Page 61 of Unruly

Grandpa Ben’s funeral was beautiful.

Everyone was cleaned up—finest Stetsons and all black, down to their boots. Once the preacher opened up the floor, the stories about Ben started flowing and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.

Watching a community come together to honor one of its pillars will do that.

I tried to talk to Cash—he looked rough—but he was surrounded by his cousins and other family, so I decided it was best not to make it known that he and I have been fooling around.

Because that’s what it is—just us fooling around.

Except that Rhett and Colt saw us kiss. I’ve been avoiding my brother for days to avoid the subject entirely, because it was clear Cash was just distraught, and I was the first thing he saw in a moment of need. It didn’t mean anything.

To avoid that conversation, I agreed to open The Bar for Aria and Matt for the evening so they could be there for the Thornwoods. I know Dad and Sloane will be there too.

It’s a cop out, but I’m sure Hank will thank me for it.

I get there an hour early to prepare for opening, since it’s already late in the day. Making sure the kegs are all full, garnishes are cut, and liquors stocked, I check my phone and see a couple of messages from Colt.

Colt:

Aria and Matt asked me to help you out tonight. You can’t escape me forever

Colt:

Let me know when you need me.

Me:

I’ll let you know if I need help.

He heart-reacts to the message, and I shove the phone into my pocket.

When I open the doors at 6 p.m. it doesn’t take long to get busy. By 7:30 p.m. the bar is damn-near slammed. Practically everyone from the funeral is here, still in their mourning black. Ben wasn’t a regular at The Bar, but he did love his beer. So most order the same kind of beer that he loved.

During a small lull that gives me a second to breathe, I wipe down the bar top again, the rag picking up rings of condensation and spilled whiskey. Hank is going on about a story of Grandpa Ben and I smile to myself, knowing half of it’s probably bullshit. Knowing Ben, he wouldn’t correct it, though. That’s the kind of person he was. He didn’t care who someone else accused him of being because he knew who he was.

The door swings wide around 9 p.m., cool evening air rushing in. Dawson and Makai prop Cash up between them, his boots dragging before he finds his balance. Cash shrugs them off with a lopsided grin that doesn’t touch his eyes. His black button-down from the service is already half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, one knee of his jeans streaked with dirt, probably from helping them at the grave site.

“Hey, Hal … He’s your problem now,” Dawson says, looking over at me. “I can’t do this shit tonight.”

Makai gives Cash one firm pat on the back as they help him onto a stool at the end of the bar and mutters something low before they slip out. The door shuts with a solid thud, and Cash sways in his seat, scanning until his gaze finds me. His face lights up in that wild, reckless way that always tugs at my chest.

“Halle!” he shouts, loud enough to turn heads across the bar. “There she is—my girl.”

I roll my eyes and scoff, moving down toward the end of the bar where Dawson left him. He has a lovesick smile on his face as watches me walk toward him.

“I am not your girl,” I seethe, grabbing him a cup and filling it up with tap water and shoving it toward him. “Drink this.”

“What is this?” he asks.

“Clear beer,” I say.

He chuckles. “I know what water looks like, Darlin’.”

I groan. “Then why did you ask, you dipshit. How much have you had to drink today?”

“The whole fucking brewery … Speaking of breweries … Can I have another beer?”

“No. Drink the water,” I say, before making my way over to help another customer.