Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(2)

While Charlotte continued her moseying, her head unhurriedly turning this way and that, I eyeballed her, catching glimpses of her perfect profile while simmering in my unease.

“I’ve never been in here,” she said, her voice faraway, distracted. “It’s nicer than I thought it would be.”

I considered her words for a tick. The statements sounded benign, yet something about them made the skin at the back of my neck hot, which set my teeth on edge. Since Charlotte had returned to town a few years back—even before her husband had skipped out—she’d pointedly treated me like a leper from biblical times. Things were finally back on track with The Pony, and her presence here might derail my recent progress.

Making it to the bar, she stopped in front of a stool. Her pale green eyes were cool, surveying me like an afterthought. “May I order a drink yet?”

I studied her. Charlotte looked different than how she typically presented herself around town. She still had on that dainty gold cross around her neck, but gone were the pretty yet shapeless floral-print, button-up shirts and long, flowing skirts. Today, she’d put on dark makeup, taken time to fix her long hair into sleek waves, and the black tank top she wore highlighted her shoulders, arms, neck, and torso, making her generous tits look fantastic. Pushup bra, a good one.

“No,” I said, flat and final.

“You’re not open?”

“Not for you, no.” Not for Charlotte and not for any of her kind.

Her face morphed into an expression of intense irritation and I smirked to cover an involuntary spike in temper. I didn’t know Charlotte well—I didn’t want to know Charlotte at all—but this was the version of her I knew best, the wordless, judgmental glare I encountered if we happened to cross paths at the grocery or hardware store. No amount of carefully applied makeup or fantastic tank-top twins could soften it.

This was my club. We hadn’t accidentally stumbled across each other today. She’d come to me, sought me out, and she was still looking at me like I was trash? Faced with this familiar version of Charlotte in my territory, I tore my eyes from hers and scratched the heat climbing up my neck.

Our paths hadn’t crossed in over a year. Perhaps she was here to fulfill her quota of self-righteous indignation. How heavy is that halo, angel?

One day I would ask. But not today.

Crouching behind the bar, I resumed stocking the whiskey. If I waited, she’d reveal her intentions. Then she’d leave. No need for me to pause work, especially when there was so much work to do.

“Do you have a rule against serving female customers?” she asked, and I knew without looking up that she’d leaned over the bar to scowl down at me.

“No. Mostly just you.”

“Mostly just me,” she parroted, then huffed a laugh; it also sounded irritated. “Okay, fine. Then may I have an application?”

My movements stilled and I stared at the bottle of whiskey in my hand, the one I hadn’t yet set on the shelf.

May I have an application?

“Pardon me?” I looked up, and sure enough, Charlotte’s long honey-colored hair was dangling over me from above, nearly touching my shoulder.

“I said, may I have an application? Please.”

I had to blink before I could think. And I couldn’t think while I was on my haunches, so I stood. She leaned back, sitting on the stool, watching me impassively like she expected me to jump and fulfill her request, like she’d asked for a driver’s license application from the DMV and not an employment application from my club. The same place of business she and all the other small-minded folks condemned and hated.

Which was likely why I asked the stupid question, “What do you want an application for?”

Angling her chin, Charlotte Mitchell lifted one eyebrow, looking down her nose at me even though she was the one sitting, and said matter-of-factly with a smidge of southern tartness, “For a job, of course.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

I scratched my neck again, my eyes drifting to the right. This had to be a joke. Perhaps Beau is somewhere, hiding with a camera?

She snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Hey. Earth to Hank Weller. It’s not a difficult request to fulfill. Either you have applications, or you don’t.”

“But . . .” I shook my head, unable to recall a moment in my life I’d been as confused. This is a joke, this has to be—

“Hank Weller, let me spell it out for you: I want you”—she pointed at me, using her loud, slow voice, the one I’d heard her employ with her children on the rare occasions they behaved like feral animals in public—“to give me”—she pointed to herself—“a job application”—now she mimed a piece of paper—“for The Pink Pony”—she gestured to my club—“so I can fill it out.” She topped off her little show by pretending to write with an invisible pen.

“For what job?” What the heck did she think she was going to do? I needed a bartender, a bouncer, and now, as of this week, a bookkeeper. As far as I knew, she had no experience with any of—

“A stripper.”

I choked. Before I could fully process this information, she tossed her thumb over her shoulder, indicating toward the way she came in, and said, “I saw the sign from the road, so I know you’re hiring. Now . . .” Charlotte put her hand between us, palm up, and demanded in a voice that brooked no argument, “Hand it over. Please.”