Page 77 of The Runaway and the Rugged
The Lonely Barrel was a happening place tonight. Patrons were lined up everywhere, beside the bartop, on the dance floor, along the walls. There wasn't a square inch of this place that wasn’t crowded.
Dollar draft beer night was what brought all these people in, and the chicken wings I’d been craving for ever since Greta mentioned it earlier weren’t even being served tonight.
“You want anything?” Greta shouted over the rowdy voices and blaring music.
“Uh, sure, I’ll just have what you’re having.”
I was definitely out of my comfort zone here. Dressed in a simple yellow sundress and boots, I felt as though I blended in well, but not enough to feel at ease. Greta was the star of the night, in her wide, boot-cut hippie jeans that hugged every curve, while her sparkly diamond top that glimmered beneath the seventies style disco ball that proudly hung above the center of the dance floor.
I was convinced she was Clarke’s long-lost sister, just more country.
“All right, come on, we’ll get ’em from Shane at the bar.” She grinned, reaching for my hand and tugging me along withher through the crowd. Once we fought our way to the front, my eyes landed on a bartender who resembled something out of a Harley-Davidson magazine. Tall, broad, and commanding, he was the type of man who kick-started fantasies about being with an older, inked, and undeniably captivating presence. His hair was cropped short, but you could still make out the sprinkling of gray hair mixed in with the dark.
“Shane!” Greta shouted, half her body leaned over the bartop and almost immediately, as if he had been anticipating who was calling his name, his body tensed and his wary stare landed on her.
Oh boy, this doesn't look good.
Nostrils flaring, muscles flexing, he reluctantly stomped over to where we stood with a dangerous glower painted on his face.
“Thought I told you to stay home tonight,” he grunted, messing with bottles and whatever else was concealed beneath the bartop.
“You know I’m not very good at listenin’.” She laughed, but clearly, he found no amusement in her presence.
With a dishrag casually draped over his shoulder, he rested both large, tatted palms onto the counter and leaned in close to Greta.
“I can see that, and that’s why I banned you from comin’ on dollar beer nights, because most of the men comin’ in here are expectin’ to see those tits again.”
My mouth dropped to the floor.
“Instead of banning me, you should be thankin’ me and my tits for bringin’ in all these customers you have.” She smiled sweetly, leaning in close to him, just enough that there was a sliver of space between their noses.
“Garth know you ain’t supposed to be here?”
Greta’s smile fell as her jaw locked.
“I didn't come here to piss you off or cause a scene, if that’s what you think.” She peered over at me, causing Shane’s gaze to follow. “I’m here with our newest member on the ranch, wanting to show her a good time.”
Jesus, he was intense.
“Hi!” I lifted my hand in a quick, awkward wave. “I’m Emelia.”
“She’s cute, ain't she?” Greta smiled then swept her gaze back to Shane.
“Nice to meet you, Emelia.” He nodded, ignoring Greta. “You new in town?”
“I’ve been here for about a week now.”
“Yeah? And how you likin’ Dusty Meadows so far?” he asked.
“I like it. It’s small but quiet, and I like quiet.” I laughed. “Wished there were more places hiring part-time, but I’m sure somethin’ will pop up.”
For the past few days I’ve been looking through newspapers for places hiring. There wasn’t much available, but I was reaching the verge of desperation now and at this point, anything would do.
“You’re looking for a job?” Greta questioned, her curiosity piqued. “The bar’s lookin’ for some help, aren't you, Shane?”
“A weekend bartender from time to time, not sure if that’s somethin’ you’d be interested in?”
I had no bar experience. The alcoholic drink I knew how to pour was wine and that was about as simple as it got. But if Shane was offering and willing to train me, I had no room to turn it down.
