Title TBD by Kelly Duff (Note to reader…this is a very rough draft, but I truly appreciate you taking the time to read it)
Chapter One
Josh Jones felt heavy.
It wasn’t that he was a large man. Outside of some well-defined limbs, he was thin for his six-foot frame. It wasn’t the dark brown wool overcoat he wore over his slightly rumpled white dress shirt or the denim in his faded black jeans. It wasn’t even the oversized nylon duffle bag slung over his shoulder filled with clothes and toiletries or the beaten-up guitar case in his hand.
Every fiber in his being was feeling burdensome. His head hurt a bit, most likely from his persistently knitted brow line, and he felt sluggish even though he’d unintentionally lost some weight over the last year. He was run down and worn out.
Ten years on the road and in the studio would do that to you. It broke many an artist who couldn’t keep up with the rigorous and sometimes vicious cycle of write, record, perform, repeat.
It damn well nearly broke him.
When he’d abruptly abandoned the Bakersfield recording studios two days ago, he’d left a note on the soundboard in his uneasy scrawl.
I need to clear my head and find my voice. It may not be what you want, but it’s what I need.
Danny Quinn, his manager, probably lost his shit when he found that scrap of paper.
One, they were under a deadline, and two, Quinn was probably freaking out because the studio time was eating into the advance from the record company. A quiet studio didn’t mean the meter stopped running. It meant lost money. That didn’t bother Josh as much as his guilt for his bandmates. A delay meant no money was coming in, and some had families to support. But dammit, if they weren’t the most understanding group of guys he’d ever known. They accepted that Josh couldn’t make another album with all the pressures on him. Not to mention, his creative well had run dry.
So, he’d left.
He’d paid cash for everything to stay off the radar and busied himself the entire train ride with a book he’d picked up at the station’s small sundries store—“The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck” by Mark Manson—it had seemed appropriate. He’d turned off his cell phone and slipped away because he didn’t need to hear Quinn remark that he just had to “find his muse.” Frankly, Josh didn’t believe in such a concept. It was a silly phrase Quinn always used, and the sentiment made Josh’s skin crawl.
His brain needed a rest. He’d been struggling to produce anything worthy of recording, and when he had pleaded with Quinn to delay the schedule, his manager had responded with his usual clichéd motivational speeches.
“You got this, buddy. You’re a genius. You just refuse to see it.”
“Don’t overthink it. You’re the master.”
“Just relax. It’s good enough.”
Good enough—shit. When was anything ever good enough?
He hadn’t built a solid career by just being good enough. He’d created songs that spoke to the masses of Indie rock fans across the country who packed into concert halls. It still took him by surprise some nights, looking out into the audience, where they hung on his every word yet knew them all by heart.
More importantly, his music had always meant something to him personally. He’d battled demons through it, had gotten through a breakup or two with it, and had turned to it when his dad had died. He’d used it to celebrate life and love and even sold the rights to two of his songs for commercials. He tried not to get too self-righteous about it because it had made him a small fortune. He’d never consider himself a sellout if the money went to something worthwhile, like taking some time off and returning to music on his terms.
However, writing wasn’t something he could do on demand. He struggled like any artist. The looming deadline of the fifth album with his record company didn’t help his stress level. He couldn’t just record something unless, in his heart, it was meant to be out there in the world. And nothing he had written or recorded so far was up to his standards.
No. Josh wouldn’t accept good enough.
He’d feel it in his bones when it was right.
For now, he needed a reboot and a place to hide out.
Twenty-five hundred miles ought to help.
As the train pulled into the station in Charlotte, North Carolina, the sun began its descent in the June summer sky.
Beyond the doors, people whizzed by on the platform even as the train slowed. The smell of diesel filled Josh’s nose as he stood in the vestibule of the train car and adjusted the strap of the duffle bag on his shoulder. In his coat pocket, he had a piece of paper with the name of a bar and its owner—Rolling Start Tavern and Mel. Sophie, the only woman on earth who he even trusted anymore, had given him the info. She was his tough older sister and was resourceful when he needed to find a place to spend a little downtime. She was responsible for all of his vacations, usually a place where he was unknown. He’d told her his plan to disappear for a while and swore her to secrecy. He knew Sophie would never turn him in, especially not to Quinn. No one would crack her. Hell, sometimes even he was afraid of her.
Josh hoped this Mel guy was cool. Still, he wouldn’t be surprised if Mel had his hesitations. Over the last year, Josh had forgone haircuts and razors out of laziness. He looked pretty different from the lead singer of the band Babylon—the name he’d chosen because, as a kid, his teachers would ask chatty Josh what he was always “babbling on about.” And truthfully, his songs were always a bit wordy. Considering his desire to remain incognito for a while, his apathy for grooming would work in his favor.
As the train doors opened, humidity slapped him in the face. He stepped onto the platform and walked to a bench to shake off his coat. People passed by, all rushing to get to their next destination. It was a nice reprieve to not be in a hurry, like them, to be able to take a breath and not have anyone to answer to for a change. Sure, he had things to do—like write a couple of killer songs—but his time was now his own.
He picked up his things and headed toward the street. The cab driver who waited in front of the taxi stand line flagged him down.
Josh laid his stuff across the back seat as he got in and gave the driver the address to the Rolling Start.
“Long trip, boss?” The cab driver’s middle eastern accent was as thick as his head of black hair.
“Yeah, too long.”
“Maybe you get a vacation here? Good tourist location. Race coming up.”
“Maybe, but I’m here to work.”
“Yeah? What is it that you do?”
Josh glanced at the guitar case on the seat next to him and then into the rearview mirror. The driver’s eyes bounced between him and the road.
“Wait, let me guess,” the driver said. “You look like you might be a preacher.”
“Close enough, my friend,” Josh chuckled, running a hand through his long hair. “I do try to spread the good word.”
“I knew it.” The driver hit the top of the steering wheel with his hand, pleased with himself. “So, you save a lot of souls?”
Josh gazed out the window at the city skyline and sighed. “Sometimes.”
Maybe this time, he’d save himself.
The cab darted through downtown traffic and soon pulled up in front of the Rolling Start. Josh paid the fare in cash and got out.
Trendy retail shops lined the block, including a coffee shop, an art gallery with colorful banners, a yoga studio, and a specialty candy store. Small groups of rentable scooters peppered the sidewalk, and across the street, a bookstore deposited a group of young hipsters outside. The guitar in Josh’s hand suddenly felt like a flashing neon sign—but he figured this was racing country, so most locals here probably had never heard of him or his band.
From his early days of flipping houses with his college friends, Josh understood strategic gentrification and the difference between making things look old school and being just plain old. The two-story building before him, nestled between a yogurt shop and clothing boutique, looked untouched and out of place. The bar’s sign was faded, paint peeled off the siding, and several of the bulbs that lined the front eaves were either burned out or broken off. The hazy windows reflected the sunset, but he imagined the inside was just as outdated. He wondered if the apartment for rent upstairs would be just as shabby.
The door to the tavern opened, and two middle-aged men dressed in coveralls exited. Josh grabbed the door before it shut and walked inside.
“Night Moves” by Bob Seger played overhead to a nearly empty room. Slim chance that the two older men drinking at the bar or the small group of construction workers huddled in a corner booth would recognize him, but second thoughts crept into his head. Maybe he should find a motel. He had the cash. He could find a secluded place with a pool or perhaps an in-room jacuzzi.
He turned to leave, but a baby grand piano in the far corner caught his eye.
Intrigued, he walked toward the small stage where it sat.
Even in the dimly lit corner, he could see it was damn near perfect, except for a thin layer of dust.
He set his guitar and duffle bag on the first step to the stage and admired the piano.
Its five-foot frame sat diagonally on a deep red rug in the center of the stage. Even in the dark alcove, Josh could see the tiger mahogany pattern of the wood. It was probably the nicest thing in the place and worth more than the building itself. Odd for something like this to be in such a dive.
“You play?”
A female voice called out, and when Josh turned, another curiosity drew him in further.
The young woman behind the bar was big green eyes and short brown hair. Her silver hoop earrings almost touched the straps of her tank top, and Josh tried desperately to keep his eyes from wandering down to her ample cleavage. Instead, he focused on her coral-painted mouth as one corner slowly turned up.
“I play,” he said and headed over to the bar.
She gave him the once over and turned to the register to deposit a few bills. Shutting the drawer, she turned to him and put a hand on her hip. “You drink?”
“Makers. Neat.”
As she walked to the far end of the bar, he took the time to check her out. Athletic build, amazing ass, and biker boots. He hoped she wasn’t Mel’s wife or daughter.
No, you’re here to decompress, not find a piece of ass.
The cute bartender returned with an empty rocks glass and a bottle of Makers and poured it in front of him.
“I heard Mel has a room to rent.” He placed a twenty on the bar and picked up the glass.
“Are you some kind of weirdo because we don’t rent out to just anyone?” she asked, capping the bottle.
One of the men at the end of the bar emitted some muffled laughter, and she shot the old guy a look. Josh started to think Mel must like having her around to keep the peace because the man shut up immediately and went back to watching the television above the bar.
“Aren’t we all a little weird, Sweetness?”
She didn’t seem bothered by the nickname—hell, he didn’t even know where it came from, but he imagined it suited her.
She sized him up again. “You don’t seem to have a lot with you. Are you on the run or something?”
“I’m just taking a break. I need a place; I’m not sure for how long. Maybe a few weeks. I have the money.” He pulled out his wallet and fanned through a couple of hundred bucks. “I can pull up my bank records if Mel needs me to.”
She chewed her lip before shrugging.
Josh watched her walk away and sighed. He took a pull on the whiskey and got comfortable on the stool.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
The place seemed quiet enough, not that noise bothered him when he was writing. He’d once perched by an open window where they were tearing up the road outside. Huge machinery buzzed as he had furiously written one of his best songs. What worried him more was that he didn’t have anything to write about. He was stuck. His life had become mundane by design. He’d stopped attending the clubs and local events in Los Angeles a while ago. Just thinking about getting wrapped up in it all again exhausted him. All the overdone glamour and posturing had never been his thing, but he’d gotten caught up in it for a time. Everyone likes being treated like a celebrity, even if you might consider yourself a c-lister, but after a while, that shit gets old. You never know if someone is chatting you up or kissing your ass because you’re famous or if they’re genuinely good people. Plus, the older he got, the less he had in common with that scene. It was about status and owning things. Josh knew deep down he’d always been happier with a lot less.
This bar was unassuming as it gets. He knew he could blend in with the customers. It surprised him how a place like this could survive in the heart of an up-and-coming area.
An hour later, the place had gotten busier, though only partially full for a dinner crowd. A young guy in a baseball hat, who looked like he might be in a fraternity, had joined in to assist the cute bartender. After waiting on the few occupied tables, he approached Josh to refill his bourbon.
Josh leaned in as the guy poured. “Hey man, any idea when Mel’s going to get here? I need a place to stay.”
“Be patient, buddy.” Frat boy smiled and offered his hand. “I’m Brent.”
The grip of a football player enclosed Josh’s fingers, and he prayed the kid didn’t crush his livelihood. “Josh.”
He felt someone brush against his arm.
“Hope you’re not a vegetarian, sailor,” the cute bartender said as she set a plate in front of him.
A giant cheeseburger and thick-cut fries—that he hadn’t ordered—sat on a white plate with bar lingo in a swirly script painted around the edge. The one that held his meal said Salty Dog and included the ingredients for the drink—vodka and grapefruit juice.
He stared at the food and felt the slight breeze of the bartender as she walked away and took her place behind the bar.
“Ketchup?” She produced a bottle from under the bar and set it in front of him.
Okay, she was frickin’ adorable, but he was tired of waiting on the owner.
“Listen, I appreciate the surprise meal but is Mel even here?” he asked.
She produced a glass and filled it with water as her green eyes studied him. “Where are you from? I’ve never seen you here before.”
He took a deep breath and stopped himself from forcing it out. If she was the gateway to Mel, he should try not to blow it by showing impatience.
“West Coast.” Josh picked up a fry and bit into it. The saltiness was subtle, and he could taste a hint of some herb.
“Good, huh?” She put her hands on her hips, and Josh struggled to keep eye contact. “Rosemary and truffle. Our chef, Rico, is playing with a few new recipes. We need to get some more customers in here, and he thinks food is the key.”
Josh nodded. “If you wanna bring in the cool, vinyl-buying, bookstore hipsters along with the racing fanatics, then yeah. You gotta go gastro or go home.”
“That’s what Rico keeps saying.” She shrugged and wiped down the counter next to him. “So, what do you do for a living?”
Preacher.
“Musician.”
She stopped wiping the counter. “Are you any good?”
“Let me finish my dinner, Sweetness, and maybe I’ll show you what these fingers can do.” He couldn’t help the innuendo and spread his fingers purposely, then picked up the burger.
Was that a flash of a smile he caught? He’d dished it out a little, and she liked it.
Good to know.
After eating most of the burger and fries, Josh wished he hadn’t offered to prove himself. First of all, by some slim chance in hell the people here did recognize him, he’d have no choice but to head to another location. And second, he was damn full from the meal.
Sweetness stood in front of him now and cleared his plate. “The switch to the stage lights is to the right once you’re up there. The mic needs to be flipped on. I’ll turn down the music after you settle in. And don’t even think about playing ‘Miss American Pie or “Piano Man.’ Mel hates that crap.”
Josh straightened. “So, he’s here?”
She turned and walked away without answering.
Josh mumbled his discontent and took his glass over to the stage.
The light switch she’d mentioned controlled a couple of overhead spotlights that gave the area a blue hue. Josh knocked back some of his bourbon and set the glass beside the piano’s leg on the floor. Sitting on the bench, he found the mic switch, turned it on, and tested it by tapping the windscreen. The thumping noise came through the overhead speakers, and he looked toward the bar. The bartender signaled him with a nod and turned down the music.
Since he didn’t want to out himself with one of Babylon’s songs, he sang the opening lyrics to Elton John’s “Rocketman.” Always a crowd-pleaser, Josh knew it was best to play a recognizable hit, even if the crowd here was lacking.
By the chorus, he looked up and saw a few customers nodding along. Someone had propped the front door open, allowing the music to flow to the sidewalk.
Josh rolled into a mashup of Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind” and Alicia Keys “Empire State of Mind,” knowing it would get a reaction.
More people walked in off the street, and the customers began to sing along. Josh felt energized for the first time in months. The intimacy of a small crowd beat any festival audience, even on a good day. He finished the song and thanked the audience.
After he flipped the mic off, the overhead music came back up.
The cute bartender crossed the room and met him at the piano.
“If you’re willing to do something like that a couple of nights a week, you can eat for free.” She set a key on top of the piano’s lid. It had a number two written in sharpie on the plastic disc attached to the keyring. “The room comes furnished, but it isn’t fancy. You’re responsible for your laundry, including the provided sheets and towels. And when the bar closes, there’s no noise upstairs. If you want to get with someone, you go to their place. Brent will settle up with you on the rent.”
He stared at her, not quite knowing how to respond.
Had Mel been in the room all along? Was he the old guy still sitting at the bar’s end?
She turned to leave the stage, seemed to think twice about it, and turned back.
“By the way, I’m Mel.” She winked and walked away.
Well, shit.
Chapter Two
Melodie Scott’s fingers hovered over her keyboard as she struggled to craft a killer resume.
Rock music from the jukebox filtered down the hallway and through the doorway of the small office. Over the years, as the building had settled, the office door would stick, and sometimes it took a crowbar to pry open again, so a stopper held it in place.
It was Mel’s fifth attempt at the resume, but outside of her education in marine science, there was little she could do to dress up the page in front of her, bartending abilities aside. She sighed and looked around the room.
Brighter areas on the wall revealed where Joe had kept supplies for the bar. Her uncle had perhaps been a little overzealous with the palettes of disposable items—boxes of napkins, writing pads for the wait staff, and enough pens to stock the local high school. Mel had let it all run down to the bare minimum revealing just how dingy the walls had gotten from decades of neglect. The room could’ve used a good coat of something uplifting long ago, but Joe wasn’t around to hear her opinion on things like that anymore.
It had never been her intention to become the owner of the Rolling Start, but apparently, Joe had put her down as the beneficiary. So she paused her plans to pursue jobs along the Atlantic Coast.
There were still reminders of her uncle everywhere in the office. His bowling trophy sat on a small bookcase alongside pictures taken with family, friends, and random Nascar celebrities. His fishing cap still graced the last hook on the wall near the door, and four boxes marked “business files” sat gathering dust in a corner. She’d looked through them once, right after he’d died from his heart attack, to try and make sense of the mess that Joe had left her. He’d kept track of his operation in hand-written ledgers. Luckily Brent Sanders, her only full-time server, had a business degree and was privy to the ins and outs of the books. She paid him what she could to have him move things over electronically.
Then there was Rico Reyes, the cook and Joe’s best friend, who had continued to work his magic in the kitchen as he had since day one, and with both their help, she’d managed to keep the place afloat.
At Rico’s insistence, she’d put the property on the market a month ago. If anyone knew how much a career in marine science meant to her, it was the cook she had known since she was a toddler. The second she got an offer, Mel felt like she was disparaging her uncle’s legacy by giving up on the one thing he’d loved more than fishing.
Who knew what the new owners would eventually do. Perhaps a gut job to make it a fancy restaurant, or maybe they’d go the route of so many other businesses on the block and do a complete overhaul—tearing it down and building something completely different, forcing Rico and Brent out of jobs.
While a lowball offer was on the table, Mel was hoping someone might come along with a better one. Brent would quickly find another gig with his Master’s degree and make big bucks at some firm. She was more concerned about Rico. He insisted that he was ready to retire but deserved a piece of the sale for his loyalty, dedication, and friendship with Joe.
The welcome distraction of her cell phone ringing shut off her concerns for a moment.
The name Ryan Ashworth of Miller & Ashworth Realty appeared on her screen. He’d been brokering the sale on her behalf, and since she hadn’t heard from him in a few weeks, she’d figured no news was good news.
“Mr. Ashworth, how are you?” Mel answered.
“Melodie, please call me Ryan. You know I’m not that much older than you.” He laughed a little, then cleared his throat. “Listen, I’m going to get to the point. I have some bad news.”
Mel closed her eyes and nodded. “The buyer backed out,” she said, because what else could it possibly be?
“Unfortunately, we waited too long to accept, and they changed their mind.”
She sighed and sat back in her chair as he continued.
“I know we’ve talked about how the place is in a desirable location, but since it needs so much work and they won’t see a profitable return for some time, they’ve decided to rescind the offer. You could work on giving it curb appeal, as we mentioned. You know, it’s the first impression that can hook a buyer. It shows you’re serious about wanting to sell.”
Was she serious about it? She sometimes wondered. The thought always seemed to make her stomach turn, and she couldn’t help but feel she’d self-sabotaged the sale by dragging her feet on accepting the offer quickly enough.
Ashworth continued, “have you given any thought to the upgrades we had discussed?”
She had, and she couldn’t afford them, but she didn’t know how to tell him that. The savings account Joe had left her was dwindling. Most of it had replaced the freezer when it broke down and fixed the fryer when it had crapped out. She wanted to avoid taking any more money out when it might not guarantee a lucrative sale.
“We’ve been so busy lately, but I’ll look into it.” It was an excuse. The bar was never busy.
“Melodie, the place is old, and no one will buy it as-is. Potential buyers, ones who want to purchase your type of establishment, want a sure thing. You already have some state-of-the-art appliances, which is a plus, but the place needs work. Let me send you a list of easy fixes to get started on.”
She nodded as if he could see her. “Okay, thanks. And if you have cheap labor connections, send that along too.”
“Will do. And I’ll call you next week to set up an appointment for an inspector. We want to make sure there isn’t anything else lurking.”
Dammit, she thought as she ended the call with him and dropped her head into her hands.
If she didn’t feel so damn sentimental about the place, it might be easier to let it go. But there was too much history here for her to be indifferent about it. She’d spent summers here when Aunt Rose was still alive, had moved into one of the upstairs apartments when she started at UNC studying marine sciences, and waited tables to make extra money. She saw how much Joe loved the people who came every day for a drink and a laugh, so she’d taken on the burden of running it because not doing so would’ve put Rico and Brent on the streets and solidified that Joe was gone.
Her gaze went to the photo on the wall of her with Joe on one side and her parents on the other. If Martin and Madeline Scott only knew how much stress she was under. They were back in Chicago, struggling to run their small grocery store on the Northside. She couldn’t ask them for help, not when they were working just as hard to save for retirement.
There was a knock on the office door, and Brent Sanders stuck his head in the doorway to the office. Freckles sprinkled his cherub-like face, and an extraordinary amount of product tamed his shock-red curly locks. “Hey boss, I know you’re probably really busy, but—”
Mel looked at her watch. Shit, it’s already noon?
Most days, the place was so empty she’d stay camped out at the desk right through to the evening shift. They must’ve gotten a few extra customers; otherwise, Brent wouldn’t ask for help.
No sense dwelling over Ashworth’s call, but she’d probably just lost her only chance to get out of there. She shut her laptop and pushed away from the desk.
As she walked out into the main room, the sound of Justin Bieber on the jukebox made her nose wrinkle. She had meant to have Brent show her how to reprogram the music but kept forgetting. She stepped behind the long mahogany bar and pushed a button on a panel against the wall. A small round of applause broke out.
“You’re welcome,” she shouted as the guitar riffs of a Lenny Kravitz song played.
Her gaze floated over to a table where her new tenant sat with a beer watching the local news on the big screen attached to the wall. They hadn’t spoken since he’d moved into the apartment directly across from hers a week ago, but he’d paid a month’s worth of rent in advance, and according to Brent, he was also paying for his meals. He hadn’t played the piano since his first day there, but she wasn’t going to push. She was just grateful to have another stream of money coming in.
Mel filled a few drink orders at the bar before she caught sight of the “specials” menu that one of her regulars, Billy Sullivan, was reading.
The thing was, the Rolling Start tavern didn’t have a “specials” menu.
The older man, who was about as ancient as the Rolling Start’s beer taps, sat at his designated stool at the end of the bar in the worn-out flannel shirt.
“Billy, what’s that you got there?” she asked, putting a beer in front of him.
“Don’t you know what’s happening in your bar, little one?” It was endearing that he still used the nickname even though she was a twenty-five-year-old woman. He fanned the paper at her.
She snatched it out of his hand, ignoring the shock on his tanned, weathered face. It had several items she’d never seen before using ingredients she was sure had to be special ordered, which meant they were more expensive.
Brent approached the bar with a tray of dirty glasses.
“What’s this?” She held up the paper to show him.
Brent’s expression turned sheepish. “Looks like specials?” He shrugged, setting down the tray, and walked away before she could interrogate him.
“I think that grilled cheese looks good,” Billy said. “What’s on it again?”
Not exactly knowing what he was talking about, Mel reviewed the list again. The Checkered Cheese was a subtle reference to a race flag. “Brie.”
“Jeez, Melodie, when did y’all start carrying such fancy foods?” Billy raised his brows and picked up his beer.
Good question.
She folded the sheet in half and headed through the swinging door into the kitchen. The heat from the grill warmed her skin as the mouth-watering smell of spices assaulted her senses and made her stomach growl.
Rico was in his usual spot in the center of the room, dressed in his standard black pants, white shirt, and red apron. For a man in his late sixties, he still had the vigor of a twenty-year-old. His back to the door, he was multitasking between the grill and dunking fries in hot oil.
Without turning around, he spoke. “What you need, Chicka?”
Damn those eyes in the back of your head.
This was why she was never able to sneak food from him. Somehow he was always watching.
“What’s with the new menu?”
“Just getting creative.” Rico shrugged and threw thick slices of bread on the grill. “We’ve been doing it for a few days. It seems to be a hit.”
A few days? Had she been that distracted?
She unfolded the paper in her hand and reread it.
“I can’t see Jeanie and her knitting club ordering blackberry-barbeque wings. Are you sure we’re not overextending for the sake of creativity?”
Mel hated questioning Rico and didn’t even feel she had the right given his thirty-five-year tenure, but they needed to be saving, not spending.
Rico put his tools down and turned to face her. Sympathy washed over his face. “Querida, I’m only trying this out. Ordering the bare minimum and keeping an eye on what’s not moving.”
He leaned in a little closer and stared.
“What’s wrong?” Rico could always read her like a book.
“I just found out the buyer fell through.”
He shrugged. “Wasn’t meant to be. Someone else will come along.”
She wished she had his confidence. “I thought they liked the Start’s old-time charm.”
“I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think ‘charm’ was the word anyone uses to describe this place.”
“Ashworth said we should start considering doing some upgrades, but there’s no guarantee we’ll make that money back.”
He took her hand in his. “Joe was the same way. Always worrying about the unknown, even when things were going well.”
“Maybe I’ll take it off the market. I can wait another year—”
“Melodie, you cannot feel obligated to carry on your uncle’s dream. This place was his, not yours. You need to follow what’s in your heart, and I know it’s not being stuck here for the next thirty years.” His dark eyes glimmered. “Plus, these new menu items will make us some money.”
Mel couldn’t help but smile. “Okay. I’ll let you get back to it. By the way, Billy Sullivan ordered the Checkered Cheese. Promise me you’ll make it the best damn sandwich all day so he can tell his friends. He has friends, right? I keep forgetting.”
Rico chuckled, and she turned to go.
“By the way,” Rico called over his shoulder. “Jeanie and her friends ordered two rounds of those wings last night and took extra orders home to their husbands.”
Mel shook her head and stepped through the door into the bar.
It was as if all hell had broken loose.
The noise level practically drowned out the music. Springsteen, this time.
And her long-haired tenant stood behind the bar. He had tied his hair back and rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue chambray shirt, and he was dispensing draft beer into pint glasses.
Brent shouted from the other side of the bar, “Two more Stellas, Josh. Thanks.”
“Can I help you?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.
He kept his gaze on the tap as he filled another glass. “Looks like I’m helping you, Sweetness. Can you take those over to your boy?” He nodded toward two tall glasses filled with dark beer.
She hesitated, but Brent tapped on the bar to get her attention. He jutted his chin toward the main floor, and she saw that the place had doubled in customers in just those few moments she’d been in the kitchen talking to Rico. More than she’d seen in months.
“Yo, Sweetness, can you take those, please?” Josh asked as he pulled another glass from under the bar. “We’re a little backed up here.”
Mel saw the multiple tickets lined up next to the tap and picked up the beers. She approached Brent, and he shrugged.
“I improvised,” he said. “He said he didn’t mind tending bar.”
The order-up bell rang, and Mel turned to retrieve the plates from the warming shelf. She laughed at the impression of a checkered flag on the sourdough bread as she placed the plate in front of Billy. She wanted to watch him take his first bite, but the bell rang again.
The food and drink assembly line lasted about two and a half hours. Josh ran the bar while Brent took orders and cleared plates. Mel delivered food and made small talk with the customers until the last of the lunch crowd filtered out.
She returned to the bar, where Josh had taken a seat on the customer side.
Mel unlocked a cabinet under the register and pulled out a bottle of Macallan scotch whiskey. She called out over the warming shelf for Rico, selected four rocks glasses from under the bar, and brought everything to where Josh sat.
Brent hopped onto the stool next to Josh and slapped his shoulder. “Oh man, the boss is breaking out the good stuff.”
Rico joined them and nodded in acknowledgment toward Josh.
Once each glass had an inch of whiskey in it, Mel passed them out.
“I honestly don’t know what happened here this afternoon. I can’t say we’ve ever had a crowd like that, not even on race day. Thank you, guys, for making it happen.” She lifted her glass, and the three men followed in unison. After they clinked glasses, Mel took a sip and felt the sweet burn of the whiskey. “And Rico, good call on the new menu items.”
“She’s admitting she was wrong,” Brent mumbled at Josh, who chuckled in response.
Rico downed the contents of his glass. “I gotta clean up. Round two is in a few hours.” He kissed Mel’s cheek and went back to the kitchen.
Brent set his empty glass on the bar. “Hey, boss, I’m going to run home and shower. I’m pretty sure I’m covered in food and beer and smell like a yak. If it’s okay, I might see if my roommate wants to come back and work strictly for tips tonight. In case it’s busy again.”
“Thanks, Brent. That sounds good. See you in a few hours.” Mel fist-bumped him as he hopped off the stool and headed to the front door.
She set her sights on Josh. “And then there’s you.”
“Yes?” Josh set his drink down, crossed his arms over the bar, and looked up at her.
For the first time, she noticed the ocean-blue color of his eyes. His stare was so intense that she had to look down at her glass.
“Thank you for jumping in.” Her gaze returned to him. “I’m pretty sure everything is on the house for the remainder of the day.”
“I appreciate that.” A sly smile formed behind the long whiskers of his beard.
Damn, he’s good-looking under all that hair.
“I’m game to do it again if you need me.” He stretched and sat back on the high-back stool.
“Really?” She chuckled. “I had mentioned playing a few tunes on the piano if you were up for it, but I don’t expect you to bus tables.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I have no intention of bussing tables.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that Mel thought he was being snarky as if it were beneath him.
“Well, I’m sure you have better things to do anyway.” Mel finished off her whiskey and set the glass in the sink.
“I don’t think I can balance dishes like your boy, Brent. You’d end up in the red by the day’s end with all the plates I’d break.” The corner of his mouth turned up again. “Anyway, I liked chatting up the customers at the bar. Even if you have the help you need tonight, I’d be happy to do it. It’s been a while since I’ve felt that useful, Sweetness.”
Josh finished his drink, pushed the empty glass in her direction, and winked at her. He turned on the stool, and she watched him walk toward the front door, holding it open for the last few people who were also leaving, and strolled behind them.
He was an odd one, that was for sure.
And while she was looking forward to having him around for round two that evening, she needed to focus on how she’d be able to make the bar look desirable enough to sell.
Chapter Three
Casey Trimble had a few non-negotiable demands—that he always flies first class, that his assistant, Trevor, travels with him, and that his bitches are gone by sun-up.
Lately, those demands have been ignored.
It started with his slip out of the top ten in NASCAR championship points.
With a few bad decisions on the track and an accident that had kept him from finishing the race in Bristol, his financial support and popularity were waning. His ego had taken a hit, but he knew all that mattered was the money.
NASCAR's relatively new economic model jeopardized the sustainability of even the best teams. Expenses were at an all-time high, so the payout was getting smaller by the year. Team owners scrutinized the value of their drivers, and Casey's performance was a detriment to the success of future earnings for everyone on the team.
Having his father as his team manager didn't help.
Jack Trimble had always believed the key to getting his son to work harder was to take his toys away. As a kid, Casey had lost his privileges to video games and access to his friends when he'd messed up. Recently, Jack scolded him for driving like shit. He wouldn't be enjoying all the perks he'd grown accustomed to — especially Trevor, who wasn't a necessity and, therefore, wouldn't be joining him in Charlotte for the next race.
At least a car was waiting to pick him up at the airport. Not a stretch limo, but the black sedan would suffice.
Casey sat in the back of the Lincoln and clenched his fists. His plaid dress shirt looked like it had been balled up in the bottom of his bag, and his jeans had seen better days. He eyed the limited edition bottle of bourbon he'd wedged into the back pocket of the leather passenger seat. He'd picked it up in Tennessee, knowing it would probably piss off dear old dad when he saw the credit card bill.
Six hundred for a bottle of booze, son? Was that a wise choice?
He considered opening the bottle to inhale the richly-aged liquid.
Yeah, Dad. Because it's all I've got right now.
His performance on the track had also crept into his social life, causing some significant let-downs in the bedroom with his usual gang of late-night partners. He'd cycled through women regularly, sometimes twice a night. But lately, it felt as if they might all be talking to one another, and word had gotten out that he was dysfunctional in more places than behind the wheel.
You gotta figure this out, Casey, his dad had said at dinner the night before — in front of the entire team, no less.
Thanks, Dad, but right now, all I want to do is get rip-roaring drunk, he'd thought to himself.
He'd kept his mouth shut like he always did, mostly out of fear. He may be almost thirty, but that wouldn't stop a slap across his face from Jack like he was a child.
As the limo pulled onto I-77N, Casey sat back in a huff and pulled out his cell phone to punch in his cousin's number.
"Well, hot damn, if it isn't Cousin Casey." The southern twang of Jenny's voice penetrated his grim expression.
"How's my favorite cousin?"
"Not bad. I'm finishing up a few things before I take the girls out for a couple of drinks."
"Ah, to be young and carefree," Casey joked.
"We're the same age, Cuz. Don't give me that older, wiser shit just because your birthday came a few months before mine."
"Hey, if it weren't for me, you would've had to wait those few months to have your first drink." Casey eyed the bottle before him, thoroughly planning on draining its contents over the two few days. "Do you mind if your older, wiser cousin tags along?"
"You're home? Oh my god, that would be great. Do you have time to meet up?"
"I have all the time in the world right now. It might take me a bit; I just got in the car to go home. But all I need to do is freshen up." After sitting in fucking coach, he wanted to say.
"It'll be so great to see you. But uh, hey, Cuz, we're planning on meeting at the Start. Is that okay with you?"
As his cousin called it, the Start was the Rolling Start tavern. He knew it well and why Jenny asked if it was okay if they met there.
Melodie.
"Yeah, sure. You and Mel are still good friends, huh?" he asked.
"Me and Mel? Yeah, we're still friendly." Jenny laughed a little. "It's been a while since we've seen each other but work has been brutally busy. She doesn't hold it against me that you and I are related."
"Maybe she'll be happy to see me," he mused.
"Or she might throw your ass out on the street."
"We'll see. I can still enchant the best of them."
As he hung up, Casey felt his phone buzz. His father's name appeared as a preview notification, and Casey swiped it away, ignoring the text. He'd had enough of Jack's verbal assaults the last few days; he certainly wasn't going to read whatever demoralizing message his father had sent.
Casey was still pissed about his accommodations in Daytona. Usually, he'd have a suite, but somehow an error had been made with the reservation, and he'd gotten stuck in a standard king. He was marginally sure Jack was behind it. It was his father's way of mentally mind-fucking the weak link on the team. Casey had seen it happen with two other drivers on the team. Little by little, Jack found ways to demean them, belittle them, until they either quit or—
Casey wiped a hand over his face.
The vision of fellow teammate Rex Tillman hanging by his belt in the locker room shower was fresh, though it had been more than six months ago.
There was no way it was autoerotic asphyxiation like the papers had speculated. That rumor was thanks to strategic comments made by management. Tillman had hung himself—period. It was pure defeat in every aspect of the word. And it was all because Jack had brow-beaten him and treated him like he was nothing because he wasn't racing well enough.
Casey wasn't Tillman. Some men couldn't take the heat. They were all pussies. And he wasn't going to let his father shame him into quitting.
He'd show him. He'd get his mojo back and show them all.
With a few days to kill before the race, going toe to toe again with that little hellcat from the bar might give him some renewed confidence. He might be the last person Melodie Scott wanted to see, but he had a little surprise for her—something he could leverage to make her return to him.
Maybe she'd even jump back into bed with him that night.
Or maybe she'd bust a beer bottle over his head.
He'd be down for a bit of foreplay like that.