Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

I sag, sighing heavily. “And nothing. She shot me down.”

Brutal freezes with his brows comically high on his forehead. “She . . . shot . . . you . . . down?” His smile blooms as slowly as the heirloom tomatoes we grew last spring, then he damn near busts a gut laughing. “Holy shit! Never thought I’d see the day that Pretty Boy Bobby would get turned down by anyone. I like her already.” He’s bent in half, hands on his knees, eyes watering from laughing so hard that he’s speaking in short bursts of phrases before the next hee-haw of laughter.

I shove him and he stumbles, but only because he’s so off-kilter from laughing at me. The stutter in his steps and the angry scowl on my face only make him howl again.

More pissed than ever, I grab another plum from a low branch and toss it in the bucket, being too rough with the fragile fruit.

“Hey! Don’t damage the merchandise with your pissy attitude,” Brutal scolds, as if I’m a stupid kid or a newbie laborer he’s training. I throw him a middle finger, making sure it pops up good and strong despite the twinge in my knuckle. His shit-eating grin of victory is audible in his tone. “I’ll let Mama Louise know you won’t be at dinner tonight, seeing as you’ll be eating at Hank’s for round two, loverboy.”

And with that, he gets back to work too.

It’s his version of advice, basically telling me to quit moping, get my shit together, and try again. I grunt, the unofficial Tannen family language, saying thanks and that I appreciate it.

He’s right. I just need to figure out what I said wrong, figure out how to say it right, and try again. Just like a song.

Last night was just a first rough draft of our meeting. I hope.

Chapter 6

Willow

Sunday evenings are slower than molasses. The lunch rush after church is busy but light on bar work, so I spent most of that time helping Oliva. I’m nowhere near the waitress she is, but I can run food when Ilene dings her bell.

Now, as the clock on the wall approaches six, I’m beyond bored and desperate for something, anything to do because I can see my own reflection in the bar after the number of times I’ve wiped it down. “Unc, what can I prep for this week? Or need me to deep clean anything? Sort the paperwork into the file cabinet?”

He looks over from the table where he, Richard, and a guy who introduced himself as Doc are sitting and drinking a beer. As I suspected, neither of the guys paid, but Unc doesn’t seem to mind the loss of revenue to friends. Richard is nursing his first Miller draft, Doc’s on his second Budweiser can, and Unc has another bottle of that craft beer he prefers.

“Willow, you’ve been buzzing around like a hopped-up bee on crack. Sit down and relax, for God’s sake. You’re making me jumpy.” He pushes out the fourth chair at their table in invitation.

I perch on the edge of the chair, still wanting to work, but as soon as I stop moving, the tiredness washes through me and I feel just how heavy my feet have become.

“I just want to help, earn my keep, you know?” I tell Unc. “It’s one thing for the owner to sit around on his ass, another for an employee to do it when she’s on the clock.”

Richard smiles, flashing his slightly yellowed teeth. “Hey, Olivia, whatcha doing?” he calls over to where she’s sitting in a booth with her feet up and crossed at the ankles. She can see the front door, but we haven’t had a real customer in almost an hour and she’s already done all her side work, stuffing sugar packets into the bins on the table, filling salt and pepper containers, and deep cleaning the coffee machine.

She lifts her eyes from her phone to answer, “Talking to Hannah. You need something?” She makes zero move to get up.

Richard shakes his head. “Nope, you just proved my point. Thanks.” To me, he says, “See, Olivia’s on the clock and she’s chitter-chattering away with her girl. She look anxious about that?”

I glance over and see that Olivia is smiling at her glowing screen at something Hannah said, not a care or concern in the world with doing that while she’s supposed to be working.

Unc lowers his voice, leaning in to me, “Ain’t her fault we aren’t busy. She’s guaranteed forty hours and she works ‘em, whether I need her or not. Sure as shit, someone comes in, she’ll hop up and take care of ’em like she’s s’posed to.”

I know he’s right. I’m just used to buzzing around, being busy. Being in the city, there’s always something going on. This slower pace of life is . . . different.