Fangs But No Fangs. Kathy Love

bar was relatively busy for a Wednesday night, which meant about twenty patrons. And twenty patrons a night wasn’t going to keep her in business. But even with that very real worry, it was her condescending neighbor who’d been eating at her. Popping back into her mind over and over. Making her clumsy.

      She didn’t understand why. Maybe because she’d really hoped they might become friends. But he’d made it clear that wasn’t happening. And as disappointed as she was to discover her neighbor was not friend material, she was even more bothered by his insult. So he thought she wasn’t pretty. She could handle that. It was what else he’d implied that had cut her to the quick. His mocking comment had also implied she wasn’t classy enough to have some fancy French name.

      And that bothered her, because it was the same crap she’d heard her whole life. Her family was no good. She was no good. But she was more than her last name—or her first name, for that matter. She knew that, and she intended to prove it.

      Her confrontation with Vance and her neighbor’s comment just had her resolve a little shaken. But both men had shown her she just had to work harder to prove she could be a success.

      She looked around the bar she’d owned for almost three months. She could do this. Other people’s opinions didn’t mean squat. She sighed. How many times had she given herself the same pep talk while growing up? But this time she meant it. Two jerks weren’t going to stop her.

      She got a new glass and filled the bottom with two fingers of rum, then she topped that off with ice and cola. She repeated the process two more times, setting each drink on a round tray. She picked up the tray and went out to deliver the drinks. Then she cleared some of the glasses from other tables, still chanting to herself that she could make this bar into a successful business. She had to.

      “Hey, sweet cheeks, another pitcher over here.”

      Jolee nodded in acknowledgment without looking toward the table. She set down her tray of empty beer mugs, then turned her back to the long, dark wood counter. Bracing her hands on the edge, she levered herself up onto the nicked wooden surface and swung her legs around to jump down on the other side. She heard a whistle as she performed her little feat of acrobatics, but she ignored it. Whistles and cat calls seemed to come with the territory of being a bar owner. Well, a female bar owner anyway.

      She quickly placed the dirty mugs into the sink filled with hot, soapy water, then she turned to grab a clean pitcher. Patsy Cline’s “Walking After Midnight” played on the ancient jukebox against the far wall between the doorways of the ladies’ and men’s rooms.

      As she filled the pitcher, she lined up three more glasses and poured shots of Jack Daniels into each. Not only was it busy, but the patrons were drinking. Always good in a bar.

      Well, sort of good. As she loaded another tray, she cast a glance toward the table of men who insisted on using that lovely little nickname for her. The five men actually looked a bit more respectable than some of her other patrons in their tucked-in shirts, loosened ties, and chinos. But as they drank, they’d gotten louder and ruder. Several times they had attempted to touch her as she delivered drinks to them.

      Patrons did that, but it was usually meant in good fun. A laugh and a flip comment would make things cool again. She hoped the same would be true with these men. They seemed a little more forward, and cockier. And they seemed interested in her.

      Even now, one of them in a blue button-down shirt and pressed dark blue pants stared at her as she finished loading her tray. And she knew he wasn’t checking on the status of his beer.

      “Good night,” Jed commented in his gravelly voice, jerking a head toward the very full tray.

      Jolee wiped the back of her hand across her brow to push her sweaty hair away from her face, and smiled. “Not bad.”

      “I’d watch them boys, though,” he rasped around the cigarette he was lighting. Again he gestured with his head to the table she was already well aware of.

      “Yeah, I am.” This was the first night she actually felt like she might have a real problem with her customers. On the whole, her patrons just wanted some cold beer and a little conversation. But those men, they seemed like trouble.

      She glanced back at the table. The same guy and one of his pals watched her.

      Dale Timmons, a regular since she’d reopened the place, waved to her that he’d like another beer. She smiled to let him know that she saw him. She reached down to the shelf beside her and grabbed a mug, filling it. Before she headed back to the floor, she walked down the bar to give Dale his beer.

      “Busy, eh?” Dale, a man in his fifties in his ever-present John Deere baseball cap, smiled at her. As usual, Jolee had the inclination to give the older man a hug—his gray eyes always seemed filled with such sadness, like a lost hound dog.

      “Yeah, not too bad, but it could always be busier,” she said with an easy smile.

      Dale nodded. “It will be. Just give it time.”

      “From your lips to God’s ears.” Jolee only had so much time to give. Money had to start coming in.

      “When are you getting the karaoke going?” Dale asked, as he had every now and then since Leo’s Brew Pub and Karaoke Saloon reopened under her management.

      Jolee had specifically bought the bar because the place was equipped with a karaoke sound system, the monitors to show the lyrics, and thousands of songs, just waiting to be sung by talented and untalented patrons alike.

      “Well, if I can keep business steady, I should be able to start again soon.” Lord, she hoped. “I’d have to hire another person to tend bar while I ran the sound system. And right now, finances are just a little too tight for me to hire anyone.”

      Dale nodded again. “It’ll come.”

      “Hey, sweet cheeks,” one of the men from the questionable table called to her. “Are you going to bring us our beer or what?”

      She jerked her head in response, then offered Dale a quick smile. “Just keep coming, Dale, and I’ll get this place going again.”

      Dale smiled, the smile not meeting his sad gray eyes. “Will do.”

      Jolee picked up the heavy tray and walked the length of the bar to exit out onto the floor. She delivered all the other drinks, leaving the pitcher for last. As she approached, all the men watched her with eager expressions, and she knew the anticipation wasn’t for the beer.

      “Thanks, babe,” the blue-shirted man said as she leaned forward to place the pitcher in the center of the table.

      She forced a polite smile, then turned to leave, but the man snagged her wrist, pulling her to a halt.

      “Where are you going so fast?”

      “I have work to do,” she stated, yanking her wrist out of the man’s tight hold.

      The man held up his hands in a pose of surrender. “No need to get so touchy. We’d just like to chat with you awhile.”

      A couple of the other men snickered, but Jolee ignored them.

      “Well, as I said”—she forced another smile—“I don’t have time.” Nor the inclination, but she didn’t add that. Best to play it polite. Money was money—even from overbearing jerks.

      “Oh, come on, it’s not too busy. Have a seat.” He gestured with his thumb for the man next to him to stand, which he did. The blue-shirted guy nudged the chair back farther with his foot.

      “Come on, sit.”

      Jolee shook her head. “No. Sorry.” She started away from the table, furious with herself that these jerks were making her nervous. She’d have to learn to deal with more than this. She knew that.

      “Playing hard to get, huh?” The comment was followed by loud chuckles.

      Jolee stopped, spinning back to them. “Maybe I am hard