Page 2 of Bartender Daddy's Girl
I look him dead in the eye, seeing her move in my periphery. Taking one step after another toward me.
“Didn’t hear a thing you said.”
“You’re fucking with me, right?” Larry raises his voice. She jumps, lifts her hands to her chest. Clutches onto an invisible nothing for any form of support. Probably walked in here because she saw the police cars. Needs an urgent word with the men in charge.
Instead, she sits. Far away from the cops. From Frasier. From me.
Smart girl. She chose her place carefully. Wants easy access to the exit if something happens.
“Better watch your tone, sheriff.”
Not like me. Regrettable. But seeing this precious little thing frightened, then made worse by Larry Kimble, upset me. Don’t know why, won’t bother trying to figure it out, but it did.
“I took a blow to the head. Things are a bit fuzzy. Wouldn’t want to think Sugarcreek’s finest are trying to shake me down.”
Emmette shuffles, clears his throat, “Is that all, sheriff?” once again tapping his clipboard, realizing they’re not getting anything more out of me.
“For now,” Larry says, still looking at me. The shit-eating grin back on his face.
They leave, walking side by side, whispering to each other.
“You sure get in a lot of trouble with the law for a man called Judge, y’know that?” Frasier’s scanning his newspaper and nursing a cup of coffee that’s been in front of him since we opened at nine.
It’s twelve now. Lunchtime rush will be kicking off any second, and I’ve still got the mess to clean.
“Didn’t see you jumping to help,” I speak to him, but my eyes are on her. “An old boxer like you? Would’ve made quick work of those rats.”
He wheezes a laugh. I smile.
My oldest, and if I’m honest, my only friend in this world. Followed me from one shit show to the next for as long as I can remember. And now he followed me here.
More than a guy like me can ask for. More than I deserve.
“Answered your own thought there, son. I’m old as dirt.”
I look over at the old timer, and he looks at me. The gleeful expression fades off his face as our eyes meet. I make a subtle gesture with mine in the newcomer’s direction, accompanied by a flick of my eyebrows to saykeep an eye on her. He nods, understands. Always understands.
These silent conversations are just one of the perks of spending a lifetime together.
Then it’s her turn. Soft, timid, scared. Eyes pinned front and center. Dry, nervous swallows choking in the back of her mouth. Arms wrapped around her body for comfort, only a man like me can provide.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I pretend not to see the signs.
“Water.” Her voice is soft. She still doesn’t look at me. “Please.”
I get her water.
“Food?” I grab a glass, fill it with crushed ice and lemon, and set it next to the bottle.
“No.” She shakes her head. It’s almost imperceptible with the rest of her body rattling. “Thank you.”
Janet and Laura, my wait staff, step out from the kitchen. One’s carrying a mop, the other a bucket and broom. They pass me on their way to the mess, and as they do, Laura whispers a thank you from behind. I nod, hoping she noticed, but don’t respond.
My focus is on the beautiful, broken woman in front of me.
And then it happens.
Her head lazily shifts to me, and I get my first glimpse of her face, full-on and direct.
