Page 15 of Cold as Stone
“You’re the new owner?” she asks, sliding into the booth across from me without waiting for an invitation.
“Guilty as charged.” I close the folder containing the other applications—three college kids who couldn’t tell the difference between a Manhattan and a martini, and one guy who kept staring at my chest instead of making eye contact. I shouldn’thave to be doing this, but the last bartender, Sarah, quit two days ago for greener pastures in Vegas.
“Tell me why you want to work here.”
“Because I need a job, and you need someone who knows the difference between good service and kissing ass.” She leans back, completely at ease. “I’ve been bartending on and off for twelve years. Did five at Murphy’s Pub down in Ailington before they closed,” she says, referring to a neighboring town. “I freelanced at private events for a while and worked up at the country club for a bit. I’m also a quick study, so within a few shifts, I’ll know everyone who walks through that door, what they drink, and which ones tip well.”
I like her already.
“Why’d Murphy’s close?”
“New owner wanted to turn it into some artisanal craft cocktail place. Charged eighteen dollars for an old-fashioned and wondered why locals stopped coming.” She shrugs. “Sometimes people just want a beer and to be left alone, you know?”
Do I ever.
“Why not stay at the country club, I’m sure their pay and conditions are better than I can offer.”
Her face turns stoney. “Let’s just say they had issues with my…style.” She gestures to her tattoos. “Plus, it wasn’t a healthy working environment.”
“What makes you think this place will be different?”
Mercy glances around, taking in the fresh paint on the walls and repaired stools. “Firstly, it’s a biker bar. You’re not gonna giveme too much grief about the way I look. But it’s mostly because you’re not trying to change what works. You’re just making it better. Dressing it up a bit. I respect that.”
Exactly what I was hoping to hear. “You’re hired,” I say, extending my hand across the table. “Can you start tonight?”
“Hell yes.”
After Mercy leaves to grab her gear, I walk through the bar one more time, checking everything. The new chef arrived yesterday and has already transformed the kitchen from a health code violation into something that resembles a functional kitchen. The two regular waitresses are coming in at six, both locals who have worked at Devil’s for years and know the clientele. They don’t bat an eye at bikers or blue-collar workers wanting to blow off steam.
Devil officially handed over the keys three days ago after onboarding me for two weeks. The old codger clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to dislocate it before walking out the door. If he had a small tear in his eye, you better believe I didn’t see it. He’s spending his retirement fishing, he said, though I suspect he’ll be back to check on the place before the month ends.
A workaholic recognizes another.
The first few days of onboarding were chaos. Inventory hadn’t been updated for years, while the books looked like something the CIA might teach in cryptography class. The walk-in freezer held more science experiments than food, and the beer taps seemed to require witchcraft to produce actual beer rather than foam. But underneath all the grime and grease lay good bones. Devil’s bar—though Devil himself had only ever called itThe Bar—had the foundation of a place that could thrive. It just needed someone to give a damn.
So I did.
I started with the basics, deep-cleaning every surface until my fingers were raw. Then I hired a cleaning crew to tackle the bathrooms, because I’d be damned if I was going in there without a hazmat suit, a bull dozer, and a priest on standby. I then reupholstered the booth seating in dark green faux leather—still divey, just less sticky.
A fresh lick of paint turned the walls from grunge into matte charcoal with warm amber sconces to soften the mood. Finally, I sanded and re-stained the bar top, bringing out the old wood grain beneath decades of spilled drinks and cigarette burns.
It’s amazing what you can do with some elbow grease, unlimited cash, a severe lack of respect for sleep, and a dogged determination to drown your grief in hard work.
Mrs. Henderson from the diner brought her book club for happy hour this afternoon and pronounced the place “much improved.” Coming from her, that’s practically a glowing review.
I’m exhausted but satisfied when seven-thirty rolls around and we’re steady but not slammed. The regulars have been filtering in, curious about the changes. They ask questions, seemingly waiting for me to turn the place into a wine bar or host yoga brunches.
But then they sit. They drink. They order a meal. And they tell me they’ll be coming back tomorrow.
Which has to mean I’m doing something right.
As I fight a yawn, I hear it—the rumble of motorcycles in the parking lot. Multiple bikes, from the sound of it—that distinctive growl that seems to vibrate through your chest whether you want it to or not.
I tense, wondering if Lee is among them, and I hate that my pulse quickens at the possibility. Last night when he walked into my bar, I wasn’t prepared for the gut-punch of seeing him again. The boy I’d once harbored an embarrassing crush on has grown into a man who could stop traffic just by breathing. All broad shoulders and controlled danger, he still moves with that same effortless confidence I remember but now it’s wrapped in leather and an attitude that makes my mouth go dry.
Goddamn it, Kya. Pull yourself together.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to want someone so badly it physically hurt. The heat that had pooled low in my belly when he looked at me. But then he’d called me “kid,” and the spell had shattered, reminding me exactly where I stood in his world. I was, am and forever will be Emma’s little friend.
