Can't Let Go. Gena Showalter

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ all right enough to know this is your last moonshine of the night,” she said. “If you get to feeling dehydrated again, I’ll pour you a sweet tea.”

      Coot took a long swig, draining half the glass, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Come on, Miss Rye-anne.” He sometimes drew out the syllables in her name when trying to make a point. “Don’t cut me off just yet. The night’s barely even started.”

      “You know the rules. Three CockaMoons, no exceptions.” No one got blackout drunk on her watch. Actually, if anyone slurred their words or staggered while walking, regardless of the limits, she pulled a Jude and stole keys. One, it was illegal to sell alcohol to anyone who appeared intoxicated and two, no, just no.

      Safety first, sales second.

      The difference between her and Jude? She called a cab afterward and never judged.

      “I’d say you suck rotten eggs, but I love you too gosh dern much,” Coot muttered, only to brighten. “Hey, you gonna be singing tonight?”

      Sometimes she enjoyed performing a couple sets with the band, but she couldn’t sing, mix drinks and make snacks. “Not tonight. I—”

      Jude reached the bar, and the rest of her response died in her mouth. Sex made flesh. He leaned against the polished wood and—shocker—glared at Coot. “Public intoxication is a crime.”

      Coot withered. “You’re right, Jude. I’ll be more careful next time. Honest.”

      Hoping to lighten the mood, Ryanne winked at Coot and said to Jude, “Your shirt is a crime.” The black cotton was far too tight and likely to cause riots. She wiggled her brows. “How about you do us all a favor and take it off?”

      See? Flirtish.

      He frowned at her and, right on cue, she withered just like Coot.

      The old man patted her hand in a show of camaraderie. “I ever tell you two about the night I let the wife use zip ties in the bedroom?”

      Yeah, he’d told her about a dozen times. Mrs. Bowright had tied him up all right, only to fall off the bed and knock her head on a side table. Cooter had to crawl bare-butt naked across the floor to get to the phone stuffed in the pocket of his discarded jeans. He’d ended up using Google to find a way to free himself from the ties before the paramedics arrived—something about spreading your elbows, raising your arms and slamming your joined hands into your torso—but not before he’d mistyped and found himself on a zit-popping site.

      Ryanne listened, anyway. She loved the old man.

      For once, Jude refused to be ignored. He stepped into her line of vision, their gazes tangling together. Blood fizzed in her veins as her stomach performed a series of flips.

      How did he affect her so quickly and intensely?

      Easy: her romantic past was basically a blank slate. She had no experience, so she had no means of fighting her attraction to this—any man.

      Bottom line, she’d gone two and a half years without dating. Before that, she’d only gone out a handful of times, too distrustful of the male species to offer more than a handshake at the door.

      Why bother doing more? In high school, her mother slept with not one but two of her boyfriends, and Ryanne had feared it would happen again (and again).

      Just wanted to know if they’d cheat on you, cariño.

      Yeah, right. You don’t betray your “sweetie.”

      Ryanne’s trust issues had only gone downhill when she’d started working here. Before taking over ownership, she’d balanced the books, bused tables and waitressed. Every night, someone had propositioned her, pinched or swatted her butt, or groped her breasts. Supposedly devoted husbands had picked up singles, and women who’d left with a man one weekend had cried a week later when he’d gone home with someone else.

      As a child, some of her mom’s “special friends” had gotten handsy. Once, Ryanne had overheard one of those special friends laughing with coworkers, bragging about easy conquests and sneering about “clingy bitches.”

      It was a miracle Ryanne had gotten over her issues, and a bigger miracle someone as cranky as Jude had set her fantasies aflame. He really, really wasn’t her type.

      Was anyone?

      Surely! She would find a candidate sooner or later, and he would be everything she’d ever wanted, everything she’d ever needed. Honorable, loyal to the bone. Kind. He would prize and cherish his significant other, no matter how long or short their relationship.

      He would be like Earl Hernandez, who’d had a heart of gold.

      When Earl died of pancreatic cancer a few years ago, her entire world had come crashing down.

      Only recently had she cracked open the journals he’d written throughout his life. His devotion to his first wife, who’d died before him, had shone as brightly as a star in the darkest of night. If those two had lived, they would still be together.

      “I need to speak with Ryanne privately,” Jude said to Coot.

      He did? About what?

      “Course. No problem, Jude.” Coot blew her a kiss before wandering off.

      “So...how are you?” Jude said, now looking anywhere but at her.

      Going to exchange pleasantries, were they? Okay, fine. “I’m well. How about you?”

      He shrugged and said nothing else.

      Oookay. Exchange over. “What can I get you? Liquid Viagra? Blowjob on the rocks? Screaming Orgasm?”

      “Water.” His voice was a little hoarse, and she fought a grin as she filled a glass with his beverage of choice. “And add a lemon,” he said.

      Ooh la la. Lemon. She wedged a slice on the rim. “That’ll be two dollars and fifty cents.”

      His gaze zoomed back to her, his lips pursed, pulling his scar taut. “Two fifty for water that’s never before cost me a dime?”

      Was he such a miser at other businesses or just hers? “My mistake. Tonight I’m charging you for my time and energy. And if you think you’re getting a bargain, you’re right.” While everyone else tiptoed around him, afraid of making him unhappy—well, unhappier—she often bristled like a porcupine.

      Unfortunately, she’d inherited her mother’s hair-trigger temper.

      He stroked two fingers over his beard stubble before placing a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Do not keep the change. And since we’re on the subject of time and energy, you’d do well not to waste mine by admitting you need me.”

      You need me.

      Was this an attempt to ask her out? “Excuse me?” she said, and grudgingly handed him two dollars and fifty cents.

      “Your security—” air quotes “—wouldn’t stop an accident much less a deliberate crime. You need me to fix the problems before someone СКАЧАТЬ