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“Your sister should go to culinary school,” Sandra shouts in my ear. “Are you going to eat that?”
I shake my head, handing her my serving of chips and salsa. “My brother says the same thing.”
Dylan loves making food and watching people eat it, but she says doing it for a living would steal the joy. She could be right, but our regular cook Thomas doesn’t seem to have lost any joy making the best burgers in three states.
Thomas has been with us since we opened the restaurant. He used to play with our dad, and he’s got the game on in the kitchen on his little black-and-white television. It’s also on the big screens above the bar—over Dylan’s head where she can’t see them, I also notice.
She hates watching us play.
Or I guess, Garrett and Hendrix play.
Beside her, Allie dances with her son Austin. He’s a sophomore now, and he’s on Jack’s high school football team as QB-2. Her eyes keep flickering to Coach Jack who’s ignoring all the commotion as he watches Garrett and Hendrix on the big screens with his arms crossed.
Allie’s good people. A single mom from New Orleans, she moved to our neck of the woods three years ago with Austin to be the school librarian and to get away from her drug-dealer ex-husband.
Her ex is now doing time at Angola, and I watch as she pushes a dark wave of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks flush when Jack steps forward for a fresh beer, and I think my brother might be the most clueless person I know.
Just then, Kimmie Joy races in, and Craig pulls her up onto his hip on the bar. They immediately stretch out their arms doing choreography everyone seems to know. Eddie is here, Kimmie is here, and dammit, I scan the entire room looking for Rachel.
She’s standing near the back wall holding a paper tray and shoving a chip laden with hot salsa into her mouth. A tall, lanky guy stands over her with his arm propped above her head, and my throat tightens.
It’s Sam Allen. He’s five years younger than me, the same age as Dylan, who I happen to know is the same age as Rachel. His light brown hair is long in the front, hanging over his eyes like some dumb skater boy, and he’s clearly flirting.
I think he works in animal control. He smiles, leaning closer, and I want to push him into the bay.What the fuck?
The driving, cheerleader music starts to fade, and Gloria’s voice is easier to hear. “I was just thinking it might be fun to host a pool tournament here, like as a fundraiser for the farm?”
My brow furrows. “The farm needs money?”
“Not really. But it would be a great way to raise awareness,and any money we earn could be used for scholarships or to cover our current students who can’t pay.”
I’m nodding before she finishes speaking. “It’s a great idea. I’ll talk to Dylan, but I’m sure she’ll be onboard.”
“Sounds like a win all the way around.” Sandra clinks the neck of her Corona against mine.
They continue brainstorming the details while I fight to keep my eyes from returning to where Sam is leering at Rachel. His gaze slides down her neck, and my fist clenches.
Gloria is going on about giving the kids forms so they can get sponsors. She’s saying how it could be like a walk-a-thon where they secure a certain amount of money per pocket.
Sandra thinks this is a great idea, but I’m getting more annoyed by the second.
Rachel licks a drop of salsa off her lips, laughing, and her chin lifts as she says something to Sam. He grins, reaching down to wipe her chin with his thumb, and a low growl vibrates in my throat. She lifts her hair off her shoulder, and her back arches. The movement lifts her perfect breasts higher, and that fucking bikini top moves beneath the thin, wrap sweater she’s wearing.
Her nipples are pointed, and Sam’s practically drooling on her body.
“Excuse me.” My tone is abrupt as I walk away from my friends in the direction of Rachel and Sam the slobbering jerk.
I hear Sandra’s voice say something behind me, but my vision has tunneled. As I get closer to the two of them, I can hear their conversation.
“It’s a fun song. I just don’t know it very well.” Rachel’s voice is sweet, and as the song ends, Craig is already cueing up a new one.
“Fantasy” by Mariah Carey starts, and Rachel squeals, jumping up and down with her arms over her head.
“I love this song!” She twists her hips, moving in time with the music. “That’s my jam!”
I swear, Sam’s tongue rolls out like one of those cartoonwolves, and I want to wrap it around his neck and strangle him with it.
“You’re pretty enough to be on the bar dancing.” His voice is thick, and I can practically see the semi in his pants.
