Page 9 of Just Business

After quickly tossing a hundred-dollar bill on the bar, the bartender shows me the side exit. Nodding my thanks, I head that way, tugging the brim of my hat down low again.

I’m almost to the door when the sound of one pissed-off woman snags my attention.

“What did I say, you fuckwad? Did you hear me say I’m fine? Because I am, in fact, fine, thanks.”

My blood runs cold when she jerks her arm from him, only for him to grab it again a bit too rough for my liking. My warm buzz instantly disappears and I stalk their way, my vision turning crimson at the edges.

I don’t make a habit of jumping into bar fights; I’ve managed to stay out of the media circus for that, at least. But I can’t stand when a man can’t take a hint from a woman. I’m six-foot-two and not small by any means. When I tower over the wiry little bastard, he instantly drops her arm, but he’s still breathing hard, and from the looks of his pinprick pupils, alcohol isn’t all he’s had tonight.

“I think she told you to leave her alone.” I motion to the woman, my anger simmering right beneath the surface.

“Who the hell are you?” he spits his words out, slurring them slightly, and literal spit flies at me. He’s a mouthy fucker. I rear back in disgust.

“That doesn’t matter,” I say through gritted teeth. “What matters is that when you’re told no, you understand it and leave her the hell alone.” As soon as the words leave my lips, his buddies show up and haul him to the men’s room.

“What the hell! Asshole!” The woman I just helped out whirls to face me, fire blazing in her eyes as her ponytail lashes around, and it’s like all the oxygen has been sucked from the room.Such words coming from such pretty lips.Full, pink lips, with the most perfect cupid’s bow shaping the top.

Words crowd my throat and my mouth goes dry, because standing before me is the most breathtaking woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. No one has ever stolen the breath from my lungs until now. I’ve written countless songs about beautiful women, but I’m suddenly acutely aware just how hollow my words have been. Nothing I’ve ever written comes close to describingher.

She has a heart-shaped face with a nose that has the slightest upturn, and despite being a total stranger, she feels instantly familiar. Even in the low lighting of the bar, it’s obvious she’s not wearing a stitch of makeup, and her red hair is pulled up in a high ponytail that sways slightly with her movement. Her dark skinny jeans hug all the right places, clinging to curves that my fingers itch to explore. And right before she whirled on me, I caught a glimpse of some sort of flower tattoo snaking up her back between her shoulder blades, something I know I’ll be thinking about late into the night.

She's on the shorter side, causing her to have to look up at me when she speaks. “I can take care of myself! I didn’t need Mr. Hero Syndrome stepping in for me.” She flings her hands out into jazz hands, and one side of my mouth hooks up in a small grin. This woman with the cutest nose and southern accent is mad as hell and not afraid to show it.

Her eyes flash when she sees the amusement on my face, and I bite the inside of my cheek to pull it back in.

Flattening out my expression, I dip my head, muttering, “My apologies,” before walking in the other direction.

I don’t know what I did to make this day hate me, but it sure as hell does. It’s determined to kick my ass six ways from Sunday, and the van is sounding better and better. Maybe that truck stop has hot showers, at least. Grabbing my guitar, I walk-run to the door, the sound of the next karaoke song following me into the warm summer night.

I’ve almost reached the van when I hear the prettiest words.

“Hey, asshole! Hold up!”

All right, my new name is "asshole," as long as she’s the one saying it. Turning on my heels, I already know I’ll see that mane of red hair coming toward me. A thrill races up my spine as she approaches, a golden halo of light illuminating her from the street lights’ flickering bulbs.

“Listen, I’m not normally like this. I was way out of line in there.” She hitches her thumb toward the bar. “It’s been a bad day. Well, a bad handful of days, and I was projecting. I shouldn’t have done that.” She walks toward me, breathless from chasing me down, and as she gets closer, I notice that she looks as defeated as I feel.

“Well, that makes two of us cause it’s been a hell of a day for me, too. Sorry if I made things worse for you in there.” I tilt my head toward the bar. “I can’t stand dickheads who don’t understand that no means no.” God, isn’t that the truth? Having a younger sister has at least taught me a thing or two about consent.

She pops her hip with a hand on her waist and pins me with a glare, that same fire back in her eyes. “What about dickheads who let doors slam in people’s faces?”

“Come again?”What is she going on about? Did that guy also let a door slam in her face, and I didn’t notice it?

“I walked in right behind you. You let the door slam on me.” She mimes with her hand something hitting her in the face.

Narrowing my eyes, I rack my brain, trying to remember if I saw her coming in behind me. Honestly, I was lost in my thoughts and oblivious to my surroundings.

She’s standing there, eyes blazing, and I know I should get in the van and leave this day behind. But my feet turn to lead as I take her in. My eyes trail from that gorgeous face, down to her mouth, and all I can think about is how she’d taste. They hover there for a second before making their way down her curves to her little black sandals.

“Darlin’ if I sawyourface behind me, I’d remember it.”

She sucks in an audible breath and our gazes hold. She’s the first to look away, a small smile on her lips as redness blooms up her neck and onto her cheeks.

“Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat, “If I did, I’m truly sorry about that. Slamming a door in a woman’s face doesn’t sound like me. Not saying I didn’t,” I add, holding up both hands. “But it wasn’t intentional. Like I said, it’s been a hell of a day. I’m about ready for it to be over.”

Her face softens, and she nods, stepping closer. “Apology accepted. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“Well, you know what they say about assuming,” I say, arching an eyebrow at her.

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