Page 8 of Small Town Beast

“Who’s with her, Sparks?” Saverin asked the bartender.

“Fella in the red bandana,” came the high-pitched answer.

“Don’t talk like I’m not sittin’ right here,” the girl said, but he ignored her.

Saverin discovered the gentleman in question — none other than Poncey Jones. There was a story about Poncey and his wife. Not a good story.

The man locked eyes with Saverin. His mouth opened in protest as he saw what was happening. But did he want smoke over it? Not with Saverin Bailey. He turned away, grumbling.

Saverin turned his attention back on the girl he now had all to himself. “How about a drink, darlin’?”

The girl moved to grab her purse but Saverin was faster, wrapping his hand around the strap.

“You’re here by yourself, chocolate?”

“Don’t call me chocolate!”

He released her bag, and in the next moment her gaze fell on his watch. Sometimes people missed it. The Patek Phillipe had been in his family for thirty years and at first glance it looked its age and nothing more.

“Is Bailey…yourlastname?” She asked in a very different tone of voice. She set her glass back down on the counter,clack!She had slim, delicate fingers. Natural beauty. Delicate, feminine…but strong.

Saverin turned to Sparks. “You ever heard of a lime daiquiri?”

The little squirt curled up his nose in offense. “We only serve drinks in English, sir.”

“You got the stuff to make it right behind you.”

“It’s got lime in it?” The boy said hesitantly.

Saverin walked the boy through it, and at the end a pale green icy drink crossed the bar, darker mint leaves suspended in sweet juicy slush. She wiped the rim with the tip of her ringfinger before taking a sip herself. The delicate feminine gesture set his heart racing queerly.

“It’s nice,” she said, sipping. “Okay…That’srealgood.”

“Not too much rum, is it?”

“No…”

The Turnkey doors opened. Saverin looked out the corner of his eye, but it was just a biker and his girl.Calm down.

His blood still pumped hot for a real fight. Part of him hoped a Snatch Hill would come in and he could have a fight. But another part of him wanted to go upstairs and fuck this girl until he couldn’t stand.

The last girl he had was his ex, Hildy. A blue-eyed blonde who loved horses and baking and Jesus but absolutely hated sex.

Hildy made such a display of herself at Sam’s funeral that what Saverin had long suspected became obvious to everyone who witnessed. And if it wasn’t obvious then, it was certainly clear when in the middle of the wake she bawled at Saverin, face flushed from the wine she had been quaffing,“It was supposed to be you…”

The rumor mill went crazy over that. Some darkly speculated he’d even killed off Sam out of jealousy.

But that was in the past…

“You good?” The girl asked, putting a hand on his arm.

Oh, christ.

“Sorry,” he said.

Yeah. He was feeling something—a hot and sizzling little spark he wanted to chase into a dark corner upstairs.

“It ain’t polite, what I’m thinking.”

---