Page 3 of Hopeless
I stare at his weathered hand, flush against the polished wood of the bar top. My eyes close for a beat and I run my tongue along the backs of my teeth to keep from grinding my molars. When I lift my gaze, forcing myself to act casual, Bailey’s got her brows drawn tight, dark irises boring into my face as though she has me all figured out. The flat smile I force onto my lips doesn’t seem to impress her. In fact, before she turns away to pour me a frothy pint, her head shakes subtly, like she’s disappointed.
My gaze trails over her body again, and I rack my brain to remember the last time I saw her. She’s always been sweet, shy little Bailey Jansen. Sadly, born into the least respected family in town. Her dad and brothers have dabbled in it all—drugs, prison, theft—and her mom took off years ago.
Worst of all, their land borders ours. I can see it from my house on the ranch, just on the other side of the river, where I’ve put up a barbed-wire fence, so those assholes know where to turn back around.
But Bailey has always been different in my eyes.
I’ve always felt bad for her, always felt protective of her from afar. The stares, the whispers. I imagine living in a small town where almost every resident has a story about your family must be fucking brutal. So, I’ve always been nice to her. I like her—have no reason not to—even though I barely know her.
She’s worked at The Railspur for years now, I just … can’t remember how many. Can’t decide if enough years have passed for me to notice the way her tank top lifts today, showing a peek of skin on her flat stomach. Or for me to think about the way her perfectly round breasts would fit so well in my hands.
“How long you been working here, Bailey?” I ask, watching her shoulders go a little tense when I do.
She clears her throat. “Just over four years. Started at eighteen.”
Twenty-two.
Fuck. I’m thirty-five, which means I was a teenager when—I brush the thought away and drop my eyes as she tosses a coaster down in front of me, followed by a pint of golden lager, white foam spilling over the edge.
“Thanks,” I grumble as I swipe a hand through my hair.
“Mm-hmm,” is all she says.
Bailey is the only person in town who hasn’t fallen all over herself to tell me what a hero I am since I got home. She doesn’t gawk at me like I’m a rare animal in a zoo.
She works quietly and I try to keep my eyes from straying to her, wondering why she went from chatting happily to shutting down the moment I sat at her bar.
“MIA for two weeks, huh?” Gary starts in, and I see Bailey roll her eyes as she polishes a pint glass to a clear shine.
“Yup.”
“How was that?”
Oh, good. The only thing anyone talks to me about anymore.
“Gary!” Bailey’s hands fall to her sides and a look of pure shock paints her face.
“What?”
“You can’t just ask things like that.”
“Why not?”
I can’t help it. I chuckle and decide to rescue Bailey from feeling like she needs to save me. “Real warm. Got a nice tan.”
The man narrows his eyes, movements a little sloppy. I wonder how long he’s been here since it’s barely after lunch and he’s clearly wrecked. “Heard you got burned. Not the tan I’d be hoping for.”
“Ga-ry.” Based on the way Bailey enunciates his name, this line of questioning truly horrifies her.
My palm slides across the bar, drawing her attention. “It’s okay. Everyone knows about the burns.”
She blinks, eyes suddenly a little glassy.
“Really, I’d rather people shoot straight than kiss my ass or tiptoe around me. Why do you think I’m hiding out here in the middle of the day?”
“Because Bailey is the best bartender in town!”
She snorts, lips tipping up as she goes back to polishing a glass. I try to remember if I’ve ever really seen her smile. I’m not sure I have. She’s always busy trying to blend into the background, and I’m only ever here when it’s busy. I don’t even know if I’ve ever heard her voice properly until now. There’s a melodic tone to it—a gentleness—that’s almost soothing.
