Page 70 of Devil to Pay: Cutter

“Fair enough.” He wipes down the counter with a damp rag. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Hard cider?”

“Why you end everythin’ in a question?” He has the nerve to smirk at me. Oh, yeah, he can read my thoughts.Get out of my head, hot bartender guy.

My cheeks begin to heat. Of course, they do.

“Nervous habit?” I do it again. Damnit.

He snickers, spinning around to open a cooler where he pulls a bottle of cider from the middle shelf. Then he spins back my way, twisting off the cap, sliding it over to me in one smooth motion.

“You got a name?” he asks, filling a couple of glasses with bourbon on the rocks for an elderly man who walks up next to me. The man never even has to order. The bartender just knows. And judging by the shakes in the old man’s hands when he reaches out for the glasses, I assume both are for him.

“Elise.” I give the air a little punch for not asking it. “You?”

“Mark.”

“Mark, huh?” I consider him, Mark with the dark eyes and beautiful smile. No matter how hard I try to place him, I’m sure I don’t know any Marks.

“Yep,” he cuts into my thoughts. “My mother named me after her dog.”

“Shedid?”

He nods. “He had a hair lip.Mark, mark, mark.”

“Ooo—” I tease, taking a step back from the bar with my drink in hand. “You were doing so well.”

“I was?”

“You were. Emphasis onwere.”

He folds his arms on the bar in front of him and leans in. “What if I said the drink’s on me?”

“Might get you back closer.”

“Might?” Mark stands up straighter again. “Wow. Tough crowd.”

And I realize within this exchange that I’ve not only stepped back up to the bar but slid myself onto a barstool in front of where the bottle of cider had initially come to rest. Lifting it to my lips, I salute him first before taking a long pull. It’s a good distraction.

With this guy, I need a distraction. His voice sounds exactly like the bourbon he poured into those shot glasses, dark and smooth with notes of smoke-aged sensuality, even while telling me ridiculous jokes. I could fall in love with that voice alone. Good thing his face and hair and body contribute to the smorgasbord of the senses.

So, of course, right when I work up the courage to ask what time he gets off work, the door swings wide open, cracking against the back wall, straining the limits of the hinges. A woman steps inside. A horrible woman these eyes haven’t looked on in years. And just like that, all the good humor sweeps out of the room as the door swings back closed behind her.

Not near ready enough to deal with the attitude she’ll sling at me for coming back to town again or still breathing, I slink low on the stool, using my hair to hide my face.

The bartender sees this. He cocks his head, taking me in. I’m sure he’s reading my mind again. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to pick up on my fear and loathing.

Then he moves from behind the bar, approaching her, pulling her aside, speaking in a voice low enough for only the two of them to hear.

Well, that’s my cue to leave. I suck down the rest of my drink, slap a couple of dollars tip on the counter, and scurry out of the bar while he keeps her distracted enough to do so. Too bad. He seemed nice.

Nice?I have to laugh at my stupidity. Nice serves no point in my current reality. I’m here for one purpose, and one purpose only. Once that’s done, I never plan to step foot in this god-forsaken state again. And the entire town of Thornbriar has let me know how much they appreciate my plan, in no uncertain terms.

I can’t remember why I even ventured into that bar, to begin with, except some really great times were had inside those walls. Those, or most of those, I actually remember. There are too many memories in this town in general. Most of them are good. It’s the few bad that make everyone hate me. Just becauseI’veblocked them out doesn’t meantheyhave.

The rumble of pipes thunders in the background, and I look up to see a motorcade of bikes traveling the road which runs along the parking lot, heading toward town. How many motorcades have I seen over the years? Once the warm weather hits in spring until the first frosts of winter fall, bikers use this route traveling from up north down to all parts south.

As my eyes follow the band of bikers, they land on one sitting alone kitty-corner from my car staring hard at me. His black, leather boots and faded denim-clad legs straddle a massive black and chrome machine. Dark shades and a black bandana with the bottom half of a skull printed on it, tied around his face from the nose down, conceal his features. But I don’t have to see his stare to feel it.

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