I’m rapidly changing my stance on goring. If ever there was someone who deserved a good horn to the rectum, it’s him.
TWO
Nice view. Shitty service
REED
I don’t come herefor the drinks. They’re overpriced and watered down. Plus, I’m not a big fan of alcohol anyway. It isn’t the fresh air drawing me in either, especially since this is one of the few indoor spots in Florida where smoking is permissible in some areas. And it damn sure isn’t the peace and quiet bringing me here. After all, casinos aren’t known for being places of tranquility.
No, it isn’t any of that.
I come here to prove something.
To myself. To my past. To my future. And to myso-calledparents.
Also, the real ones, wherever they may be.
And yeah, maybe I come for the view. But that’s just a little perk.
Tonight, something’s off aboutthe view. She’s fidgety and nothing but forced smiles and nervous laughter. If I hadn’t been watching her a few times a week for over a year now, I probably wouldn’t have noticed.
But Ihavebeen watching her.
It’s impossible not to.
A husky voice, weathered by long nights surrounded by tobacco smoke, pierces my thoughts. “Another drink, Reed?”
I cover the top of my glass with my palm and shake my head at her.
“Oh great.” My usual bartender, Katrina, rolls her eyes at me. “One of those nights, huh?”
The corner of my mouth threatens to quirk. “What type of night is that?”
“The type where you take up a barstool all night while nursing a single drink and leaving one less spot for paying customers.”
“Iama paying customer,” I object, feigning offense.
She tosses a bar rag over her shoulder and sharpens her glare. “The tip I’ll get on your one drink over three hours isn’t going to put my kids through college.”
“Fine. I’ll take a burger.” I crick my head to the side and raise my brows. “Is that better?”
“Not really,” she quips.
“Add bacon then.”
Tutting her lips, she retrieves the little device they use to enter their orders. As she types, she flatly intones, “One porterhouse, medium rare, loaded baked potato, and salad with...” Pausing, she widens her eyes at me.
“Italian.”
Grinning like she bested me—and she did—she continues, “Italian dressing.” Her shrewd eyes cut from the screen to mine and back again. “Strawberry cheesecake for dessert.”
I scoff, my nose wrinkling. “I don’t like strawberries.”
She slides the device into her back pocket and bats her lashes at me. “The dessert is for me. It’s the least you can do for scaring off my customers all the time.”
My spine stiffens, and I sweep my gaze around the bar. “What the hell are you bitching about?”
Sure, I usually look like a grumpy ass, but not so much that people fear me.
