Dirty (Dive Bar #1)(42)

Today, the chalkboards hanging on the walls of the Dive Bar were all about tacos. The menu options were always based on whatever Nell happened to be in the mood to cook. Some staples were always on offer, such as steak, mac n cheese, sliders, and fries covered in every good thing you could imagine. Stuff like that. But outside of those, what might be available was a constant gastronomic mystery.

Got to admire a woman who respects Taco Tuesday, though.

Scrawled across the boards were shredded beef, chili lime chicken, spicy shrimp, and roasted sweet potato with black beans. Yum. I was getting high just off the smell. The Dive Bar was fast becoming my happy place.

I filled my tray with a combination of margaritas, a couple of Coronas, and a shot of Herradura tequila with a slice of lemon on the side.

“All good?” asked Vaughan.

“All good.” I looked between him and Joe, smirking just a little. “How’s fight club going, boys?”

“Can’t talk about it,” mumbled Joe.

I laughed and lifted my tray, heading over to serve the order to a group of older couples. They were on their second round of drinks—smiling, relaxing, and just plain having a nice time.

“You were right about the shrimp,” said one woman. “It’s got a definite kick to it. But the chicken is amazing.”

“It’s great, isn’t it?” I handed her one of the Coronas while her partner got busy sucking down the margarita. “I wish I could cook half as well as Nell. I can’t pour milk on cereal without burning it.”

“Ha! You and me both.”

I grinned. “Can I get you anything else?”

They responded with a chorus of no’s and not yet’s.

With a nod, I wandered off to check on my other tables. The lunch rush had dwindled and we’d moved into the hang-out-and-drink phase of the afternoon. At one table, a dude read a book with coffee and cake in front of him, at another, a group of girls around my age gossiped and giggled over many glasses of wine.

“Later.” Joe passed me by, hands in his pockets, heading out into the street. He’d finished for the day.

“Bye.”

Despite the revelry-turned-chaos of last night, today was turning out to be a good day.

… And I spoke too soon. “Hi, Betsy.”

“Liddy.” The Delaneys’ real estate receptionist sneered more than smiled, looking me over with not even a vague sense of delight. “My, how the mighty have fallen.”

“Mm. I don’t see it that way.”

“Good for you.” Oh, the lack of sincerity in her words.

The woman was around my age. Much more country club than I’d ever be. When I used to work with her, it had crossed my mind a time or two that she and Chris would have made an excellent couple. I could just imagine them posing in matching Christmas sweaters and shit, wearing white linen. They fit. Luckily for Betsy, she’d been in town a hell of a lot longer than me and must have been in on the whole “Chris is gay” secret. Though I doubt it would have stopped her from nabbing the name or the money, if he’d been interested. Maybe admin level had been too low for Chris to go.

Who knew? And, turns out, I didn’t care. Yep, my level of f*cks given had definitely dropped. Go, me.

“What are you grinning about?” the woman snapped, probably dismayed by my lack of butthurt.

“What can I do for you, Betsy?”

She sniffed, head jumping up so far it’s a wonder she didn’t get whiplash. “Mr. Delaney asked me to deliver this to you.”

A large envelope was shoved at me. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Anything that gets you gone. Well, I have to go. Some of us have actual important work to do.” Another round of sniffs and doing her best to look down at me. Whatever made her happy. “I hear you’re living with the neighbor, some failed musician wannabe.”

“Did you?”

“A bit low, even for you.”

For the life of me, I couldn’t recall what I’d done to piss the girl off so badly during my four months at the agency. Our interactions had always been polite, friendly, even. I didn’t need to be universally loved. But if I was outright hated by someone, I should know why.

Maybe she was just Team Delaney through and through. Good for her.

“Is that him?” she asked, pointing toward the bar.

“Yep.” He’d tamed the usual mess of his golden-red hair into an old fashioned combed down style. Which he rocked. And the width of his shoulders stretched his plain black T-shirt just a little. God, his poor face, all gray, black, and blue. At least he hadn’t been too badly hurt. Something about the tattoo on his neck worked for me. I wanted to kiss it and lick it and do all sorts of things. Things requiring an X rating.

“I can’t tell you how great he is,” I said, not bothering to face her. My view was far too good. “Vaughan is … he’s awesome. And it’s not just the hot body and his whole tattooed rocker bad-ass vibe. Because let me tell you, most of the time the man is a total *cat. The sweetest guy I’ve ever met. Loyal and supportive, open-minded, totally trustworthy. We can talk for hours about nothing, just hanging out together. He has his cranky moments, but hey … don’t we all? Not to mention he’s sexy as hell. I’m too much of a lady to discuss what he’s got in his pants, or how he can make me feel without even bringing that into play. But when the guy can light you up with just a kiss, not even any tongue, you know you’re on to a good thing. Know what I mean, B?”