Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“Deal.” Ashley scurried off, returning a few minutes later with the shirt.
I took one look at it and groaned. “No, Ashley.” It was her “lucky tip” shirt with the big flaming rooster on the front, just like mine. Only hers had the sleaves cut off, the neckline split down the middle to show maximum cleavage, and the bottom was cropped just above the belly button. “I’m not wearing that.” It would barely cover my double-Ds.
Jimmie came out of the kitchen through the saloon doors. Jimmie was a big man in his fifties, with muscled arms, thinning brown hair, and warm brown eyes like Daddy’s. Maybell and I had espresso eyes and long, straight black hair like Mamma.
Anyway, Jimmie never took a day off, whereas Daddy had been a hard worker, too, but loved lazy days by the river, just fishing and hanging out. He took the time to enjoy life when he could. Kind of ironic that it was my daddy who’d died of the heart attack.
“You sure you got this, Masie?” Jimmie asked, wiping his big greasy hands on a rag. He’d probably been in the back fixing something. Between the Flaming Rooster and the distillery, equipment was always breaking down. “I know you don’t like dealing with the evening crowd.”
What Uncle Jimmie was really saying was that he didn’t think I could handle it. All because I’d requested day shifts a few years back. And being the honest person that I was, when he’d asked why, I’d told the truth: “Men don’t tip much when I slap ’em, Uncle Jimmie.” Which I had. Twice. Because who the heck did they think they were? Serving a man a drink was not an invitation to help themselves to my lady pumpkins.
“I’m good, Uncle Jimmie.” I offered an unwavering stare, as if to say, “I said yes, didn’t I?”
He nodded, accepting my unspoken answer, and then disappeared into the back.
I snatched the skimpy shirt from Ashley’s hands. “Can you finish table prep? I need to wash up and change.” A little hand soap from the ladies’ room on my face and pits. Good as new.
“Sure, hon. Oh! Before I forget,” she whispered, “I should warn you. There’s been a new customer comin’ around. He likes to show up just before closing.”
“And?” I raised a brow, expecting her to say the guy was hitting on the servers or something.
“I don’t know.”
I frowned, waiting for more.
“He orders a glass of Jimmie’s VIP stash but never touches it. Then he leaves.”
That bourbon cost one hundred bucks a pop. It was strange not to drink it.
“You tell Jimmie?” I asked.
“He said as long as the man ain’t bugging nobody, let him be.”
I shrugged, not particularly worried. “Maybe he’s in AA and just likes a smell of the good old days.”
“I’m telling you, Masie, somethin’ just ain’t right with that man. He’s…I dunno.”
That was too vague to get me worried. Leiper’s Fork had its share of tourists and people just passing through. There weren’t that many places to eat, so whoever came to town, we generally got them here. Still, it wasn’t anything to fuss over in my opinion.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be on my guard.” But I’d mostly be watching for drunk cowboys.
CHAPTER THREE
Like clockwork, Jimmie cranked up the music at ten o’clock and played “Achy Breaky Heart” for the star of the evening: Big Barney the rooster. Barney was a show-winning Derbyshire Redcap that loved to strut his long black tail feathers for the crowd. At the end of the song, he’d stick out his red chest and let loose the biggest cock-a-doodle-doo! Jimmie claimed that Barney just did it on his own, but I knew my uncle had spent months training him to crow on demand.
Normally, I didn’t approve of lying, but Uncle Jimmie just loved that dang bird, and I loved the way his clucking made people laugh. ’Sides, a little white lie every now and again was okay. I saw it as just being polite.
After Barney made his appearance, the customers always got livelier, to put it politely, but tonight felt different. There was a group of eight guys about my age—twenty-five—who’d staked out a tall round table by the dartboards in the corner. Looked like a bachelor-party deal, but I didn’t like the way they were eyeing me and Deedee, the other waitress. Lots of strange side glances, like they were talking about us.
I could handle myself, but little Deedee was the sweetest person in the world. We called her little because she was just over five feet tall. Compared to her, at only five five, I was a giant. Anyway, she wouldn’t hurt a fly and never raised her voice even when people behaved rudely. She’d just smile and wish them a good night. But most people instantly took a liking to her.