Bouncer by Kim Jones Page 0,40
meeting her eyes. “He was struck by lightning a few years ago. Messed up his head. Real tragic shit. Can we have a min….” My voice trails off when I spot the manager and two security guards moving toward us.
I look at Bouncer. He’s murderous.
I clear my throat and try to make my voice soothing. “Honey, you need to calm down.”
“Oh, I’m fucking calm.”
“I fucking mean it, Bouncer,” I whisper shout, soothing voice gone. “I love Olive Garden. Don’t fuck this up for us!”
“Watch your mouth, sweetheart.”
The manager approaches. The security guards flanking him. “Ma’am?”
Wait. What?
“Yes?”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
This has got to be a joke.
I look to the security. The waitress. The manager. They’re all serious. When I turn to Bouncer, he looks as shocked as I feel. And maybe just a little too damn smug.
Well, we can’t have that.
I widen my eyes. Force my lip to tremble. And sniff.
He explodes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you people? You think you can just kick my girl out? Who you working for? ISIS?”
Propping my feet in the chair beside me, I lean back and enjoy my bottle of wine as the show unfolds.
“Sir, we are going to need you to calm down and take a breath.”
“Fuck you, dick. If my girl didn’t have such a hard-on for your breadsticks, I wouldn’t even be in this shithole. I read about the shutdown in 2002. I know Sarah, is a shit waitress who smokes too much. And Carl, your chef, didn’t go to fuckin’ Tuscany for culinary school. The motherfucker is your nephew and he’s out on bail for fornicating in public.”
I lift my bottle. “You tell em’, baby.”
He pauses his rant to wink at me.
I melt.
So maybe I wouldn’t change him if I could.
Maybe I love him just the way he is.
Crazy and strange and borderline psychotic, and most importantly….
He is mine.
About the Author
I always feel so stupid writing about myself in third person. I mean, this is my book. It’s not like someone else is writing this shit. So instead of saying, Kim Jones is blah, blah, blah, I feel like I should tell you about myself. But how I view myself isn’t how others view me. I mean, that is if they view me as anything less than awesome. Which some of them do. But they don’t count, so whatever.
Any who, I’m not going to talk about myself and tell you I’m from a small town in Mississippi and that I love dogs and I drink too much and smoke too much and all that. You can just find me on social media and decide who I am for yourself.
Stalk me here:
Also by Kim Jones
The Saving Dallas Series:
Saving Dallas
Making the Cut
Forever
Standalone MC novels:
Red
The Devil
Devil’s Love
Sinner’s Creed Series:
Sinner’s Creed
Sinner’s Revenge
The Whore Series:
Clubwhore
Patchwhore
Cutslut
Other Books:
That Guy
Acknowledgments
To Rebecca, Forgy, Chelsea, THA FUN, the Civic, Stephanie, Kings of Carnage Authors and last but not least, Rose—seriously, couldn’t have done this without you—thank you!
I’d say more, but I’m fucking tired. I ain’t had no sleep.
SLY
Loud voices at the other end of the bar draw me from my memories. A gorgeous bartender is leaning over the counter, getting in the face of a customer.
“You ever try that crap again, buddy, you’ll be leaving here in handcuffs.”
“Why you getting so riled? It was just a pinch, babe. Don’t overreact.”
“You touch me or any other waitress in here again, I’ll hit you with the baseball bat I’ve got under the bar, understand, asshole?”
“Fuck you, bitch.” He stands and stalks toward the front door. I zero in on his face as he passes, committing it to memory. I ever see him again he’ll have more to worry about than cutie’s baseball bat.
My eyes snap back to her. She’s young, barely old enough to be bartending, if I had to guess. Her skin is like peaches and cream, her hair is long and silky and the color of pale fire, and her eyes are clear azure blue. My gaze skates down her body—lean and willowy with soft curves—the kind I immediately want to run my palms over.
She plunges some dirty glasses into a sink full of suds, taking her anger out in the rough jerking motions. I can see she’s muttering to herself, and I can’t help the grin on my face.
Evidently, I sat on the wrong side of the bar.
I drain my beer and set it forward. The bartender working this side approaches.
“Want another?”
I nod and ask, “There a Michael Mooney workin’ here tonight?”
He huffs