Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)
“It does,” I tell him. “It makes sense.”
His shoulders drop two inches I hadn’t realized they’d climbed up, almost like he was nervous. But he’s Bobby Tannen, star of Great Falls.
“Tour tonight?” he asks, setting another twenty down.
“I can’t. The tour or the money. That’s too much by at least twice.” I push the twenty back his way. “You got the last one, so let me pay tonight. I’ll let you in on a secret . . . I get an employee discount.”
He chuckles lightly but shakes his head, not touching the money. “No worries, I’ll see you tomorrow. Sweet dreams.”
Thursday night two-dollar drafts are in full effect. Along with the early evening crowd, everyone is clamoring for a bowl of Ilene’s chili, which is apparently blue-ribbon award-winning at the town’s annual chili cookoff six years in a row.
Ding. Ding-ding-ding.
Her bell hasn’t quit ringing all night as she serves up bowl after bowl. I peeked through the window earlier and saw four huge pots simmering on the stove top, which had seemed like a lot, but given how many Olivia has served, I bet we’re running low by now.
There’s only one thing missing . . . Bobby.
He’s been by every night this week. He sits, and we talk about everything and nothing, our days, our lives. I’ve heard stories about his family and family by extension, I’ve told him about adjusting to Great Falls and how he was right about the doughnut shop on Main Street, which really does have the best doughnuts I’ve ever tasted. He’s talked about farming and animals, music and songs, both others and his own. I’ve shown him pictures of my favorite places back in the city and made him one of my favorite mixed drinks, which he dutifully drank, even though it was pink and came with a lemon slice and a name like Girly Beer.
That was just last night.
“What the hell is this?” Bobby asks, his full lips screwed up in a scowl as he glares at the glass like it personally offended him.
“Just try it. I’m trying to get Unc to do a drink special, especially on the weekends. This is one I used to make at a bar I worked at. It’s cheap and sells like crazy, so the overhead is good.”
He sniffs it once and then again. “Lemonade? Beer?”
I tap my nose, pleased. “Good job. It’s light beer, for the ladies, you know, pink lemonade concentrate, and vodka. Over rocks is good, but tossed in a blender with some ice makes it into an alcoholic slushie.”
“You first,” he orders, offering the glass back my way.
“Despite the fact that I’m lazing around, eating dinner with you, I am still on the clock and can’t drink. Just try it.” I push it back his way, not missing the way his hand clenches the glass a little harder when I touch him.
His sip is tentative, like he’s fully expecting to hate it and have to gag it down to be polite. But his brows shoot skyward. “Fuck, that’s good.” He takes another drink, this time a big gulping one. “Aw, hell, you’re gonna have everybody in here drinking frilly pink drinks, aren’t you?”
The lift of his lips and the teasing glimpse of his tongue as it swipes out to catch every drop of alcohol says that’s not a bad thing.
“May-be.” My shrug is casual, though I’m delighted he likes it. If I can get Bobby on board, I know I can get Unc on board too. “If it helps Unc’s bottom line, it’ll be worth it.”
He eyeballs the glass again, teasing, “Can you drop some food coloring in it or something?” But he doesn’t seem to mind as he takes another drink. “Shit, that stuff is dangerous. You don’t feel it at all, like Kool-Aid sneaking up on ya.”
He sets it down, returning to the second garlic-crusted pork chop he’s been working on.
But it’s past seven now, and Bobby is nowhere to be found. I wonder if turning him down on that tour for the fourth time was the final straw, and I feel a thread of disappointment weave through me. I didn’t realize how much I counted on seeing him every night until right this second.
The door opens, and I look over hopefully, even though I hate that I’m doing it every single time the door makes its trademark creak. But it’s not him, just another two guys coming in for their weekly cheap beers. They hold two fingers up to Unc, and he nods back, already pulling their drafts.
Unc’s staying on his stool tonight, which I’m taking as a win, and he did agree to let me do a trial of the Girly Beer on Saturday, another win.
“Hey, Willow?” Unc says from his perch.
“Yeah?” I answer, instantly at his side.
“Could you sneak in the back and get me a bowl of Ilene’s chili before she runs out? I don’t want to miss out this time.” As soon as I nod, he goes back to talking to Richard and simultaneously pulling beers for Olivia.