Sultry with a Twist (14 page)

“I dunno, Junebug. This place stays packed.”

“Right, but not with the kind of clientele I’d want.” She steered around stray chairs and hopped over an errant eight ball, until she reached the bar. “If he spruced this place up, he could draw a more upscale crowd and raise his drink prices. That’s what I’d do.”

“Uh-huh.” Luke snorted a laugh. “You’d fill the joint with jellyfish and classical music. Maybe add a library off to the side and make everyone wear dinner jackets.”

“Don’t knock my jellies. Luquos’ll be the hottest bar in Austin, you’ll see.” Ignoring his teasing, June fished around under the bar until she found the supply of plastic cups. Someone had moved them. God, were these people allergic to organization?

She carried the boxes to the front door and then paused, feeling an odd tingling along her scalp, an intuition of being watched. The hairs on her forearms stood, and chills puckered the surface of her skin. June didn’t need to turn around to confirm it; she felt Luke’s gaze on her body like a physical touch brushing her skin. When she glanced over her shoulder, he’d dipped his head low, studying her beneath his lashes with a simmering intensity that didn’t seem at all friendly. Something had shifted in him, a change so abrupt that she replayed their conversation to make sure she hadn’t said anything offensive.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked.

An invisible hypnotist snapped his fingers and awakened Luke, restoring his cheer. Well, maybe cheer was too strong a word. Restoring his regular cynical attitude. Lifting his chin and masking whatever emotion had just played across his features, he said, “No. Why would I be?”

“I don’t know. You were glaring at me just now.”

“Nope. Just thinking.” And then he kicked his boots onto the table, folded his hands behind his head, and flagrantly changed the subject. “So, what would you do with this place?”

Luke’s behavior made as much sense as advanced trigonometry, but June let it go and scanned the room. She’d actually given this subject some thought, so it didn’t take long to form a reply. “Well, first I’d close down for a month to refinish the floors and all the tabletops. Then put a few coats of fresh paint on the walls and ceiling, new toilets—they overflowed all Saturday night—and I’d remodel the bathrooms. Reconfigure the table layout to clear space for a dance floor. And I
would
add a room, but not a library. Something to draw more income, like poker machines or a mechanical bull—”

“
A
what?
”

“Sure. Make people sign a waiver, then charge them ten dollars a ride. I’ll bet that’d even draw a crowd in Austin. Of course, it’s not right for Luquos, but it’s perfect for Shooters.” June shrugged and trekked toward the back room, calling over her shoulder, “Doesn’t matter though. Burl’s too much of a tight-ass—oops, I mean tightwad—to consider it.”

She unlocked the door to the storage room and then rifled through the cabinets and drawers until she found a steel ladle. Luke joined her, leaning one hip against the chipped, Formica countertop that had once been white, now darkened with age and neglect.

Luke nodded at the industrial-sized, walk-in refrigerator and the adjoining freezer. “So this is where Trish freezes Trey’s beer mugs.”

Opening the heavy refrigerator door, June laughed and walked inside to check the sangria that had been marinating since Saturday night. The cool air made her shiver. “From what I hear, she freezes a lot of guys’ mugs, if you catch my drift.” June typically didn’t judge, but she liked Trey and didn’t want to see him hurt. Not emotionally, anyway. June had already banged him up physically.

“Huh. I’d’ve never guessed it.” He cleared away a stack of old pizza boxes and hopped up to sit on the counter. “What’re you doing in there?”

“Checking my sangria.” She flipped open the cooler’s lid, dipped the ladle inside, and poured a sample into her plastic cup.

“That sounds naughty.”

“You would think so.” She took a small sip and swirled the cool wine over her tongue, considering the citrus flavor, the sweetness. The fruit juices had mingled nicely, especially the berries, but she preferred a bit more tang. “Look in that cabinet and hand me a can of pineapple juice.” She pointed above Luke’s head. “I don’t usually take shortcuts like this, but there’s not enough time to do it right.”

After he handed it over, she popped the lid and poured it into the cooler, then stirred the whole batch. The next sip was just right, or at least as good as it would get using Burl’s cheap house Shiraz and frozen fruit.

“Can I ask you something?” Luke said, examining her again, but with less severity.

“Sure. Hey, try this.” June extended her cup, and Luke wrinkled his lips in suspicion.

“It looks like a frou-frou, girly drink.”

“I promise you won’t grow boobs. But even if you did, just imagine how much fun you’d have with your new toys.”

He scooted off the counter and joined her, peering into the cup like it might contain one of those spring-loaded, foam snakes that popped out of novelty prank cans. “What’s in it?”

“Let’s see.” She ticked off an itemized list on her fingers. “Eye of newt, toe of frog, scale of dragon, hair of dog. Oh, and ginger ale.” She palmed the hard contours of his chest and gave a playful push, but it didn’t budge him, and she lingered there a moment, enjoying the thrill that charged her fingertips. “Basically, it’s fruit, wine, and a little brandy. Don’t be such a baby.”

She moved forward, advancing slowly until Luke’s breath stirred the loose tendrils of hair framing her forehead. She took his warm, rough hand and curled it around the drink, peering into his widened eyes and stroking the soft, furry skin of his forearm. It felt so good to touch him again, like stepping into the sun’s heated embrace after a long, frigid winter. Since their kiss yesterday, he’d stayed well out of reach, and she’d felt the abrupt loss like a blanket ripped away on an icy morning.

The scents of shaving cream, soap, and Luke mingled together and dizzied her mind. He glanced at her mouth and swallowed, his tanned throat bobbing visibly above his white T-shirt collar. When his tongue darted between his lips, June’s blood boiled and rushed through her veins. She rose onto her toes, lifting her face to meet his, hungry for the taste of his mouth. Just one taste…

“Junebug,” he whispered and closed his eyes. Then he shook his head and stepped back, gently tugging free of her grasp and restoring the boundary he’d set yesterday. “No.”

The air left her lungs in a whoosh, and she sank back onto her heels, trying to conceal the heat of embarrassment flushing her cheeks. Luke was a shadowboxer, guarding his heart and delivering a sucker punch right to June’s sternum. Willing her pulse to slow, she cleared her throat and knelt beside her batch of sangria. She recalled Pastor McMahon’s words:
Love
never
quits, never abandons
…but replaying them in her mind didn’t ease the sting of rejection.

“Try the drink.” She stirred the mixture absently, watching apple and orange slices bob to the surface. “I think you’ll like it, if you give it a chance.” She was talking about more than just the wine, and he probably knew it.

Though facing away, she heard him drain the cup. “It’s good,” he said softly. “Just not right for me.”

Luke’s own veiled message brought moisture to her eyes, and she spoke in a rush, before her throat thickened any further. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Why do you do this?” When she glanced up in alarm, he added, “The alcohol, I mean.”

After hooking the ladle over the edge of the cooler, she closed the lid. Another shiver danced over her flesh, and she stepped out of the fridge and then shut the thick, metal door behind her. “Burl’s donating half the proceeds today. The more I sell, the more—”

“No. I mean why’d you choose this line of work? The way you talk about your bar—Luquos this and Luquos that—it’s like religion to you. I know you said you liked bartending better than psychology, but considering what happened to your parents…” He trailed off, his tone growing apologetic, almost backpedaling. “I know the rumors aren’t true, but still.”

“
Do
you know the rumors aren’t true?” June grabbed her hips and took a defensive stance. Of all the people in this town talking shit—oops, sugar—about her mama and daddy, she hadn’t expected hearing this from her best friend. “The accident was just that—an accident. I’ve seen their death certificates.”

“Hey,” he held his palm forward in an obvious attempt at damage control. “I’m not trying to say—”

“You ever seen a Texas death certificate?”

Luke mirrored her pose and shook his head.

“There’s a little box,” she said as she demonstrated with her hands, “that asks if alcohol caused the death. And you know what it says on both their forms?” Without giving him a chance to reply, she spat, “It says no!”

“Jesus, Junebug, I believe you. I’m just sayin’—”

“Why would I follow in their sinful footsteps? Is that what you’re just sayin’?”

“No…well, kind of, but I wouldn’t put it that way. It’s just, with your grandma and how she raised you, and with all the talk about your folks…Ah, shit.” He waved a hand dismissively and then raked it through his shaggy, brown hair. “I’m makin’ a mess of this.” After a heavy sigh, he reached for her fingers and then pulled back, seeming to think better of it. “Look. We both know what the name Gallagher means around here. Both my parents were trash, and there’s no point trying to deny it. I don’t care what people think, but at the same time, I…” Shaking his head, he went silent.

“You do care,” she answered for him, feeling her anger soften. “A little.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “So, it made me wonder why you’d go into the bar business, all things considered.”

When he put it that way, the question didn’t seem so offensive. Perhaps she’d overreacted. She relaxed her posture, slipping her hands into her back pockets. “Well, first of all, I’m good at it. Everyone needs to feel like they’re good at something. Look at you—building houses and running a charity.”

“Nonprofit.”

“Whatever. Using your hands to create a home, that’s your talent. Maybe I’ll never build a house or be a legendary cook like Grammy, but you know what? When people get married in Austin, they come see
me
before they visit the florist or the bakery. Because they know I’ll come up with a special drink for their wedding that people won’t stop talking about for years. You know how that makes me feel?”

Luke nodded, a sympathetic grin curving the edges of his mouth. “I can imagine.”

“And you gotta love the magic of a good drink. There’s power in alcohol—it boosts your confidence, helps you relax, makes you more affectionate—and I like harnessing that power. Show me something else, well, something
legal
, that can do all those things.” Luke started to reply, but she cut him off with one important clarification. “But I don’t condone getting wasted, and I can’t stand sloppy drunks. That’s one of the reasons I’m passionate about Luquos. It’s a classy place for people to enjoy one or two cocktails, not some pit stop along the bar crawl.”

“Yeah.” His gaze flickered away, and he studied the staffing schedule taped to the cabinet near his head. He trailed his index finger down the spreadsheet, but he didn’t seem to read the words printed there. “I can tell it means a lot to you.” A fog settled over him, shifting the mood once again. Abruptly, he turned and brushed his hands together as if preparing for hard work. “Well, that answers my question. What needs to go? That cooler, right?”

Like a kick to the head, June realized what had been eating Luke. It was Luquos—the common denominator in his changing moods. She’d mentioned it while digging for cups behind the bar, and again, just now, resulting in a Jekyll and Snide reaction. “Uh-huh. And two kegs, plus ten gallons of hard iced tea. There’s a dolly behind the door.” She wanted to ask why he resented her dream, but he’d only deny it. Could he fear losing her when she returned home? That didn’t make sense, because Austin was only a six-hour drive.

“Hey, did you hear me?”

“Hmm?”

Luke had the refrigerator door open, and he pointed to an army of shiny kegs lining the inside wall. “Coors or Bud?”

“Bud.”

“Okay. Let’s load up and get the hell outta here. The sooner we get to the fairgrounds, the sooner that ‘magical’ Bud”—he made sarcastic air quotes—“can transform me into a brave, relaxed, lovable saint.”

***

When Luke turned twenty-one, his friends had taken him out for a night of carousing, the standard rite of passage for any guy that age. They’d done Grape Granstaff shots all night long until he’d passed out in the bar bathroom, and then he’d spent the next twenty-four hours spewing like a geyser. To this day, the scent of Grape Pucker turned his stomach and gave him the dry heaves.

He was beginning to feel the same disdain for the reek of stewed tomatoes, chili powder, and scorched cow.

He’d suffered the last few hours in assembly line hell, and before that, roasted right along with the giant slab of beef on the rotisserie. Since most of the church members were busy scouring the crowd for souls to save, he was the only man in the tent, and apparently, possession of a penis qualified him for grill duty. Even worse, old Ms. Bicknocker had made him tuck his hair under a shower cap while basting and braising, so the fire’s heat had soaked into his body and traveled right to his head, where the plastic trapped it inside. He’d felt like a giant condom.

And sweet Jesus, the preaching. Those little church ladies thumped a mean Bible. Praise the Almighty for Trey. He hadn’t done a lick of work, but Luke was glad for the company of someone who didn’t want to dunk him in water and scrub away his sins. Luke preferred his sins intact, thank you kindly.

He glanced at his buddy, who’d kicked back on a folding chair in the shade with his bad leg resting on a crate of paper plates. Trey held a sandwich between his palms and shook his head in awe, gazing at the bread lovingly like he was about to plunge his face between a woman’s thighs, instead of his supper. He sank into the bun and groaned with pleasure.