All the Right Moves(15)
Maybe he needed to hit bottom before he’d start living in the real world again. But she wasn’t strong enough to watch him fall.
4
AFTER SUFFERING THROUGH bumper-to-bumper traffic for three blocks, John finally turned on Flamingo. Another minute and he merged onto I-15, glad to be away from the Strip and the tourists. He hadn’t minded leaving Rick and the other two men behind, either.
Dinner with the guys was supposed to have boosted his spirits, remind him of the camaraderie he enjoyed in the air force. Not depress him. Halfway through the meal he knew he wouldn’t be joining them afterward at the Palms for drinks and hunting. Maybe he shouldn’t have left so early. A beautiful woman in his bed might be just the distraction he needed. On the other hand, the mood he was in, he doubted he’d want anyone that close.
It was Troy, the pilot he hadn’t met before, who’d sent John into a funk. In the middle of their discussion about the F-35, he’d gotten a call from his wife. She’d put their two kids on the phone so he could say good-night to them, then Troy told her he loved her and missed her. Seconds after Troy disconnected he asked Rick where they were going clubbing.
No one at the table had batted an eye. Not even John. None of his business, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t know that kind of crap went on all the time, but Jesus, the guy had just talked to his wife and kids. How did a man run cold to hot that fast after telling a woman he loved her?
Granted, John wasn’t an expert on love or marriage. Twice he’d thought he’d been in love, once in college and then again five years ago. Both ended up being false alarms. Greta and Tricia each had been fun, sexy, amazing women in their own way, just not right for him. But while they’d been together, he’d never cheated on either of them, never considered it for a minute.
He sped past the exit for his condo. He hadn’t planned on going to the Gold Strike, so it wasn’t the reason he’d bailed. But he didn’t want to go home, either. It was early, only nine. And he wouldn’t mind seeing Cassie again.
Thinking about the cute bartender made him smile. He’d be disappointed as hell if she wasn’t working tonight, but he doubted she took much time off. The bar was her domain and the customers her family. Everyone seemed to get a real kick out of trying to stump her with trivia. They put some thought into the questions he’d heard, but no matter how busy she’d been, Cassie had known the answer. He’d never seen anything like it. Like her.
Traffic thinned the farther he got away from the Strip and downtown, and it didn’t take long to get to the Gold Strike. The parking lot was less crowded than last night but he looked for a spot on the street anyway. Maybe he was wrong in thinking the Corvette was safer at the curb, but the stalls were narrow and he’d watched more than a few guys putting away too many pitchers of beer.
At one point early last night Cassie had cut off a burly man with bikers’ tats. John had moved to the edge of his stool ready to intervene, then saw she hadn’t needed help. The guy hadn’t given her any grief. Another man with arms the size of oak trees and wearing lots of biker leather had emerged from the back room. No doubt he would’ve bounced the drunk all the way to the California state line if he’d uttered one wrong word to Cassie.
John parked the Corvette and pocketed his keys on the way to the door. If he’d thought about it earlier, he would’ve changed into jeans. Though he wouldn’t stand out too much in dark slacks and a white oxford shirt, not in that eclectic crowd. In deference to the heat, he rolled his sleeves back another turn and, all right, he hoped he didn’t look too preppy.
As soon as he stepped inside he saw her behind the bar, sitting with her head bowed. Over a book. A couple sat a few stools down from her, both with full cocktails in front of them. His seat from last night was free, and he pulled it away from the bar. Lisa, the waitress, came from the back room and smiled at him. She set her tray near Cassie and said something, probably alerting her that she had a customer, because Cassie’s chin came up and she looked right at him.
Quick as a wink, she shoved her book under a pile of towels, then took out a frosted mug and filled it with beer. Once again, she’d worn tight faded jeans and a T-shirt, black this time, and not so snug, which was a shame. When she carried the drink over to him, he saw an outline of a cat on the front of her shirt.
His gaze switched to the beer she put in front of him. “How do you know this is what I want?”
“I’d be happy to pour you a scotch.”