Daddy Make Me Beg

Chapter 5

Old Harvey was parked on his usual corner stool. Gray beard to his chest, a Vietnam vet cap permanently fixed to his head, and a smile full of nicotine-stained teeth. Harvey had been drunk for years, and somehow he still remembered everyone’s birthday.

“Storm’s coming, boys,” he slurred as we walked in, raising his glass toward us. “Feel it in my knees. Or maybe that’s my arthritis. Who’s to say?”

“Appreciate the update, Harvey,” Ryder drawled, tipping his hat. “Nobody else saw the lightning flashing in the distance but you.”

I snorted, but Harvey didn’t seem to notice.

“Tell your mama I said hi,” he called to no one in particular. I had a brief flash of my mother’s face as Harvey took a sip and stared contentedly into the distance like he was watching a war only he could see.

In the back corner, a game of darts was unfolding with the quiet intensity of a prison standoff. Two broad-shouldered guys from the mill squared off against Daisy, the night vet tech, who still wore scrubs speckled with something that might’ve been blood or ketchup. She lined up her throw with one hand and cradled a whiskey in the other, looking like she’d neutered something larger than both men earlier that evening and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

I wouldn’t bet against her.

At a back table, two of the older ranchers, Earl and Dale, were deep in some kind of argument that involved aggressive whispering. Earl used to ride bulls and now had knees made of metal. Dale was a conspiracy theorist who once claimed the mayor was reptilian. Babs let him stay because he made her favorite jerky.

And at the bar, Babs, as usual, looked like she’d wrestled Death on her way in here and walked away with his wallet.

She was in her mid-fifties, or maybe older…not that anyone had the guts to ask. She had tanned skin covered in a constellation of faded tattoos. Her denim vest was from some outlaw motorcycle club that didn’t exist anymore. Probably because Babs had dismantled it herself.

Her gaze cut across the room, landing on us, and she scowled. “What did I do to deserve the two of you darkening my doorway tonight?”

Ryder tipped his hat, all false sweetness. “Missed us, Babs?”

“Like a rash,” she shot back.

Her eyeliner was smudged in a way that gave her sharp eyes an even fiercer edge when they pinned you down. Her graying brown hair was twisted into its usual bun, tonight stabbed through with a screwdriver. Last week, it had been a cigar. Once before, a steak knife, and thinking of that night was the easiest way I knew to flatten an erection.

And she ruled The Hollow like it was her kingdom.

Ryder and I slid into an empty booth along the far wall, the vinyl groaning under our weight. I leaned back and stretched out, keeping my gaze on the door.

And that’s when the piano started.

Chuck was hunched over a dusty keyboard in the corner, hammering out slow, off-key minor chords like he was auditioning to score his own funeral. No one had hired him, and no one had suggested he should. He just dragged in that busted Yamaha on random nights, sat down, and played like the world was ending in black-and-white and he was the only one who’d gotten the memo.

Ryder glanced over his shoulder, brow raised. “Sweet mercy. Is he trying to summon something or just punish us all for existing?”

“Hard to say,” I muttered as my eyes drifted around the room. “It feels like both at the moment.”

“Evenin’, boys.”

A tall blonde, who had to be the new waitress Jett had mentioned, leaned an elbow on our booth, her voice pitched sweet and practiced. Her skirt barely covered her ass, and her top was cut so low it looked like her n*****s were about to make their own introduction. Add in the stilettos teetering on warped bar floors, and Ryder lit up like Christmas. His grin turned wicked as he dragged his gaze down and back up again.

Slow enough to make sure she noticed.

“Well, damn,” he drawled. “Whiskey. Don’t care what kind, so long as it’s you handing it over.”

I bit back a laugh. I’d seen Ryder run this routine a hundred times, and he always cared what whiskey he got. The second his d**k stopped thinking, he’d be bitching about the pour.

“Beer, please,” I said evenly. “Ma’am.”

Her eyes lingered on me a beat too long, like I was the one she wanted. But she’d get nothing from me. Even if I was interested, we had a code among us, and Ryder had already called dibs.

Before the blonde could bat her lashes again, a shadow fell over the booth.

“This isn’t even your section,” Babs growled, her voice rasping like a match striking sandpaper. She wedged herself between us and the waitress, arms crossed, the silver rings stacked on her fingers flashing in the light. “Move your ass back to the pool tables before I staple your skirt to your section so you remember where it is.”

The blonde blinked, her cheeks flushing pink, then pasted on a tight smile and tottered off. Her heels clicked unevenly against the warped floor planks.

Ryder slumped in his seat like he’d just lost his best shot of the night. “Who’s gonna get our drinks now?”

“With that attitude?” Babs said. “You can get them yourself.”

Scowling, Ryder dropped his hand. “I was just being friendly. Y’all ever heard of that?”

Babs barked out a laugh that turned heads at the bar. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just glad I won’t have to mop up the drool you were leaking on my floor.”

He gave her a wounded look, all wide eyes and dramatics. “It’s like you don’t even want me here.”

“It’s not like that, it is that.” Babs scoffed, her face scrunching like she’d smelled something sour, though I caught the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth before she turned away.

I smirked.

Ryder lifted an eyebrow at me. “Don’t get too cocky over there, Sterling. We all know I’ll always be Babs’s favorite.”

I rolled my eyes and slid out of the booth. “If you’re her favorite, then you can be the one to beg her for our drinks.”

Ryder snorted but followed, and we cut through the noise toward the bar. The Hollow had swelled even more, bodies crammed shoulder to shoulder, heat and sweat clinging to the air.

We’d barely reached the bar when Kelsey leaned over from the other side. Early twenties, heavy on the lashes and lip gloss, she draped herself across the wood.

“You need something, Sterling?” she purred in a voice so syrupy my balls damn near shriveled.

I kept my eyes firmly on her forehead.

As evidenced by the new blonde, Babs was pretty loose about her employee dress code, and Kelsey’s interpretation of it left very little to the imagination. Jett swore her entire left boob had made a surprise appearance last week, and the way she was leaning over now, her right one was about to introduce itself, too.

Ryder coughed into his drink to hide a laugh, though I knew damn well he’d sampled that particular special more than once.

I let my gaze finally land on Kelsey’s for a beat. “I’ll take the drink,” I said, putting weight on it. Her smile faltered.

“Am I paying you to flirt, or am I paying you to work?” Babs snapped, appearing out of nowhere. She had a sixth sense for when her staff was thinking with anything but their brains. Kelsey flinched, then moved only marginally faster toward the taps.

Babs shook her head, muttering, “I swear, these waitresses are one spilled shot away from humping the furniture.”

Her eyes cut between Ryder and me. “If y’all are finished trying to outdo each other in pissing me off, somebody put a dollar in the jukebox, and put Chuck out of his misery.”

“I heard that,” Chuck croaked from the piano, not missing a single off-key note.

“You were meant to,” she snarled.

As if the sky agreed, a gust of wind slammed against the windows, rattling the panes in their frames. Rain pelted the glass, and The Hollow seemed to pause for half a breath, putting everyone on reset. But a moment later, they all carried on louder, like the storm had given everyone permission to get wilder.

Kelsey reappeared and slid a beer in front of me. I took it with a muttered, “Thanks.”

Someone near the jukebox must have dropped a dollar in, because the first twang of George Strait cut across the room, mercifully drowning out Chuck’s off-key funeral march.

The song caught in the back of my mind for a second. My mother used to play it when I was a kid. I took a slow sip of my beer and let the thought drift away before it could settle.

Ryder dragged a stool out from the bar, and the wood scraped across the floor. He leaned back, elbows braced, scanning the bar like he was cataloging who might be his next arrest.

“You hear anything from Jett this week?” I asked.

“He’s riding at that Vander event up north,” he said. “Told me he broke Jenkins’s nose yesterday. Not over rodeo—Jett was scouting the area, looking for some guy he’s…looking for.”