle to hide her anger. "Murderers not popular here in Kettle?"
      "That's part of it." Mike put his bottle on the counter, still looking straight ahead. "Women don't generally come to Harris's."
      " What?" She, who didn't surprise easily, was shocked. "A men-only bar? What the hell century is it here?"
      "What'll you have?"
      She laughed again. This was surreal. "Irish whiskey, straight up."
      Mike raised his finger; ham boy came right over. "Yeah, Mike?"
      "I'm switching to Jameson, Frank. No ice."
      The bartender gave Vivian a dirty look; she blew him a sultry kiss, which made his look dirtier. He went off to pour the drink. And probably to add rat poison.
      "Thank you, Mike."
      "It's okay." Mike took another sip, staring at the bottles lined up behind the bar.
      "So what do women do for fun in this town? Stay home and bake carry -out casseroles?"
      Mike gave her an odd look, beer frozen halfway down to the bar, and for a second she thought he was going to smile. "That's about right."
      "How special for them."
      The bartender put her drink in front of Mike. She grabbed it and lifted the glass. "Thanks, Frank, darling."
       Asswipe. She drained the drink and held it out for a refi ll. The ham -ster took it this time, though reluctantly.
    "I'd like to see what you'd heat up for a man at home."
    The icky guy spoke to Vivian's breasts; the men behind him chuckled. Vivian sent him a lick -my-boot stare. He was big, dark hair thinning on top, dark brows, dense stubble, big tuft of dark hair poking up from his yellow