Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

His lips part ever so slightly on an exhale, and I know he was just as primed for that kiss as I was. But he lets me go.

Just in time, too, because Unc comes around the corner calling out, “Last call. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

“Do you even know that song?” My words are too fast, but not as fast as my heart is racing.

“What song?” he grunts, passing me to get back into his sacred space behind the bar. “Would you help Olivia out and do a round of bussing glasses so we can get out of here tonight?”

That’s the first time Unc has asked for my help nicely instead of bossing me around as though my very presence is somehow both welcome and unwelcome at the same time. I’m calling it progress.

“Sure thing.”

I grab a dish tub and start my way around the room, grabbing empties as I go and letting my mind race away.

What was that? What just happened? Oh, my God, I almost kissed Bobby Tannen. It is a well-known fact that hot musicians do not kiss girls like me. Nope, never happens. But it did. Well, almost.

Distracted, I lean over table nine, trying not to interrupt the guys’ conversation. But the blond closest to me runs the back of his hand up my arm and a creepy shiver runs down my spine.

“Hi there.” He’s not drunk, or at least he’s not slurring and his eyes are focused. But he’s clearly lost his ever-loving mind.

“Hello,” I answer coldly, shifting away from him.

I hate to say it, but I’ve been in enough bars that I’m well aware that friendliness can be mistaken for flirting for the lonely-hearted. And the last thing I need to do is overreact in the middle of Unc’s bar and cause a scene, even if I’m gritting my teeth to keep from telling this guy to keep his hands to himself.

“Chill out, Joe,” one of the other guys says, shaking his head and giving me a look that says Sorry, my friend is an asshole. “Here, thanks.” The guy holds up his empty glass and I reach for it.

As soon as my hands grab the offered glass, Joe grabs my ass and yanks me into his lap, bouncing me with his hips and laughing like he’s having a grand old time. I can feel his dick hardening beneath my thigh.

Scene be damned. The glass shatters on the wood floor as I push against Joe’s chest, yelling loudly, “What the hell?”

Joe starts to say something, his breath smelling like stale beer, but I’m suddenly flying through the air and whirled around. Before I’m even seeing straight, I’m planted almost gently on my feet, a wide, denim-clad back in front of me.

Bobby.

He ripped me out of Joe’s lap and now has Joe’s T-shirt fisted in one hand, his other holding Joe’s arm behind his back. Joe is stone-cold sober now and pissed as hell. His toes are barely touching the ground as Bobby holds him up, but he’s yelling at Bobby as he struggles. “What the fuck, man? Put me down!”

A loud bang comes from the bar, and I glance over to see Unc with a baseball bat slammed on the bar top. My uncle might be old, but right now, I have no doubt that he could take someone’s head off with that thing.

“Bobby,” Unc says in warning, though I don’t know why. Bobby is protecting me and not the bad guy here.

“Don’t. Touch.” That’s all Bobby says to Joe, but it has the power of an order. He slowly lowers Joe’s feet to the floor, keeping a careful watch on him. Bobby’s eyes narrow a split second before Joe bellows.

“Motherfucker!”

Joe rears back and punches Bobby clean in the jaw. I gasp in horrified shock, but Bobby grins, his tongue peeking out to test the lip I was so close to kissing just minutes ago. “Hank, you saw that? He threw the first punch.”

All at once, hell breaks loose.

Unc curses and tries to rush around the bar as Bobby hammers Joe’s gut and makes him fold in half before uppercutting Joe’s nose. I hear a crunch, and Joe falls to his knees, holding his nose.

“You broke it.” Joe sounds whiny and stuffy, probably from the blood leaking from between his fingers.

Joe’s friends all push back from the table, and Bobby looks up, glee in his eyes that tells them all to bring it, but they’re not getting up to jump to their friend’s defense. They’re getting out of Bobby’s way, same as I’m doing, backing away slowly like sudden movements will make them a target too because his hands are still loosely coiled, ready for round two.

“Get out, and don’t come back!” Unc tells Joe and his crew.

The guy who tried to apologize for Joe’s earlier behavior helps him to his feet. Joe splutters out, “Get out? Fuck that! Call the cops! I’m pressing charges!”