AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Sure,” I reply, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “But only for a moment. What can I get for you?”
He waves off the offer of a drink with a dismissive hand and leans closer, lowering his voice as if to share a secret with me, and I have to resist the urge to mirror his movements. “I'm James. Walker's father.”
Surprise flickers through me.
“I can go get him for you,” I say, but he’s quick to shoot that idea down, which isn’t suspicious at all.
“No! No, I want to talk to you.”
I study the guy, wondering what the story is here. The resemblance is there, but while Walker's presence is like a carefully controlled storm, James seems like the aftermath—tattered and bitter.
“Did my son steal this place or did he actually buy it?” James's question has me tilting my head, not sure I’d heard him correctly.
His tone makes me pause; there's an edge to his words that hints at betrayal and anger and maybe even hatred. I slide into my role seamlessly, the bartender who's also part confidante, part therapist. “That's quite an accusation,” I say, maintaining eye contact. “What makes you ask that?”
James's mouth twists into a half-smirk, half-sneer. It's clear he doesn't expect my understanding, maybe not even a response, but I've learned that people often just need someone to listen. And I'm good at listening—especially when I’m seeing an opportunity to learn more about my mysterious - and tight-lipped - boss.
“Let's just say, family business can get messy,” he mutters, as if the admission cost him.
I nod, acknowledging the truth in his words, but knowing there's more to the story than he's willing to tell me. Behind every bitter remark hides a deeper pain, a hidden heartbreak. And as I stand there, watching James cave in on himself, his shoulders drooping, his head lowering, his arms pulling in tight to his body, I can't help but wonder how much of Walker's guarded behaviors were learned from this man.
“It sounds like you have a problem with your son,” I say, planting both hands on the bar and leaning back until my elbows are locked.Then I have a better idea and get busy, the clink of ice against glass punctuating the tension as I pour bourbon for the man claiming to be Walker's father. The amber liquid swirls before settling, not unlike the emotions I sense in him. “This one’s on me,” I add, pushing the drink across the bar toward him.
“Thank you.” He sounds anything but grateful. But he wraps his fingers around the glass with a familiarity born of many nights spent seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle. With one swift tilt, he downs the two fingers of bourbon, the drink hopefully helping that bitterness he's trying to drown. The glass lands back on the counter with a decisive thud, and he stares at it as if it holds all the answers he’s looking for—or perhaps the questions he wishes he didn’t have to ask.
“He stole from me,” James says finally, as if the liquid courage was all he needed to let the words out. “Then tried to blame his stepmother.”
I absorb his words, a frown creasing my forehead as I try to reconcile them with the Walker I've come to know. Something about the accusation doesn't align with the image of the man who has been nothing but meticulous and commanding since he took over this place. Walker, with his intense gaze and brooding presence, doesn't strike me as someone who would shift blame so easily. Besides, I think if he did steal, he’d say it to the man’s face, not hide like a coward. I’ve never known him to back down from a fight.
Since his arrival, Walker's dominance has been a force that fills the space, demanding respect and order. He's made it clear that he expects excellence and unity. I want to ask if he’s sure we’re talking about the same Walker, but I don’t.
James watches me, his eyes searching for a flicker of doubt or judgment, but I offer neither. Instead, I lean back against the shelves lined with bottles andhold James's gaze, waiting for him to fill the silence with more of his story. How deep is the rift between father and son? And did Walker steal from his father? If he did, why blame his stepmom? None of it makes sense, and I’m willing to stand here until it does.
A thought nags at me, though—why would a man who seeks control and responsibility at every turn instead choose theft and finger-pointing? Walker’s actions speak louder than the words of the man before me. My boss is determined to rule this bar - and probably his life - with a steady hand, not run it into the ground in a fit of rage or spite.
“So, you don't trust him?” I can't help the skepticism that seeps into my tone. Reaching out, I take the glass before him and put it in the sink while he watches my every move as if trying to figure me out.
Walker's father gives a bitter chuckle, like he finds my words amusing… or pitiful. “It was just last month, not when he was a kid,” he says, as if my disbelief adds weight to his words. “Then he came here, and I guess got thrown out. So, he stole this place in a fit of rage to get revenge.”
How exactly does one steal a bar? I’ve never bought a home or business, but I imagine it would be hard to fake and steal. Or maybe it’s impossible to me because I’m not a criminal.
His story doesn't add up. It clashes with every impression Walker has etched into my mind since his arrival. What would the man need to steal? He had the money to buy this place, so clearly he’s not hard up for cash.
I think about how, just yesterday, Walker had pulled me aside, his presence enveloping me in warmth. “What do you think needs to happen to improve this place?” he'd asked, not as a boss issuing orders, but as someone genuinely interested in my thoughts.
He'd taken down all of my ideas, his eyes never leaving mine as he asked for clarification. His fingers had danced over his phone, tapping notes with a precision that confirmed his methodical nature. Why would he do that if he didn't want to better the place? Why bother? And if he stole it, why is he looking at the long term?
“Excuse me for a moment.” I step away, moving behind the bar to give myself some space to think, to breathe. My hands work on autopilot, polishing glasses to a gleaming sheen, each swipe of the cloth syncing with my turbulent thoughts.
Part of me wants to go get Walker right now, to ask him what the heck. Maybe this is just some weird old guy who enjoys messing with people’s heads, or maybe we really are talking about a different Walker.
I glance back at James who now stares toward the door as if seeking answers. Obviously, there's more to Walker than meets the eye.
I want, more than anything, to peel back the layers and see what makes him tick, what makes Walker, Walker.
Before I can say another word, I feel the shift in the air. I think he feels it, too, because his gaze jumps back to me, then focuses over my shoulder.
“Get out.” Walker's sharp command makes his father flinch and removes any doubt I had that the man might be lying about who he is. I whip around to face Walker, my pulse quickening at the sight of his towering frame, all that controlled rage backlit by the dim lights of the bar. A shiver runs down my spine, an odd excitement tingling in my belly.
