Chaser (Dive Bar #3)(79)

She lay her head against my shoulder, getting as close as she could. “This scares me. You scare me.”

“Sweetheart, I’m pretty much wrapped around your finger.”

The woman snorted. “You know what I mean.”

“I know.” I kissed the top of her head. “But we’ll work it out. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Ada screamed in outrage at being kept waiting and Jean took the opportunity to bolt after throwing one last worried glance my way. For some reason, I couldn’t stop smiling.

*

“You’re serious about this?”

I nodded over my drink. “Serious as I can be.”

“Huh.”

My brother sat on the bar stool next to me at the Coeur d’Alene Lakeside Restaurant and Bar a couple of days later. We were basically there to spy. Not to check out the competition, but to assess what kind of joint the resort people who wanted to buy the Dive Bar ran. Honestly, I was a long way from impressed.

“It looks good,” said Joe, sipping his beer from the tap.

“About half an inch more froth than needed.”

“Yeah.”

I stared at my margarita resentfully. “They used a piece of lemon instead of lime to garnish. The fruit’s old and discolored.”

“How’s it taste?”

“Pretty hard to fuck up a margarita,” I grumped.

Sure, flames blazed in the big-ass stone fireplace. Very impressive. And the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the lake were reasonably spectacular. Top-end tables and fancy chairs, some plush cushioned couches in the corner. Local artwork beautifully framed hung on the walls. On the other hand, the young idiot behind the bar was snoozing instead of keeping an eye on customers. I raised up on the stool a little to check out the situation back there. Ice needed topping up and a good wipe down of the area wouldn’t go astray.

Lazy fuck.

Then there was the bar itself. The bottles across the top shelf looked like they came right out of a catalogue. Some vacuous idiot’s laundry list of what a top-shelf selection should look like. My eyes narrowed. Most of the bottles were unused. Display purposes only. No personality in it at all. It was the worst thing in the world: a bar made by people who didn’t actually like to drink.

Dammit. I should like the place. Everything would be easier if I could just like the place.

Joe nudged me, pointing to a couple of waiters chatting by the front desk while a woman at a table in the restaurant section waved her hand, trying to get their attention. Because providing a little customer service was so difficult. God knows who was in charge or exactly what they were doing with their life. Not working, apparently.

I took a handful of the complimentary nuts and popped them one by one into my mouth.

“What do you think?” asked Joe.

“Hand me that menu?” He did as asked and I flipped through the bar menu. “Way overpriced for what they’re stocking on the shelves.”

A grunt. “You know you were never going to be happy with the place.”

“The staff don’t like it here,” I said. “None of them give a shit.”

“Maybe we came on an off day.”

My turn to grunt. “They have no pride in their work. It’s depressing.”

“Just think about all the money they’re willing to pay you and smile. Everyone will find other jobs. It’s not the end of the world.” Joe scratched at his beard. “Still can’t believe you’re seriously thinking of going.”

“Shit happens.”

“That’s fucking beautiful, man.” He laughed.

“She’s the one,” I growled. “What do you want me to say?”

He just smiled.

Which only irritated me more. “Just because your social life revolves around me, you sad fuck.”

“Ah, brother.” He sighed. “I take it back. Go to Florida, I don’t give a shit, you dick rash.”

“Charming.” I grinned. “Order a manhattan, would you?”

“Hey,” Joe shouted at the snoozing bartender. “Manhattan, thanks.”

The kid jerked to attention, face startled. Maybe even a little pissed at the disturbance. “Right. On it.”

“If he worked for me, I’d kick his ass into next week.” I pushed the margarita aside, then said loudly, “I’ll have a paloma.”

The kid’s eyes tightened, but he nodded.

“He’s going to need to look that one up,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“You bastard,” laughed Joe. “I’ve never even had anyone order that. What is it?”

“Basically tequila and grapefruit juice.”

“Sounds disgusting.”

“Some people like them. It takes all kinds.” I slumped sulkily on the stool, eating some more nuts. “Hate the thought of someone else in charge of my bar.”

“I know, brother. I know.” He gripped my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “But you can open another bar.”

“Won’t know the scene as well. Won’t know the right people to hire.”

“You’ll figure it out, you know you will.” He exhaled. “What’s really bothering you?”

I just frowned.

“Having second thoughts?”