Page 22 of Rope Me In

I scrunch up my nose. “I agree.”

Both men eye me like they’re surprised I spoke. Have I really beenthatawkward since I’ve met them?

Yes, yes, I have.

“My Pops taught me that, and it’s what he calls it,” Jake says fondly. “Just passing it on to future generations.”

I snort. “I’m pretty sure I’m older than you.”

A boyish grin forms on his features, and I know I’m right. Jake strokes his fingers over his clean-shaven jaw. “Don’t let this pretty face fool you. I have good genes. Kade’s the twenty-two-year-old baby, but I’m actually eighty.”

The reaffirmation of Kade’s age makes me wonder how long he’s worked here—and if he’s been coming here for longer than it was legal.

Kade chuckles. “Don’t pay Jakey boy here any mind; he thinks he’s a comedian.” He goes to say something else, but a customer asks for service and stops him. He winks at the both of us then walks away.

“You doing good, Presley?” Jake asks.

“Yeah, great.”

“Good, you think you can handle working the floor tonight? Since it won’t be as busy as yesterday, I’ll have you go around and take orders at the tables. Then Kade can fix the drinks for you, and you can grab any bottled beer or seltzers. I’ll have Stu work the bar top.”

I nod. “No problem.”

He smiles, his dark eyes glinting. “Alright, then. Did Kade tell you about the band? They’ll play for a couple of hours and get drinks on the house.”

I force a smile, attempting to do a better job this time of keeping any emotion from my face. While I know the band isn’t Derek, it could still be someone I know, especially if they have a fiddle player. I’d rather not have my prior life mixed in with the one I’m trying to build here, at least until I can figure out what I want to do with my music career.

“Yeah, he did.”

“Just two buddies of mine. They play here often. You like live music?”

It’s harder to keep my face neutral at that question, but I manage to nod. “Who doesn’t?”

Jake chuckles and nods like he agrees. “Well, specifically, this is bluegrass.”

My smile is tight. Little does he know, that’s the majority of what I play. “Yeah, I enjoy it.”

“Good, you’ll hear a lot of it here. Well, I’ve got some paperwork to finish up. I’ll be back out in a bit, but again, come grab me if you need anything.”

“Will do. Thanks, Jake.” He tips his cowboy hat and walks off, leaving me to my own devices. I pat the pockets of my apron, double-checking I have a pad of paper and pen in case I need to write something down.

When I gaze out at the floor, many of the tables are filled, and I notice people are looking at me with curious expressions. Once again, I wish I could erase my tattoos and change my hair, but I can’t. Maybe I should’ve asked Jake if I could work the bar instead. Last night felt easier because I was able to get into a rhythm of serving that didn’t involve a lot of talking.

A Pandora’s box of energy threatens to unleash its contained anxieties inside my stomach, but I force myself to exhale. Since I can’t go on a break and take a few drags of my calming inhaler, I start to prattle off a list of things in my head, a trick I learnedfrom a friend to help pull myself out of an oncoming anxiety attack. It also helps me fall asleep at night when I can’t shut my brain off.Chicken, Alaska, fence post, computer,water, bird,coffee. Each word is carefully selected to be unrelated to the previous one.

I sigh my relief when it starts to work, my shoulders relaxing and the insides of my stomach uncoiling. I don’t know why I didn’t think to do this earlier, because I’m already feeling better, maybe even better than if I’d taken a drag of my inhaler. After a few more strings of words and another couple of breaths, I plaster a smile on my face and walk up to a table with two women. I hear the tail end of their conversation as I approach.

“I think the anniversary of Emmett’s death really screwed him up, especially with only having just gotten better from the accident. That’s why he’s gone back to drinking and sleeping around,” one of the women says to the other.

“Can I get you ladies anything?” I ask, interrupting their gossip.

The woman who was talking turns her gray eyes on me and scans me up and down. The disapproval I feel from her stare is brutal.Frog, sky, air fryer, trolls…

“Who are you?” she bites out, her steely gaze slithering over my tattoos then my face.

“Cricket! That’s not very nice,” the other woman scolds.

I blink at the woman called Cricket and think it’s appropriate she’s named after a bug. I may not know her, but I would never talk to someone like that.

---