Page 12 of Fast and Dirty
“Oh…yeah,” I tell her, resting my hands on my back. “Yeah it’s cool.”
“Are you sure?” She raises a cautious eyebrow. “I don’t want to look like a clinger. I mean, I don’t want you to think I expect anything beyond… you know,” she nervously gestures back to the garage bay.
Well that’s just fucking sweet of her.
“Oh nah,” I dismiss the notion, running a hand through my hair and bringing it down to scratch at the back of my neck. “We’re good,” I add, nervously clearing my throat. I don’t know what it is about her that has me watching how I’m coming off. I don’t think I’ve acted like this since seventh grade. And her in my fucking shirt just very well may have snuffed out my ballgown fetish - again, don’t you dare fucking ask. I take note of her very expensive handbag slung over her shoulder. “You headed somewhere?”
“Well, since I’m staying in town for the night, and given my current situation, I thought maybe I’d go somewhere and get completely loaded,” she says frankly, joining her hands together in front of her like a proper little debutante. She’s a walking contradiction, and for some reason, my dick is here for it. “Any recommendations?” She tacks onto the end there.
I chuckle. “Actually, if there’s one thing this town isn’t short on, it’s bars.”
“All walking distance, I assume?” She raises her eyebrows, looking hopeful.
“Yeah,” I nod. “But I’m thinking the best and closest one would be The Crafty Coyote, and it’s on the main drag.”
“Perfect,” she lights up and a warm sensation buzzes in my chest. “Which way do I take?” She asks, tilting herself up onto her toes as she tries to look out at the street through the windows.
For some reason, the idea of her walking to the bar by herself is unsettling. And while she seems perfectly at ease with sitting at a bar and knocking a few back on her own, I like that idea even less. Don’t get me wrong, the people in this town are decent and trustworthy, but that doesn’t mean I want to give any of them the chance to prove me wrong.
“Tell you what,” I tell her, reaching for my jacket off the back of the chair. “I’m done for the day, and I was going to go have a couple beers myself. I’ll join you, if that’s cool?”
“Sure,” she tilts her head, and I think I see a hint of relief on her face.
After shutting off all the lights and letting her out throughthe office door ahead of me, I marvel at how there seems to be zero awkwardness between us. It’s not like either of us is pretending our sexcapade never happened, but it doesn’t seem to be hindering our interactions, either.
“Whoa,” her head snaps in the direction of small parking area. “Did Godzilla use your trash can as a chew toy?” She asks, remarking at the battered and dented condition of one of the drums I keep outside the shop.
“Ah…” I chuckle. “Long story.”
We enjoy a comfortable silence as we walk up three blocks, but when we turn onto Main Street, I hear her gasp beside me.
“Hey,” she points in the direction of the town’s oldest building. “I thought you said there weren’t any hotels here. What’s that?” She questions, not seemingly in accusation, but in wonder, as she takes in the chipped white paint and battered black shutters of the Emerson Inn, or as the rest of us here in town call it, ‘The Old Inn’.
“I wasn’t lying, I promise,” I chuckle. “That’s the Old Inn, it hasn’t been open since before anyone can remember,” I tell her.
“That’s a shame,” she murmurs, her gaze lingering on it, even as I put a hand on her back and guide her across the street to the bar’s entrance.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the handsome grease monkey, and”—Cheyenne narrows her eyes at Kira as she leans both arms on the bartop—“a visitor?” She tilts her head between the two of us, and Kira shimmies onto one of the leather barstools, paying no mind to Cheyenne’s smarmy demeanor.
“Hello,” she greets the blonde bartender, dodging her question.
Cheyenne sighs with a slow blink as she wanders to where Kira is parked and places a cocktail napkin down in front of her. “What’ll it be? A skinny margarita?” She says smartly, and I give her a pointed look as I take a seat next to Kira.
Cheyenne doesn’t cozy up to new people very well. In fact, she’s kind of a bitch. I’ve learned that she shows decency to thepeople that throw it back at her, almost as if she craves interactions that keep her in line.
“Actually, I’ll take two fingers of Macallen and a splash of grenadine,” Kira asks, politely, folding her hands on the bar and looking down and around her at the floor and stools. It’s like she’s never bellied up to a bar before.
“Oh…,” Cheyenne locks her elbows as she leans back, her hands on the edge of the bar and tilting her head. “Sorry honey. We are but humble, small-town folk and don’t carry that kind of high-class liquor,” she informs her mockingly.
“Okaaay…” Kira drums her fingers and scans the shelves behind Cheyenne, again, taking no notice of her shitty customer service. “What would you recommend then for a”—she looks to me for a moment, her eyes taking me in and a smile trying to pull at the corner of her mouth before looking back to Cheyenne—“mostlyshitty day?” She finishes and the blonde scoffs out a chuckle.
“Okay,” she nods with a humble smirk that surprises me. The look on her face is one that says she’s on the level with Kira. “In that case, I would suggest a shot of Jack with a beer chaser. Pick your poison,” she cuts her hand neatly through the air over the tap selection.
Kira looks at the taps, blankly, and I lean in.
“I take it you’re not a beer drinker,” I whisper, only taking minor delight in Cheyenne’s sour expression.
“I’ve never tried it,” Kira whispers back. “What would you suggest?”
