Not that I want her to be afraid.But sometimes, fear is the smartest reaction to have.
“Is this a bar you all happen to drink at, or is ityourbar?”She watches me, her fingers still moving, looping and hooking the yarn, as if all she needs is touch to create whatever she’s making.
“It’s mine.It’s ours.The Rabbit Hole is Dark Moon territory.”
I can’t take my eyes off her hands.The motion is hypnotizing.
I imagine her fiddling with her project in front of a warm fireplace, curled up in an overstuffed chair, the flickering light playing with the gold in her hair.And when the night grows cold and the fire isn’t warm enough to keep her from getting chilled, she’ll look around for a blanket.But I’ll have the only one, and she’ll have to crawl under it with me.So I can keep her warm.
“Territory?That sounds a little possessive.But I guess you’re not too restrictive on who you let in, right?Since the crochet club meets here?”
This stops my mind on its imaginary trip.I examine her face, trying to decipher if she’s joking.But there’s no playful smile or silly wink.She just watches me, waiting for a response.
“Crochet club?”
She nods.“I saw the flyer at the library.Sip ’N’ Stitch at The Rabbit Hole every Wednesday evening.”She holds up her yarn.“But I guess they canceled tonight’s meeting.Unless you all …” Her busy fingers take a break as she waves to indicate the group of bikers behind me.
I bite my lip until I have my grin under control.“Unless we all …”
“Do any of you crochet?Or knit?”
The hopeful rise of her brows sets off an excited buzz in my chest.I shake my head.
“Needlepoint?”
“Sorry.I think you’ve got the wrong place.”
Her face drops, a frown twisting her lips.“But the flyer … here, can you hold this?”
The craft she’s been working on gets shoved into my hands before she dives into her bag.
I sit patiently, grinning all the while.
She is blatantly uncaring that she’s not only making some kind of scarf in the middle of a biker bar, but that she also just asked one of said bikers to hold her project while she hunts through her purse.
Who is this woman?
“Ha!Got it.”She pulls out a phone and swipes her thumb across the screen.“I took a picture of the flyer.Look.”
Tilting the device so I can see, she zooms in on a neon-blue flyer.
“See?Sip ’N’ Stitch.Every Wednesday.Seven p.m.at the …”
When she pauses, I finish for her, “Wild Rabbit.”
“Damn,” she whispers, glaring at her phone.“Double damn.”
The curses are sweet on her lips.They make me want to hear more dirty words from her mouth.
After a weary sigh, she downs the last of her bourbon and retrieves her yarn creation from me, only to stow it into her bag.
“Are you leaving?”I can’t stifle the tinge of disappointment in my voice.
“Two rabbit bars?In the same town?Is there some theme I don’t know about?”she mutters to herself, ignoring my question and laying cash down beside her empty glass before typing something on her phone.
“That might help with tourism.Make everything in town revolve around rabbits.We could have a whole festival.Maybe a running of the rabbits.Fill the streets with them.”My jokes come out fast and desperate.
Because she’s leaving.I want to get her to laugh.Get her to stay.
