The Will (Magdalene #1)(23)

He stared at me for a moment then asked, “You want a Shirley Temple?”

“Yes, please,” I confirmed. “And for Mr. Spear to be told I’m here, if you don’t mind.”

He studied me another moment before he nodded and moved away. I saw him grab a glass and do things with ice, bottles and the soda gun. I also saw him catch the eye of a large man in the crowd wearing another blue shirt and black trousers.

That man went to the bar. The bartender leaned into him, said something and jerked his head to me. The large man outside the bar glanced at me, nodded and moved away, his hand going to his back pocket to pull out a phone.

The man served me my drink. I paid for it after expressing gratitude and he moved away to an area cordoned off from the rest of the bar by two high, curved silver poles.

It was then I saw the waitress who was waiting there and noted that she, too, was dressed tastefully. I couldn’t see her bottom half but I did see her off-the-shoulder black top that was form-fitting and showed a hint of cle**age but it was far from risqué. She had a black velvet ribbon tied around her neck, her makeup was excellently done from what I could tell with the dim light and she had quite lovely hair.

I sipped my drink and looked through the crowd to see the other waitresses dressed the same. Off-the-shoulder top, velvet ribbon at the throat and this was paired with a slim-fitting, quite short but not vulgar dark blue skirt. Sheer black hose. Very attractive black platform pumps.

I surveyed the waitresses and the dancers and even the multiple men in blue shirts and black trousers. None of them were thin, pale, sunken-cheeked, glassy-eyed or appeared woebegone in any way.

They all seemed simply to be at work and the waitresses quite often smiled what looked to be genuine smiles at their customers while they moved amongst the tables and booths.

Yes. Glancing around Jake Spear’s establishment, I realized I had done precisely what he said I’d done.

I’d been judgmental.

That sour taste came back to my mouth.

I washed it away with a sip of my drink.

Five minutes later, the large man who the bartender spoke to walked through the club to me.

He stopped close, leaned in and said, “Mr. Spear is unavailable, Ms. Malone. Can I give him a message?”

I was not surprised he was unavailable. If someone had treated me as I had treated him, I would be unavailable too.

I shook my head but elevated my voice to be heard over the music in order to say, “No, but thank you.”

He nodded and moved away.

I sipped at my drink, watched the goings-on at a tasteful strip club and did so considering my dilemma.

I needed to apologize (again).

And I needed answers.

I sighed, knowing I had no choice because Jake Spear wasn’t giving me one and I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t give me one either.

I reached into my purse on the bar, pulled out my phone, found his number and hit the screen to connect.

I put a finger in my other ear and listened as it rang five times before I heard his rumbling voice command, “Spear. Leave a message.”

I got the beep and said into my phone, “Mr. Spear…uh, Jake, this is Josephine Malone. I’m calling because I’d very much like the opportunity to apologize for my behavior and the things I said to you this morning. Also, I’d like the opportunity to discuss, well…other, erm…things. You’ve every right to be angry at me for I’ve behaved very badly. But I’d be most grateful if you gave me the chance to, um…rectify matters.” I paused, not knowing how to end it then I decided on, “I hope to hear from you. Do take care.”

I disconnected, put the phone back in my purse and again took up my glass. I sipped at my drink until I finished it, thinking I really wished I’d have the opportunity to talk to the redhead about her choice in hair color. If she was dead set on red, a deep auburn would suit her much better.

There was also a blonde who would benefit from a keratin treatment. Her hair was lovely but there was a good deal of it, it was quite long and it was clear she did her own blowout. This was not clear because it was done poorly, just that it wasn’t as sleek as she was likely going for. With that amount of hair, it had to take her ages to do it. And the way she used it with her dancing, straightened and softened, it would make quite a splash and perhaps up her—from what I could tell protruding from her G-string—still rather plentiful tips.

She might drive a Corvette and it was clear she was far from the least talented dancer but everyone enjoyed having more money.

With a sigh, I put my finished glass to the bar, waited until I caught the bartender’s eyes and gave him a grateful smile.

He returned it, tipping up his chin. I dug in my purse, got my wallet and slid a five-dollar bill under my glass then slid from my stool and made my way out of the club.

Once outside, the man by the door invited me to “have a good evening.”

I returned the sentiment then promptly tripped over my pumps when I saw Jake Spear resting lean jeans-clad h*ps against my driver’s side door, his black leather jacket covered arms crossed on the wide wall of his white shirt covered chest.

When I tripped, he looked to his feet and I lost his face in the shadows. Luckily, by that time, I’d righted myself without hitting the pavement but I did this mentally cursing my infernal clumsiness.

I moved to him with no further incident (thankfully) and stopped three feet away.