The help? The help? Steve looks at me and shakes his head, leaving me to attend to ‘the master of the house’. I’m officially done. I couldn’t care less what this man, or any man for that matter, thinks of me or my looks. I’m too tired, too disappointed in life, too disillusioned to care anymore. And it’s enormously liberating. A shit ton of weight is suddenly lifted from my shoulders. I don’t even care if I get a Charley horse that lasts a week. Without finishing to stretch my already sore legs, I get up and hobble out. Maybe Kanye is right after all. Maybe I am stronger.
“You have to admit, he’s kinda hot,” Amber says as she wipes down the bar. All my tables are empty. The club was unusually slow tonight. It’s almost one and I’m ready to head home. Home? That’s weird that I would think that way about Shaw’s house.
“A few weeks ago he was murdery. Now he’s hot?” Benedict Arnold.
“So was Ted Bundy. Those two things are not mutually exclusive.”
“Honestly, I don’t see it,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, his traps are a thing of beauty, but I just can’t get past his totally shitty personality.”
“Tall drink of water at twelve o’clock,” Amber mutters, her heavy-lidded eyes glued to a spot over my shoulder. “Gonna bust my vibrator tonight.”
I turn to take in the object of her blatantly sexual interest and come face to face with a familiar set of dimples. He walks up to the bar and takes a seat directly in front of us. Amber’s mouth curves into a crooked smile that means only one thing––trouble. Leaning on the bar, I prop my chin up with my hand and settle in to watch the fireworks.
“Dimples, what can I get you?” she practically sings. Actually, this guy seems harmless. He smiles good naturedly at her.
“Jäger, please,” he answers with a heavy sigh. His soft, brown eyes go back and forth between us. “How are you ladies doin’ tonight?”
“You sound a bit down sweet cheeks, what gives?”
Raising the shot glass in mock cheers, he tips it back, drains it, and slams the empty glass on the bar. “You wanna know?”
“I’m a bartender. I hear more confessions than a priest.”
“I got dumped. She said she doesn’t trust me to stay faithful to her livin’ so far away,” he explains dejectedly.
“How far away is the little lady in question?”
“Tennessee.”
“Is she right?” I ask. A stubborn wrinkle appears on his forehead. He shakes his head vigorously. “Well you are kind of a flirt, Dimples.”
“Harper,” he says as he pats his chest. I have a feeling Dimples has had more than one shot tonight. “Justin Harper. And that’s just me, she should know that well enough by now.” For some strange reason, I believe him. “I don’t mean nothin’ by it.”
While Amber listens attentively to Justin’s tale of woe, I take off to grab my stuff from the locker. Justin is closing out his tab as I walk past the bar on my way out.
“I’m off,” I say and Amber nods back. I’m halfway to the door when I feel a tap on the shoulder.
“Can I speak to you for a minute?” Justin Harper looks uncomfortable. My suspicious glare makes him smile. “Just a minute. I promise,” he says with his hands up in surrender.
“Fine,” I grumble, tired and anxious to get home. “Walk me out.” As we walk out the door into the cold dead of night, he says, “I just want to apologize for last week. That was outa line, and I don’t want you thinkin’ I was being disrespectful is all.” I look up into his face and find a sweet, embarrassed earnestness that makes me smile. This is a pleasant surprise.
“Apology accepted.”
“Harper, what the hell are you doing here?”
That voice, that frigging voice is drawing closer. I turn to the left to see Shaw getting out of his car. Harper looks totally confused. His gaze shifts back and forth from Shaw to me. Walking up to us, Shaw grunts out, “Are you ready?”
“You two know each other?” Harper asks hesitantly.
At the same time I answer, “I’m the help,” Shaw answers, “How do you know her?”
“Time out. How do you know him?” I ask Shaw.
“He’s the new wide out we just traded Tennessee for.” Talk about a small world. Shaw is killing young Harper with his glare.
“Justin, a pleasure meeting you. Shaw, let’s go,” I say, not even bothering to look back to see if he’s following me to the still running car.
In the Range Rover, I crane my neck to find Shaw still talking to Harper. He’s pointing a finger aggressively in the younger man’s face. Eye roll. A minute later, he’s buckling his seat belt and driving down the street with the same scowl plastered to his face.