Page 9 of Sirens
Sure, she was an oasis of sexiness in the desert that was Townsend Harbor’s under-fifty dating pool, but her bartending—if one could call it that—couldn’t be good for business.
Maybe she was kin?
He eyed Chris, the owner, a sparkplug of a thin blonde with a dark tan and darker eyes. If she and Maggie were related, he’d claim Ed Sheeran as a sibling.
Maybe she had a good sob story? Needed a quick job out of desperation?
Frowning, Trent studied her, looking for any victim vibes and not exactly sensing them from her. Didn’t mean anything, per se. He was proud of his investigative instincts, but he wasn’t a damsel-in-distress divining rod or anything.
“Hey, how about a round of flaming rim shots for my friends here?” a customer called out, breaking the tension.
Maggie glanced at Trent, who raised an eyebrow.
“Sure thing,” she said, grabbing shot glasses and filling them with tequila. “Just remember, I’m not responsible for any bad decisions made after these.”
“Fair enough,” the customer agreed, clinking his glass against hers before downing the shot. “Think you could be one of those bad decisions?”
The smile she flashed him was flat as day-old soda. “Trust me, neither of us wants that.”
Trent sucked some air through the gap in his teeth, a habit when chewing on a problem. Something about her just set off his spider-senses.
“Hey, hot stuff, how about a refill?” Bernie Crowder slurred, eyeing Maggie’s cleavage a little too long for Trent’s comfort.
“How about you sip some water instead, Bernie?” She slid him a glass, unfazed. “Gotta stay hydrated. The night is young.”
Trent was impressed with her perceptivity, though Bernie was not deterred.
“The night is young and so are we, sweetheart,” the sixty-year-old crab fisherman brayed, his overalls catching on his rain slicker as he peeled it from his briny layers. “Tell me when you get off your shift and I’ll be waiting to get you off again.”
A few men laughed.
No women did.
Maggie’s face drained of any remaining color, but she squared her shoulders at the man, jutting her jaw forward in a stubborn refusal to show fear.
“Maybe you can answer me a question, Crowder,” Trent chimed in, pulling his cuff links below his suit coat in case he had to unlatch them in order to hand this old white perv his own ass. “Men like you have a tendency I can’t figure out… You walk into a place like this looking like you just quit your shift beneath a bridge terrorizing the local children, and you hit on the prettiest young woman you can find as if your dick were dipped in gold. Is it? Is your dick dipped in gold, Bernie Crowder?”
The scowling seaman ran a hand over what sweat-greased hair he had left before mumbling, “No.”
“Does a world exist where a woman that young and fine goes home with you?” Trent gestured to an open-mouthed Maggie, who startled when the beer she pulled overflowed, drenching her hand.
Bernie’s beard sank below his clavicles as he bowed his head. “No.”
“Then maybe sit the hell down and stop harassing the servers, yeah?”
“Yes, sir.”
The atmosphere was heavy with a pregnant pause as the customers waited for permission to breathe again.
Trent gave it by ordering his third and final drink.
“One for the road?” He tipped his empty glass toward Maggie, who was looking at him with an odd fascination.
“Anything you want.” Something in her heavy-lidded eyes caused everything south of his belly button to melt…then harden. “I just have to light this on fire for these guys first.”
“You have to do what?”
Maggie grabbed a bottle and two shot glasses. As she reached for the matches to flame the shots, her hand knocked over adisplay of cocktail napkins, which tumbled to the bar in a messy pile. Unaware, she struck the match and touched the flame to the rim of the shot glasses, which ignited dramatically.
