He backs away from me. I move closer. “B-b-but I didn’t know you were with her.” He gulps, then his expression shifts to a sunny smile. “And wouldn’t you know it—you guys are just the people I need to talk to. These pics of Ripley and her friends would be the perfect press for the space. If I can get it.”
Are you kidding me? One, he’s not getting the space, and I know it for a fact. Two, what a fucking phony.
Ripley’s brow furrows. “You took pictures of us for press? For the restaurant you don’t even have yet?”
Eric Patrick waves toward Haven in the corner. “Your sister’s a star, and you’re a Darling Springs institution,” he says, desperately trying to defend himself. “It’d be such a help. The space I want is right next door. I can say you were here. It’d be such great pre-buzzon social. You’re going to talk to Esmeralda for me, right, Ripley? She’s got some others looking at the space, and you putting in a good word would smooth it over.”
I want to kill him. Pretty sure my woman does too.
She parks her hands on her hips. “No.”
“C’mon,” he wheedles. “You were always so helpful. You help everyone. Help a guy out. You like my cooking.” His voice rises with hope at the end.
Enough of him. “She said no,” I bite out.
He shrugs like an oily salesman. “Yeah, but you know how women are.” His tone is all,c’mon buddy, old pal.
I burn. “I know she said no. That means she doesn’t want you to use the pictures, and she doesn’t want to help you.”
“You could let her tell me that,” he says, clinging to the edge of a sinking life raft.
“I did say that,” Ripley says, exasperated. “You never listened, and I’m not helping you.”
“But that’s your thing, Ripley. You help people. You helped that woman change a tire on the side of the road after dinner once. You helped that dog that got out of its yard get back to its home. You brought a coffee from Pick Me Up to the guy who runs The Slippery Dingle.”
“The Slippery Dipper, you asshole,” she hisses. “You never cared about me or Darling Springs until you thought you could make money off us. So no, I’m not helping you. And you can’t use my pictures on your social media.”
He clutches the phone to his chest.
Like that’s gonna stop me.
I reach across him and grab it easily. It’s like taking candy from a baby.
“What? You can’t take my phone,” he says, flailing to reach his phone.
“I can and I did.”
He tries to grab it, but I press a firm hand to his chest, then delete his camera roll with my other.
Then, I see red.
The dude has been live-streaming this on social media too. With the volume down, but I’m sure that’s only because he’s been talking shit. He probably wants to add music later and show the women dancing or something. “Seriously? Grow the fuck up,” I say, then tap on the live stream, ending it. While it’s processing, I go to the profile picture, then hit archive. Next, I find the live archive and click on the broadcast, deleting it for good. Finally, I return to the camera roll to kill the backup.
“Here you go,” I say. He takes the phone with a smug smile that I want to wipe off his face. “When someone says no, fucking listen. Like now. Get the hell out of this bar and this town. No one here wants your business.”
“You don’t know that,” he says, not getting the point. “I’m going to talk to Esmeralda.”
What he doesn’t know is that I already did. Earlier tonight. And I know she’s turning him down. We had a nice chat, and she’s already lined up someone else.
Still, I’ll let her speak for herself—the curly-haired bar ownerwith the silver stud in her nose is striding my way. “Feel free to toss him out, Banks.”
“With so much pleasure,” I say. I clamp my hand on to Eric Patrick’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt, strong enough to make a statement.
And I escort his sorry ass to the door, then push him out of the establishment, where he stumbles down to one knee. Turns out I used a little bit of force. Oh well. “What do you know? I guess I am a bouncer too.”
I dust one palm against the other, then let out a deep, satisfied breath as he scurries away.
42
