All the Right Moves(11)
Stopping at the door, she readjusted her ponytail, then walked back inside as she stuffed the twenties into her pocket.
Lisa stood behind the bar filling her own order. “What was that about?”
Cassie moved in to take over. “The pilot forgot his change.”
“Did you catch him?”
“Nope. I was too late. Did Gordon ask for another one?” Cassie focused on filling the next order, wishing Lisa would go deliver her drinks.
“No, he’s fine.” She went around to the other side of the bar. “How much too much?”
“Thirty-three bucks.”
Lisa let out a low whistle. “Good job. I saw you chatting him up.”
She snorted. “I took him a beer. That’s it.”
“You were talking earlier....”
“If you say so. I don’t remember.” Cassie felt the heat in her cheeks and crouched to get a bowl of maraschino cherries out of the fridge. She took her time, but when she straightened, Lisa was still there.
“So...he’s military, right?”
“I don’t know,” Cassie said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Would you please get these drinks out of here?”
Lisa picked up her tray. Grinning, she gave Cassie a long, amused look. “I hope he comes back.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“A dollar says he does.”
“You’re on.” Cassie kept her head down until she knew Lisa was gone.
Her friend had the wrong idea. Cassie was relieved he’d taken off. Now she didn’t have to worry about Tommy noticing him and making a crack about officers. In an hour the after-work crowd would thin and maybe she’d have a few minutes to study. If John had stayed, her work would’ve remained buried under the stack of clean rags.
Besides, she knew better than to fall for unattainable men. That way lay madness. She had a degree to finish. Here at the Gold Strike her world was safe and predictable. Being a bartender gave her what passed for a social life and put money in her pocket. It was all good.
* * *
YAWNING, JOHN FLIPPED the switch on the coffeemaker. It was programmed to start brewing at five-thirty. That usually worked fine...when he didn’t sleep until noon. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. But then he hadn’t gone to bed until nearly 4:00 a.m.
He got out a mug, then left it on the counter and forced himself out of the kitchen. Staring at the drips would only make him crazy while he waited for the first cup to brew. The notebook sat on the glass coffee table where he’d left it, open to the columns of pros and cons he’d started around midnight.
Hell, his grocery list had been longer. He rubbed his bare chest, then scraped the back of his knuckles along his stubbled chin and jaw. Maybe he wouldn’t shave for ten days. Be a bum, see what it felt like not to have to shine his boots, or to leave the condo. He had a pile of books he’d been meaning to read, a couple issues of AirForces Monthly to catch up on and if he wanted to just veg out, there were enough sports channels to keep him sprawled on the couch until it was time to make another turkey sandwich.
Sounded okay in theory. But last night had felt like being stuck forever in a cockpit waiting for a runway. Watching baseball on TV wasn’t his thing. Going to a game was okay. If his mood hadn’t gone sideways after seeing those vets, he would’ve stayed at the Gold Strike, eaten stale pretzels and watched the cute bartender.
With her wild chestnut hair and quick wit, he’d thought about her an awful lot. She didn’t fit his image of a woman who’d work in a dive bar. Not when she could be doing so much better bartending on the Strip. The tourists would like her trivia gimmick and her attitude. But she seemed awfully comfortable in the Gold Strike. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed right that she owned the place. She acted like she was at home there. He understood that. The air force had always been home for him, which made this...whatever the hell it was, all the more frustrating.
His coffee lured him in with its seductive aroma at the same time his cell phone buzzed. He grabbed it on his way to the kitchen and when he saw it was Sam, his pace slowed. The guy was his best friend. And the last person he’d talk to about his predicament. In fact, he hadn’t even told Sam he was on leave.
John thought about letting it go to voice mail, but he’d have to eventually return the call, so what was the point? Besides, Sam normally didn’t call in the middle of the day. Since he couldn’t fly anymore, maybe he was also having second thoughts about staying in another ten years.