Hold On (The 'Burg #6)(18)

Morrie headed to the front door to unlock it.

Two minutes later, we had our first customer.

* * * * *

It got busy early. Once church was done and after-church big breakfasts at Frank’s or big lunches at home were consumed, games were on and people hauled their asses out to commune with their fellow citizens and throw back some beers.

This was good for two reasons: more cash in my pocket, and being busy took my mind off the fact that at any second, Merry was going to walk in and deliver a blow he didn’t know he was delivering.

I didn’t get jumpy waiting for it. I knew better than that. I was resigned to the way of the world.

Jack came in, which meant me on the floor since he always worked back of the bar. I didn’t mind this. I had candy bars and Funyuns to work off my ass, and tips were just as steady at the tables.

I was delivering some drafts when he came in. I felt him like a sixth sense, and this wasn’t a new ability he’d instilled in me after f*cking me. The minute I’d laid eyes on him and the months it’d taken me to get to know him and fall in love was when I’d gained that talent.

I looked his way, saw his eyes on me, face guarded, and I gave it to him right away. A big, cocky Cher smile.

He grinned, not quite hiding the relief, then looked to the bar, giving chin lifts to Morrie and Jack while heading around to the opposite end where all the cops hung out.

He did not take Colt’s stool, the last one around the far curve. If there wasn’t another choice, no one did. Colt’s stool was his should he decide to saunter in, Feb there or not. It was just the way it was.

But Merry did take the stool next to it, one down from the hinge of the bar.

I dropped the drafts, took an order at a table on the way back to the bar, and wedged into the space between Merry’s occupied stool and Colt’s unoccupied one.

I’d bucked myself up before arriving so I was all good when I got there.

“Hey,” I said to him.

“Hey,” he said to me, eyes moving over my face, eyes that flashed in my head as a memory, heated and hooded, right before he came.

Shit.

“You get a break soon?” he asked.

“We’re ordering in Shanghai Salon in a while,” I told him.

“Let me take you to Frank’s. I can call in our orders so they’ll have them ready and I can get you back to work on time,” he offered.

So he didn’t intend to deliver the blow with me at work.

That was Merry—meaning, that was nice.

“Hang tight,” I replied and looked to Jack heading my way. “Two Bud Lights and a Coors, bottle.”

“Got it,” Jack said, then looked to Merry. “Hey, son, you on?”

“Yeah, Jack. Can you shoot me a Coke?”

“Sure thing,” Jack replied.

I got my bottles first and told Merry I’d be back as Jack was aiming the drink gun into a glass of ice.

I dropped the beers, did a walk-through of my tables, got no orders, and headed back to the bar.

I hit the opposite side of Merry this time, closer to the room and not the wall, and wedged in.

“No orders, have a second now,” I told him.

“Then tell me what you want me to order you at Frank’s and ask for your break,” he replied.

“You on lunch hour at four in the afternoon, or what?” I asked.

“Things are slow, but yeah, Mike’s doin’ paperwork at the station, and shit goes down, I’ll have to head out. Either way, I need to get back, so I don’t got a lotta time.”

That being the case, I moved into him, holding his gaze. “Right, then, do what you gotta do. Get Mike a sandwich and head back, because you know we’re—”

I didn’t finish because Merry looked from me to over my shoulder. His brows drew slightly together and he straightened a bit on his stool, so I looked over my shoulder too.

At what I saw, I fully straightened and mostly turned.

This was because Trent’s wife, Peggy, was standing at the corner of the bar.

She looked so out of place it wasn’t funny. Baggy, high-waisted mom jeans. A shapeless top that showed very little skin and attempted to hide the fact she hadn’t taken off her baby weight, which was somewhat substantial, laying evidence to the fact it wasn’t all baby weight. No muss, no fuss hairstyle for her brunette hair, which could have been Martha Stewart hair, in a good way, but she seemed allergic to a roller brush and teasing comb. No makeup at all. Sneakers that looked like they were Reebok aerobics shoes from the ’80s, not kickass Chucks or cool Vans or neon Nikes.

And last, a pinched look on her face that said the last time she’d been in a bar was never and she wished she could have kept it that way.

“Cheryl,” she said, and my name sounded forced out.

“Peg,” I replied, turning fully her way even though I did not freaking want to, and not only because I did not want to be talking to Peg, but because Merry was right…freaking…there. Once turned, I greeted all friendly, “Hey.”

She opened her massive purse, which looked like a diaper bag gone bad, and that was a feat since most of those things weren’t the height of fashion, not to mention it was an actual purse, not a diaper bag at all.

Then she pulled out the envelope Trent had with him yesterday and slapped it on the bar.

It took a lot, but I managed not to recoil from it like it was a rattler she’d wrangled out, pissing it off and setting it on a trajectory to strike me.