Page 6 of Wild Hearts

The women’s warnings have me braced for the overwhelming stench of alcohol and sweaty bodies packed into a dilapidated barroom, but the inside of The Ole Aces is anything but trashy or disgusting.

Couples two-step around a crowded dance floor while high tops and booths house groups of friends laughing and drinking. Country music blares from a sound system, causing me to wince at the noise—my eardrums will be cursing me by the end of the night—but other than the loud music, this seems like a fun place to hang out.

Wrought iron light fixtures add a modern feel to the rustic appeal, and it could be mistaken for a popular bar in any metropolis around the country.

“Here’s a good spot!” Lindsey snags the last empty table along a wall in the back while my mind struggles to connect this Ole Aces with the one they described. We take our seats, though I’m far from relaxing, sitting ramrod straight in the high back chair.

Now is the time for small talk, and my flustered nerves are already shot. Especially since I’m not sure what I have in common with Kayla, Lindsey, and Brittany.

I’m not a mom, so the PTA is out.

And I’m not one of the country club set who sticks their noses up at a bar like The Ole Aces.

Suddenly, the welcoming embrace I received from them is reminiscent of a snake’s chokehold.

Maybe I should have turned down Kayla’s invitation, in favor of getting to know her casually at work first. Because now if things don’t work out, my new job could become a very uncomfortable place. Kayla doesn’t work at Casey & Sons, but she stops by frequently to see Brandon, which is how our paths crossed in the first place.

Either way, you were probably screwed. Kind of rude to turn down an invite from the boss’s wife.

“The fun part is pretending you’re watching a reality TV show. I bet we see two brawls and someone giving an MC member a handy on the dance floor. Tonight is the weekly line dancing event, so it’s bound to get rowdy with people coming from High Ridge, too.” Kayla sniffs in disdain.

The allure of coming here to diss the bar’s patrons is lost on me. If this is how they choose to spend their Friday night, what’s the big deal?

A man slips his hand up a woman’s shirt at the edge of the dance floor, and snarky remarks erupt between Kayla, Lindsey, and Brittany.

“Alright, time to spice up our viewing party, we need alcohol! Since you’re the new girl, round one is on you!” Lindsey points to me with glee.

Great.

As silly as it sounds, this is only my third time in a bar, and I’ve never been in one like this. My friends and I are coffee shop/book club people. The few bars we went to would be considered sedate compared to this place.

Grabbing my wristlet wallet, I make my way to the bar counter where two women and a guy are busy doling out a parade of drinks. I search for an opening but keep getting jostled back as others push to the front.

Suck it up, Grace. You’re getting nowhere.

Gathering my courage, I shove my way forward as politely as possible until I catch the attention of one of the women. “Six shots of tequila, please.”

Nice and simple. Who doesn’t like tequila?

“Aren’t you sweet? Hey, Jules, did you hear that? She said please!”

Jules laughs from her position filling pitchers of beer. I can’t tell if she’s genuinely thankful or sarcastic. Guess politeness doesn’t get you very far here.

Being run over like an invisible mouse by other patrons should’ve been your first clue.

“Here you go, hun.”

I pay and, with a nod of gratitude, attempt to beeline back to our table while balancing a tray full of shot glasses, but the small space I’d carved out on my way to the bar has been swallowed up again by a barrage of men. Somehow, I don’t think they’d appreciate a please either.

Come on, you can do it. Stop being a mouse and move!

Head down, I weave a path through the crowd until a hand squeezes my butt. One jerk of surprise later, glass shatters as the fumbled shots hit the floor, and alcohol soaks my chest and stomach.

“Don’t.” A harsh voice growls behind me.

Is that…?

I spin around to confirm my suspicion. Wes has a hand around my perpetrator’s arm, his eyes intense with a death glare.

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