All You Can Handle (Moments In Maplesville Book 5)

ALL YOU CAN HANDLE

by

Farrah Rochon

Nicobar Press

Kindle Edition

Copyright © 2015 by Farrah Roybiskie

Cover by Mae Phillips of CoverFreshDesigns.com

Edited by Karen Dale Harris

ISBN: 978-1-938125-18-8

Kindle Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please do so through your retailer’s “lend” function. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All You Can Handle

A Moments in Maplesville Short Novel

Chapter One

The distinctive click of billiard balls crashing against each other mingled with ’90s R&B music and thick southern accents, creating a discordant melody that was native to the string of dive bars that hugged this strip of the Louisiana Bayou. The Corral was just that type of bar.

Ian Landry hooked the heel of his brand new Andrew Marc shoes on the barstool’s bottom rung and popped a couple of pieces of The Corral’s famous spicy bar mix in his mouth. It was nothing more than Chex Mix sprinkled with Tabasco and salt, but it was tasty and it was free. Of course, the bar made its money back in the number of drinks you needed after a couple of handfuls of the peppery snack.

“What up, dawg? You ready to get this party started?”

He spun his barstool around to find his best friends, Sam Stewart and Dale Chauvin, walking up to the bar. They each clapped a hand on Ian’s shoulder as they climbed up on the stools on either side of him.

Sam’s grin fell as he pointed to the glass in Ian’s hand.

“What the hell is that? Soda? That’s what you call celebrating?” Sam rapped his knuckles on the scarred bar top. “Hey Joe, can you get this man a
real
drink?”

“Don’t, Joe,” Ian called. “I’m good with what I have.”

“Dude, come on.” Sam groaned. “I thought we were celebrating? One beer won’t hurt you.”

And now Ian understood why Dale had called to say that he would be bringing Sam to the bar. The slight slur thickening his friend’s tongue told Ian that Sam had started celebrating hours ago. If he had to guess, Ian would say he was about a drink and a half from reaching the legal limit.

“Did you get the loan pre-approval?” Dale asked. A former linebacker at LSU, his bulky frame took up more space than anyone else at the bar. “I assume that’s what we’re celebrating, right?”

“I won’t know the amount for a few days, but I’ve got a damn good feeling about it,” Ian said.

In fact, he felt so good about his chances of getting the loan he needed to buy the building for the motorcycle shop he’d dreamed of opening for years, that he’d texted both Sam and Dale from the bank’s parking lot and told them to meet him here at the bar to celebrate. Mr. Babineaux, the loan officer at the Maplesville Savings and Loan, had given him all kinds of good vibes.

It helped that Babineaux was a bona fide motorcycle head; the man had framed pictures of his Harley and Ducati on his desk next to the one of his wife and kids. He and Ian had spent more time talking about intake valves than about Ian’s credit. He’d left the bank feeling as if he could have asked for twice the purchasing power he’d requested, but he didn’t need a cent over the amount he’d asked for on his mortgage loan application.

His plan was solid. He knew exactly what he needed to get his business off the ground. The key component? The old Miller’s Pharmacy building in the heart of Maplesville’s Historic District. The building had been vacant for years, its huge, boarded up windows just begging for a “For Sale” sign, but the Miller family had never indicated that they were willing to sell.

Then Dale’s older sister, Vanessa Chauvin, who was at the pulse of Maplesville’s real estate market, had gotten word that the family was finally ready to unload the property. Vanessa, who had been like a big sister to all three of them—and had labeled Dale, Sam, and Ian
The Three Amigos
in high school—knew Ian had his eye on that building. She’d promised to give him first crack at buying the place if it ever became available.

Ian leaned over and whispered in Dale’s ear. “Vanessa is still keeping her eye out on the Miller’s place for me, right?”

His friend nodded as he took a pull on his beer. “She’s waiting for the property appraiser she normally works with to come back from vacation. Said the family should have the selling price nailed down within the week.”

Ian planned to have the full asking price in hand when the property finally went on the market. Maplesville’s population had exploded in the last few years, with new businesses and residents moving in at a rate that could give a person whiplash. Miller’s Pharmacy was in the old part of town, which was beginning to reassert itself now that the monotony of the newer strip malls no longer held people’s attention. These days it was all about the charm of the aged-brick storefronts and the lure of the town’s quaint historic district.

Ian had a feeling that the city council had caught on to what the folks in neighboring Gauthier had accomplished. The small town, which was a quick twenty minutes east, had put itself on the map by embracing it’s history and turning itself into a tourist destination.

Ian didn’t care what was behind it all. He just knew he wanted in on the action. Miller’s Pharmacy, with its huge windows and prime location, was the perfect spot. He needed that building.

And with Vanessa’s and Richard Babineaux’s help, he was going to get it.

“You guys doing alright?” Joe Poche, who’d taken over The Corral a few years ago, asked as he wiped down the bar. “How’s your dad doing, Sam?”

Sam grimaced and shrugged. And Ian knew what would come next.

“Let me have another shot,” Sam said, sliding his shot glass toward the bartender.

Ian looked over at Dale. His friend’s discrete nod told him that he understood what Ian was trying to say. Someone would have to get Sam home tonight. It was Dale’s turn.

He wasn’t sure what they were going to do about Sam, but it was becoming more apparent every time they hung out that something would have to be done. Homeboy was dancing much too close to the edge lately. Not that anyone could blame him. Watching ALS slowly steal his dad was hard for all of them. But Ian was afraid that sooner or later Sam was going to fall right off that cliff.

He didn’t want to kill his good vibe thinking about the inevitable hardship they would face when Sam’s dad eventually succumbed to his disease. Sam was right. Tonight was about celebrating.

Taking a sip of the ginger ale he’d been nursing for the past twenty minutes, Ian leaned back on the stool’s cracked pleather and let his eyes roam around The Corral. The bar, like just about everything else in this town, played off the name of the high school mascot, the Maplesville Mustangs. The Corral was an institution. Back when he was in high school, it was a rite of passage for the kids from Maplesville High to try and get through the door, but in a town that was once so small that practically everyone knew everyone else, it wasn’t an easy feat.

He, Dale and Sam had made a promise to hang out at The Corral every weekend once they turned twenty-one, but life had gotten in the way for the three of them over the past five years. Now, they were lucky if they got together once a month. That’s one of the reasons Ian had called his boys over to help him celebrate. They knew about his dream, had been a part of it since those days they used to join him and his dad in their garage; working on old bikes they’d scored from junkyards. This celebration was as much Sam and Dale’s as it was his.

Ian unbuttoned a second button at his collar and wiggled it around, trying to create some space so he could breathe. He’d been so psyched following the meeting at the bank that he hadn’t bothered to go home and change out of his monkey suit, which he’d bought specifically to impress Babineaux. His only other suit was the one he wore at funerals, and he didn’t want to jinx the outcome of his meeting with the bank by wearing something he only wore when someone died. Ian had a feeling that this one, which had cost more than he’d ever spent on a piece of clothing, would soon be crowned his lucky suit.

Sam nudged Ian’s shoulder. “Look who’s over at the pool table,” he said, nodding to the left side of the bar which housed several pool tables, dartboards, and an old-fashioned jukebox that hadn’t worked since Bill Clinton’s first term.

Several guys from St. Pierre, which had been one of their biggest rivals back during their days on the high school football field, occupied a pool table. They’d become friendly rivals after graduation, but Sam tended to forget that from time to time. Usually those times when he was getting better acquainted with his favorite drink.

“Don’t go over there starting shit,” Ian warned.

Sam threw back the shot of whiskey Joe had set before him. “I live to start shit.” He slapped the empty shot glass on the bar and took off for the pool tables.

“This is getting worse,” Dale said.

Ian released a sigh. “Can you blame him? I sure as hell can’t,” Ian said. “It’s been nearly a decade since I lost my dad and I’m still not over it. It can’t be easy for him to watch his slowly dying.”

“Yeah, well, call me crazy, but I don’t see how starting shit with those guys from St. Pierre helps anything,” Dale countered.

Ian agreed. He just hoped that tonight didn’t end with Joe calling the cops.

He twirled his stool around, but stopped mid-twist as his gaze landed on the woman sitting on the other side of the bar. His breath skidded to a stop in his lungs and his heart skipped several beats before it started pumping again.

The wild, crazy Afro was the first thing that snagged his attention, but it took only seconds before Ian’s brain registered the rest of her. Satiny, rich umber skin draped over the most gorgeous cheekbones he’d ever seen. No, gorgeous didn’t do her justice.

Flawless. That was a better word.

“Shit, I need to go over there and make sure Sam doesn’t get into trouble,” Dale said as he climbed down from the barstool. “You coming?”

“Nah, I’m good right here.” Ian took another sip of his soda, his eyes not leaving the beauty at the bar. For a moment he’d forgotten that his two best friends even existed. His sole focus was on the gorgeous stranger.

Maplesville had grown over the last few years, with new businesses and apartment complexes popping up like zits on a teenager’s forehead. It wasn’t as easy to keep track of the new people strolling into town. The beauty sitting at the bar was definitely new to the area. She wasn’t the kind of woman you stood behind in the line at the grocery store and then forgot about while putting away your frozen pizzas. If Ian had ever seen her around town before, he would have remembered.

Her fingers tapped on the bar top in rhythm with the music, but after receiving her drink, she twirled her stool around and faced the small dance floor, where about a dozen people were doing a line dance to the “Cupid Shuffle.”

Her slim, delicately muscled shoulders rocked to the up-tempo beat. They were bare, the tail end of her sleeveless button-down shirt tied in a knot just below her breasts, exposing an expanse of smooth, dark brown skin that made Ian’s pulse quicken.

Huge, thin hoops hung from her ears. She had at least twenty gold bangles around her wrist, going nearly halfway up her arm, and every one of her fingers had a ring on it, her thumbs included. It was hard to see from this distance, but Ian thought he could make out a small stud in her nose.

He wasn’t sure if it was a tattoo he saw peeking out of the waistband of her skin-tight dark blue jeans, or if it was just the dim lighting in The Corral playing tricks on his eyes, but he liked the thought of it. A mysterious tattoo on a mysterious woman. A
stunningly gorgeous
mysterious woman.

He was tempted to take a discrete snapshot of her with his phone, but that shit was creepy, and he was too afraid someone would catch him in the act. Better to just commit that face to memory.

All of a sudden she turned and looked directly at him.

Ian’s first instinct was to avert his eyes, pretend he hadn’t been staring at her. But he was feeling confident after his meeting at the bank. Add in the new suit and the wink he’d received earlier today when he’d run into Naomi Elliot—the girl every boy had coveted back in junior high—and Ian might as well draw an S on his chest. Make that an
H
and an
S
for
Hot Shit
. Because that’s what he was right now.