Page 1 of The Cowboy's Friendly Wake-Up Call

Chapter One

Mercy

"Ineed two more pitchers for the party in the garden."

Holly tosses empties into the tubs behind the bar and leans back, waiting on me to fill the pitchers she needs.

"Same same?" I ask, already positioning a pitcher under the honey, pear cider tap.

The party out back that seems intent on draining the last of the cider keg that's been in our seasonal rotation for fall consists of sixteen women dressed in matching t-shirts that label their relationship to the bride. They came in laughing and have gotten louder with each pitcher I've refilled-- and that's saying something, considering they're outside and I'm behind the bar, manning the taps.

There's twenty feet of space, two doors, and a juke box between me and the bachelorette party, but I can still hear Rebecca Pendergrast's voice every time someone walks in through the back doors.

I never expected her to get married before I did. Which is really fucking with my head tonight, because I've never really given much thought to getting married.

Until Reebie Pendergrast beat me to it, it turns out.

Setting the pitchers on the bar so Holly can grab them herself, I wipe down the polished surface and stare after my co-worker as she hustles back to the outdoor beer garden to do Tapped Out's part to keep the party going.

"Can I get a flight of the sours and--" My attention is drawn back to work by a kid at the other end of the bar. He's asking the group he's sitting with what they want for the other flight-- the seasonal beers.

I ask to see their ID's as the guy lists the six of our nine offerings that they want included in their sampler.

Shit. Twenty-one gets younger every day. I scrutinize the license of one of the girls; I would have sworn she was still in high school, but I don't think it's someone else's ID. I think she really is old enough to drink.

I've been pouring beers at Tapped Out since they opened up a few years back. Except, now that I think about it "a few years" turns out to be almost eight, and I'm not twenty-two anymore.

The bachelorette party stumbles out an hour before closing, drunker and louder than ever. I watch them pile into a long, white limo that's pulled up out front for them. It must have come all the way from Middleton.

Even the O'Leary's don't have a limo in Slow River, and they're likely the richest family here.

Reebie's not pretty, she wasn't popular, and her daddy's not rich-- but it looks like someone pulled out all the stops for her.

That sort of thing has never appealed to me. I'm a blue jeans and boots girl through and through and I'd rather eat nachos with my hands at the rodeo than fret about whether I'm using the right fork-- but I can't help but wonder what it feels like to play princess for a day, as I watch the limo pull away from the curb out front.

"You look wrecked, what's up?" I ask as Lance slides onto the stool at the far corner of the bar where he usually perches when he swings by to see me at work.

"What do you have that's high alcohol and mean?"

My buddy looks tired and agitated as his eyes scan the beer board where all our beers are listed by name and alcohol content.

"Sounds like you should have gone to Virgie's," I set a mug of Mad as Hell IPA on the bar in front of him, without waiting for him to make up his mind. It's got a nasty eleven point two ABV, a bitter hoppy bite that even makes me wince, and it's brewed locally.

Well, up in Moonshine Ridge-- but that's still considered local around here.

Lance takes a long draw from the mug and I don't even bother stifling my laughter when his face scrunches up from the shock of the strong brew.

"I'd rather hang out with you," he says in response to my suggestion that he should have headed for the full bar where he could have ordered shots of tequila.

Tapped Out is a trendy tap house, beer and ciders only-- and a couple bottles of cheap wine in the cooler behind the bar for the people who just refuse to drink anything else-- but no hard alcohol.

"You gonna tell me what happened?" I push for intel as I lean on the bar across from him.

Lance's attention seems focused on the bar between us for a beat, then he leans on one elbow and runs the hand that isn't wrapped around his beer through his dark hair with a heavy sigh.

"Apparently, I need a date for the prom."

Lance

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