Page 37 of Jacob

Reaching for a bottle of tequila with one hand, she got two shot glasses with the other. “Kimber!” she shouted as she poured. “Do one with me, quick.”

Replacing the bottle on the speed rail, she eyed her friend with a smirk. Her co-worker hesitated.

“Just one,” Sparrow pressed as she got limes for each of them and then offered her the small glass with the brown liquid in it. “It’s just one.” She winked.

One. It always starts with one, but Sparrow needed to start drinking to deal with the night. She didn’t come here to work. She came here to let loose and forget for just a little bit. She just had to help because she wasn’t a complete bitch.

It wouldn’t take much in the way of convincing—never did. True to form, Kimber trotted over and the two women clinked glasses and threw back the drinks. The limes went next. Sparrow recoiled as the flavor roiled through her body. The pair hooted in celebration, and the group around the bar joined them before they got back to work pouring drinks and collecting cash.

It was almost enough for Sparrow to forget why she went there. Especially when someone who could actually sing tackled Lorde’sRoyalsand a trio of women ordered shots to include the bartenders. It’d be rude to deny them. So the five ladies clinked the tiny glasses and threw them back.

Jägermeister, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice—oh that one was sweet. She shivered as she smacked her lips together. She needed water to wash the flavor out of her mouth. Twirling back to back with Kimber, she couldn’t help but laugh as she aided her friend behind the bar slinging drinks to all the thirsty patrons. Maybe she should take up bartending. This was sort of fun. Plus, the tips were fantastic, way better than waitressing. Maybe she could convince Tut.

She slid the two beers down the bar and took the money from between the fingers of the man she’d just served. As she walked over to the register, she grabbed her second seven and seven of the evening, a nice buzz had settled in between the shots, the good company, and the adrenaline of working on a busy night—even if she wasn’t supposed to be working.

That was until the unmistakable first few chords ofEnter Sandmanby Metallica hit her in her soul. The iconic build up froze her. She held her breath, praying to all that was holy the singer would do James Hetfield justice. He missed his cue. Then sang the rest too fast trying to catch up, and she closed her eyes, shaking her head.

“He doesn’t have your timing.”

Sure that her heart stopped and the world slowed, she turned to see his bright smile surrounded by the dark beard. His soul-piercing eyes pinned her as she held the straw of her drink to her lips, staring at him as though he were a mirage.

“I still think about that day,” he admitted as though he told her some deep dark secret. “You sitting on that picnic table bench, singing, with your lollipops.”

Her lips wouldn’t move. They shouldn’t. It’s a good thing they didn’t. If they had, she’d have told him she did too. The day she’d met Jacob, the day her unexplainable, silly, schoolgirl crush on him started—the crush that persisted to that day—yeah, she thought about it far too much too.

Jacob looked over his shoulder. She followed where she assumed his gaze tracked to the guy on stage doing his best one-man Metallica show. “Pales in comparison to what I heard on the bench at Wetzelland,” he said as he slowly dragged his intense stare back at her.

“Jacob,” she pleaded softly, as though he’d hear her over the loud crowd.

He smirked. “You know.” He leaned over the bar on his elbows. “I ordered a Jameson like a half an hour ago from this waitress. Would you believe she still hasn’t brought it to me? So, I came over here to investigate.” He winked. “Think you could fetch that for me?”

Taking a giant gulp of her drink, she nodded. Somehow, she found the ability to move, and put her drink down, and reached for the low ball glass. The Jameson on the speed rail found her hand and she filled the glass halfway. When she placed it on the napkin, his hand was already reaching.

The rough callouses of his fingers grazed hers. She took half a second to close her eyes and relish the tingling waves shooting from them through her body. Her breath hitched, and she slowly pulled her hand back, meeting his eye.

The corner of his mouth tilted up in a crooked smile. She felt her own mimic the gesture as though it had a mind of its own while her heart and stomach flip-flopped, feeling as though they swapped places. Raising his glass in almost a salute before he took a sip, he turned and the crowd swallowed him.

“Who was that?” Kimber asked from behind, sending Sparrow jumping out of her boots.

“Jesus,” she hissed, holding her hand over her heart. “One of the out-of-town patches.”

“Uh-huh,” her friend hummed skeptically. “You know, bikers don’t buy into that whole zip code area code rule thing, right? Not for us anyway. For them—” She rolled her eyes. “Well, you know.”

Sparrow scoffed. “Please,” she said and pushed away to pour some more orders, anything to escape that conversation. She lifted her drink and took another few gulps, finding she had chugged that drink far too quickly. Maybe she should slow down.

“No,” she said as she poured the six kamikaze shots. Her gaze shot up to the small stage. “No,” she repeated as the distinct opening guitar chords toNothing Else Mattersstarted.

She couldn’t see the singer, but she knew, deep in her bones, she knew. She handed out the glasses, collected the money, and kept looking.

“Taking fifteen,” Sparrow told Kimber as she handed her the cash and exited from the behind the bar.

She couldn’t stay there for that. She couldn’t hear that song, she couldn’t hear him butcherhersong. As her hand hit the door handle, he hit his cue, right on time.

Haunted, she turned, expecting to see James himself, but no, it was a six-foot-something long, dark-haired biker, with the sides of his head shaved crooning into a microphone. He wore a fadedRide the Lightningt-shirt tucked into dark-wash jeans cuffed over his boots. His pale blue eyes bored into her soul from across the room as he sang—he sang about nothing else mattering—and he sang as though it was just for her.

Her feet were cement.

Chapter 21

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