Every day was a struggle. Not just one, but many.
She wanted to accept his help, but she couldn’t. She needed to do this herself. Needed to prove she could succeed on her own and didn’t need to depend on anyone again.
She desperately needed his help and it would lighten her load, but her pride...
Her damn pride...
She didn’t need him. She had to find another way.
She broke the kiss, jerked away from him and opened her eyes.
She wasn’t in the barn. She was still in the bar.
She had no idea how long she was out, but she must have fallen asleep and her memory had turned into a dream. She lifted her head from her arms and her heart skipped a beat, then began to race.
Trip stood in front of the table, his hands on his hips, watching her with his brown eyes, darker than normal. “Must’ve been a good dream.”
“Part of it,” she murmured, because she couldn’t deny her panties were damp from their kiss. The deep rumble of his voice might be a factor, too. “How’d you get in here?”
“Had the fuckin’ door unlocked.”
His pissed off growl cleared the remaining cobwebs from her brain, and she glanced at the time on her cell phone.
Damn. The bar was technically still open since it was only shy of one a.m. She still had an hour to go.
Fuck it. She would close early.
She began to gather the piles of envelopes and bills into one. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes watched her every move. “Checkin’ up on you.”
Her hands stilled, then she started gathering everything even faster. “I don’t need checked on.”
“Wanted to see if you thought about my offer.”
She dropped her eyes from his. “Thought about it.” Trip and his offer was all she’d thought about the last few days.
“And?”
“And the answer is still no.”
The song on the jukebox changed from its current song to Do You Wanna Touch Me.
She groaned silently. Why had she been on a Joan Jett kick tonight?
She surged from her chair and he stopped her by grabbing her wrist.
Just like at the barn. Like in her dream.
Why did he think he had the right to touch her? Or, hell, restrain her. “Let me go, Trip.”
He jerked his chin toward the table. At the bills, at her anemic checkbook, at her puddle of tears of frustration. “Will you fuckin’ admit you need help?”
“I don’t need your help.”
His head jerked back. “See how you said that? Don’t need my help, but you need help. Fuckin’ let me help you, Stella.”
Boy, he was stretching her words. “Why do you care? Why do you want to help me?”
“’Cause... ‘cause this bar was part of the club and I don’t wanna see it fail. Don’t wanna see you fail.”
Bullshit.
The bar maybe, because he thought he had a vested interest in it. But her? No. Her failure would only be beneficial to him by giving him a chance to swoop in and steal it from her.
She pulled free of him, relieved when he let her go without a fight, and she went over to the jukebox to change the song. Of course, the next song was Love Hurts by Nazareth.
If that wasn’t her fucking life’s theme song...
Jesus. She reached behind the jukebox and pulled the plug from the outlet, killing both the power and the music.
Suddenly, the bar was way too fucking silent.
He didn’t look even remotely happy. Well, good, she wasn’t, either. She did not need him barging into her life and trying to take over.
And she certainly didn’t want to owe him shit.
She was not going to be indebted to some badass wannabe, who felt the need to dig into a past that had turned out shitty for just about everyone involved.
Just no.
She slammed the cover of the checkbook binder closed before he got a good look at the balance, grabbed all the bills, shoved them into the binder, and strode across the bar.
Away from him.
She walked faster when she heard his footsteps behind her.
As she stepped behind the bar, she came to an abrupt halt, blocking his path. “You can’t come back here.”
He ignored her and bumped her from behind with his chest to move her out of the way. “Watch me.”
She shoved the over-stuffed binder under the bar to deal with tomorrow and watched as Trip grabbed a bottle of Jack off the shelf, a glass from the rack, and poured himself a double. No, a triple.
She couldn’t afford for him to drink for free, especially top shelf shit. Whether the club “owned” a part of Pete’s or not. “You need to pay for that.”
He downed the whiskey, grimaced and slammed the glass onto the bar. He pulled his large leather wallet from his back pocket and dug out a twenty. When he held it out and she reached for it, he jerked it away.