Page 55 of His Last Shot
A small smile plays across my lips because if Johnny is accepting of everything, it will be nice to not have to hide my pain around him anymore.
Will he, though?Accept me for … me. RA and all?
With a sigh and a determined set of my jaw, I try my hardest to shake the doubts and anxious thoughts that plague me and swarm into my head like wasps. Getting back to why I’m here in the first place, I count the cases of alcohol.
“Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-seven, twenty-nine … wait. Crap!” Ugh! I can’t do this. I toss the clipboard onto a carton of whiskey as footsteps approach from behind me.
“Can’t concentrate, huh?” Micah asks with amusement in his tone. He easily lifts a case of a local IPA, one that has been popular with the regulars. When I see how simple tasks like that are for him and others, jealousy shoots straight to my chest. Reminders like that surround me every day.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No.” I sigh and draw my eyes to meet my brother’s. “What if he can’t handle it?”
Micah sits the case on the ground and rests his warm palm lovingly on my forearm. “Then you saved yourself a lot of time, and you know he isn’t the guy for you. But you wanna know what I think?”
“Even if I didn’t, you’re gonna tell me, anyway.”
“That man is over-the-moon, move-hell-or-high-water crazy about you. Everyone here knows it. There is no way something like a chronic illness is going to keep him away.” He bends and heaves up the case onto his shoulders. “Trust me. Have I ever lied to you?”
I smile. “No. You haven’t.”
He takes a few steps back toward the bar but stops and kisses me on the cheek. “Love ya, sis.”
“Love you too.” The door clicks shut behind him. Of course, Micah is right. If Johnny isn’t on board, I’ve saved myself a lot of time and heartache. But if he’s accepting, I could be jumping into the greatest adventure of my whole life.
With a sigh and a yank of the clipboard, I complete the inventory with just enough time to leave. After locking up the cooler and importing the numbers, I grab my purse and walk down the hall, heading to the bar to let Micah know I’m leaving.
With anxiety coursing through my veins, I round the corner and survey Dexter’s.
It’s a madhouse.
Patrons fill every stool; the air is thick with the smell of alcohol and anticipation as they wait for their drinks. The bartenders spin and move aroundeach other with professional ease. Dancers sway to the pulsing beat on a packed dance floor, a sweaty mess of bodies; meanwhile, the rhythmic clack of pool balls echoes from the lively tables.
But I don’t notice Micah, who I know is behind this bar somewhere. “Micah, I’m taking off! Inventory is all done!” I call out, hoping my voice will carry and cause him to pop up from somewhere.
With the rowdiness of the crowd at an all-time high … he doesn’t.
My fingers dig into my purse, searching for my keys amidst a chaotic mix of lip gloss, receipts, and loose change. Finally, I find them, and as I jerk them out, I lose my grip, and they clank onto the floor. I bend to pick them up while Micah approaches with a pitcher of beer and three brimming glasses.
WHAM!Our bodies collide.
“OH MY GOD!” Micah exclaims.
Glass shatters onto the floor, and as for the beer? Well, it’s now dripping down my hair and clothes, puddling onto the new LVT floor.
Utterly speechless, I stand, stunned, my arms spread wide, a tremor of shock running through me. “Rachel, are you okay?” He immediately notices my hair. “Oh, no.” His voice trembles, the words barely audible, knowing the impact this will have on me. “Your hair.” His gaze, brimming with remorse, locks with mine; the weight of his regret is heavy.
I choke back the tears because now I am going to have to go home and attempt to wash my hair. And I can barely lift my arms over my head, let alone bend my elbows.
“I am so sorry, sis,” he whispers.
Within seconds, a flurry of activity happens. A bartender and a waitress run over as Slick jumps up. “I’ll get the broom.”
How does he even know where the broom is?He doesn’t. Helping me is his knee-jerk reaction.
My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, and I’m stuck, motionless, standing in a puddle of Bud Light.
Micah shakes my shoulder, drawing me from the inner freak-out I’m now having. “Rachel, go. We got this.”
Zombie-like, I walk out of the bar, leaving the chaos behind. Someone yells my name, but it doesn’t register through the fog of my shock. I open my car door, get in, and stare as person after person files in and out of the bar. And I bet none of them have trouble washing their hair.
