Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,66
It was dark, dingy, patroned by the addicted and the damned.
Which was why I liked it so damn much.
Now, the lights were brighter. Music was more cheerful. Laughter and happiness peppered through the air. There were waitresses. I had never glimpsed a young, perky-breasted waitress here before. But here they were, carrying trays of beer and fried food.
I almost wanted to turn around and stomp back out. But there weren’t any other dive bars in the area. Plus, I didn’t feel like going home to the empty house full of ghosts and unwritten manuscripts.
And if I didn’t go home, I might find myself scratching my car even further by driving toward Saint’s house. It made sense that the mere act of visiting the man damaged things.
So, I scowled and dragged myself onto the only seat at the end of the bar. The sun streaming in through the windows shone right on my freaking face. I didn’t come here for Vitamin D.
I came to escape the sun and all vitamins.
Deacon’s eyes darted toward me as he took the top off a beer. They narrowed, but didn’t turn straight-up murderous. Which might’ve been because he’d cooled off sufficiently. Or because there were too many witnesses.
Whatever it was, he didn’t drop everything and come to serve me. Which pissed me right off. But I respected it.
The time waiting gave me a chance to inspect the bar. It was like it had changed completely. A glance at my phone told me it was the weekend, which made sense. These wholesome people obviously only let themselves day drink on socially approved parts of the week.
I was careful not to make eye contact with anyone and give off an impression I came to a bar to socialize.
Though I wasn’t successful.
The man that came up to me wasn’t bad-looking. He was young. Fake tanned. Muscled in a way that made me suspect he abused steroids. His white shirt was one size too tight. Ditto with the jeans. He was either here for the holiday—hadn’t it just been Thanksgiving?—or he lived here and I had been blessed enough not to encounter him thus far.
“Are you Magnolia Grace?” he asked, smiling, holding his beer in that confident casual way that all men like this seemed to.
I gritted my teeth. Of all the lines he could’ve come up with? I was tempted to lie, say no, turn in my seat, and hopefully force him away. But I’d never deny being who I was. The mere fact he knew me by my face was annoying but a testament to my success. To the way I marketed myself. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it?
“Yes, I am,” I replied. I made sure to make my voice terse, annoyed, my face devoid of a friendly smile, eyes empty of warmth.
It didn’t dissuade this man. Of course it didn’t. “Wow, I heard you’d moved here but I thought Charlie had just lost his mind.”
That wasn’t out of the question.
I didn’t offer anything to this statement.
“I’m Troy,” he offered.
“Of course you are.”
His smile dimmed, ever so slightly. “My mom, she loves your books.”
I didn’t smile. “Be sure to tell her this story then.” I didn’t keep the snipe from my voice.
He was starting to get it. He looked nervous, far less confident. Shifting on his feet. “Uh.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you know many people around here. There aren’t many people to know, I guess. So, if you want to join us?” He gestured to table in the middle of the room, full of men that looked like different versions of him, trying not to make it obvious they were watching the exchange, and one furious-looking woman not trying to hide anything. She was used to being the only girl in the group. Plain, pretty in a boring sort of way. This was a kind of place she thrived in and I was threatening her. In her eyes, at least.
“What an offer, Troy,” I said, focusing on him. “But I’m not interested in knowing many people around here. So, I’d just prefer to sit here, drinking, alone.”
He blinked rapidly. I was sure he didn’t have much experience being turned down. And if he were turned down, it was likely gently, politely, and with a lot of apologies. Women tended to do that. Apologize for things they weren’t sorry for, because they felt uncomfortable being assertive.
I wasn’t one of those women.
Troy coughed nervously. “Ah, okay. Well, if you change your mind.”