Reborn (7 page)

A little while later, Carl had gone off to run some mysterious errand and told Lille and Mary that he would be by the pub later. After Mary had said good-bye to John—which took a while—she and Lille hopped in Lille’s convertible and headed to the pub, which was only a few blocks down the road. Lille, however, refused to park in the employee lot at Jobman’s.

“It’s a convertible Mercedes, and a classic. I’m not parking in the back lot,” she informed Mary as she checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. She’d put on siren-red lipstick at the Box, but she wanted to make sure it hadn’t smeared. Her hair fell in beachy waves onto her shoulders, though she intended to put it in a ponytail once they got inside.

“Okay,” Mary said, her lips twitching. “But it’s Max’s rule. Customers only in the front lot.”

Lille turned to look at her. “You think I’m parking here to annoy Max.”

“Aren’t you?”

Lille tilted her head at her best friend. “No. You think you’re so smart now that you’ve gotten laid.”

Mary smiled her gentle smile, the one that snuck up like a sunrise.

“I’m smart enough to know that you’re planning on fucking Max tonight.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lille lifted her chin. “How do you know that?”

Mary grinned and opened the latch for the door. “You always wear that lipstick when you intend to get laid,” she said with a grin, and hopped out of the car.

Lille huffed out a laugh and fixed her mirror before getting out of the car.
The darling girl thinks she is so
smart,
Lille thought.

The parking lot of Jobman’s was a small patch of black asphalt separated from a patio area by wooden pylons and the thick twisted rope that made Lille think of the movie
Moby Dick
with Gregory Peck—now that had been a gorgeous, serious man.

The strip of ground below the pylons was surrounded by white landscaping stones. On the other side, there were some potted sago palms and a wooden deck on top of which were picnic tables with red umbrellas advertising Stella Artois. Mary stopped and waited for her at the pylons nearest the entrance to the building, bending down to get one of the rocks out of her Toms, her long brown ponytail blowing in the breeze. Lille thought that if she were an artist, she would paint the scene; instead, she pulled out her phone and tapped the camera app.

“Smile, brat,” she called out, and snapped the photo just as Mary turned her head.

“You know I hate pictures,” Mary commented mildly.

Lille joined her. “You know I hate being predictable.”

“So, I’ll buy you a new fuck-me shade of red,” Mary shot back.

Lille grinned and hooked Mary’s elbow with her free arm. “Deal. Let’s give them a good show, shall we, darling?” Lille straightened her shoulders and thrust out her chest and chin, a fighter about to go into battle.

Mary nodded, her eyes serious. “Everyone’s going to love you, you know.”

Lille looked grimly amused. “They’re going to worship me.”

“Or die trying,” Mary suggested, owl-eyed.

“Maybe.” Lille smirked and tugged her friend toward the entrance.

Tom Petty’s
ballad to a bad woman greeted
them as they pulled open the thick wooden door that was actually the pub door in Ireland at some point in Max’s family history. Now that Lille thought about it, Tom Petty had a few ballads about bad women, but this one was a particular favorite of hers: “Yer So Bad.” It already made her think of Max, which should have served as a warning, but only made her more eager for him to want her.

Her heels clicked on the thick flagstones at the entrance of the pub, which gave way to uneven plank wood flooring. To their right was a short hall that led to the restrooms, while straight in front of them was an old-fashioned gleaming wood bar with brass footrails and stools covered in cognac-colored leather. Two sets of beer pulls were on either end of the bar, with the waitress station on the far side. To the left, in a large open area with two sets of French doors, were several sturdy wooden tables and a set of three booths. Outside the doors, she could see the red patio umbrellas.

Large LCD TVs were the main decorations, but there was only one turned on—the one in the far corner by the waitress station. Several large men wearing heavy boots and T-shirts and jeans with a lot of equipment strapped to them had been watching a football game when the two women walked in; the men had turned their heads to look and hadn’t stopped staring.

One of them, a beefy guy with a handlebar mustache and a thick Scottish accent, finally got enough breath to exclaim, “Well, fuck me running.”

His friends turned to look at the women, but Lille just kept walking, adding a little extra strut and tossing her hair. Mary walked, calm and mildly amused, beside her.

It wasn’t until Lille had nearly reached the men sitting toward the end of the bar that she realized someone else was in the room. She looked over her shoulder to the left and saw Max, one hand holding the remote for yet another TV, the other hand kind of floating in midair while he stared at her. There was a raised platform behind him with a mic, a set of drums, and a bunch of other musical equipment. His eyes were bright blue under thick brows and focused on her ass in the black leggings.

“What the fuck are you wearin’?”

There was silence for a moment and then the men let out a chorus of protests, the loudest of which was “What the fuck, Max?”

Lille just kept her eyes on Max, wondering what he was going to do, if anything.

Max was
disgusted, though mostly with himself. If
she weren’t so damn sexy, he could ignore her, or fuck her and ignore her, but that high, tight ass; long, bouncy blond hair; and expression on her face, that I-dare-you-to-take-me-on expression, had his emotions rolling between lust and fear, which pissed him off to no end.

She was smiling at him as if she knew he wanted her but didn’t like her, and was enjoying his torment enormously. Fuck, she did look hot, and God knew his customers were going to love it. But all he could focus on was how badly he wanted to cup his hands under that perfect ass, run his fingers up and down the seam of her leggings as he spread her legs wider and wider.

Charlie and a handful of other regulars behind the bar were taking in the view, too . . . which shouldn’t have bothered him. They’d been coming around since Max’s uncle had started the place back in 1976. Charlie was one reason Max’s accent swung between Scottish and Irish on occasion—the other was that his grandmother had been Scottish, but the old man had been around longer, and had had considerably more to say.

Charlie stood, his handlebar mustache practically quivering as he wrapped one thick arm around Lille and turned her attention to his circle.

“Come on, lass, ignore him. Come on over here and talk to us instead.”

Lille smiled at him, genuinely pleased with the old gentleman’s attention.

When he pinched her ass, her eyes widened, but her smile stayed in place. She moved closer to him, curling one finger in his mustache and leaning in toward his face.

Just when Max and everyone else in the room thought she was going to French the old pervert, she yanked hard on his mustache and stepped away at the same time, taking the man with her. Her bag, which she’d been holding on her right shoulder, swung forward and hit him in the head. He roared, going to one knee.

Max winced, knowing how fond Charlie was of his mustache.

“Now, then,” Lille said cheerfully, leaning down to the red face of the man she had on his knees. She glanced up to the two other men on the stools next to her, but they just held up their beers.

“Cheers, lady.”

Lille nodded to them before turning her attention back to Charlie. “I’m glad you like my ass, old man, but if you touch it again without my permission”—she tugged a little harder—“one-half of this fine ’stache will end up a chew toy for my friend’s dog. Are we clear?”

He nodded, large nostrils flaring.

“Good.” She kissed his nose and abruptly stepped back, swinging her bag behind her again.

Charlie stayed where he was for a moment and then stood slowly, knees popping as he straightened.

Mary looked worried, chewing on her lower lip, but Lille just stared at the old man, one hand on her hip, eyes slightly narrowed.

Max noticed that her body was tensed and ready for action, as if she was mentally preparing herself for whatever happened next, though she kept a deliberately casual pose. Her smile was less a smile than the snarl of a cornered animal covered with a thin mask of bravado.

After a long, tense moment, when the only noise was the baseball announcers and the sounds of James’s “Laid” playing in the background, Charlie let out a wheezing laugh.

He turned to look at Max. “We have ourselves a live one here, lad.”

Max grunted.

“Come on, gel, have a seat and pint. You, too, Miss Mary.” He waved both women to the barstools next to him, his other hand cradling his mustache as if it were a baby bird.

“We can’t,” Mary told him, walking up to stand next to Lille. “We’re working tonight,” she pointed out when Lille gave her a questioning look.

Lille looked at Max, who nodded in confirmation. “The staff doesn’t drink and there’s work to be done.”

“She’s half owner,” Lille pointed out.

“All the more reason I should get busy,” Mary chimed in, and tugged Lille toward the waitress station, where there was a door that led to the kitchen, the storage rooms, and Max’s office.

“We haven’t been here five minutes,” Max heard Lille say.

Lille turned and gave Max a smoldering look over one shoulder.

He shook his head. This was going to be a fucking disaster.

He caught a flash of white from the corner of his eye; he shifted his gaze over to Charlie and the boys, who were sipping their beers and grinning at him like fuckin’ eejits.

Charlie held up a pint to him. “Luck to you, lad. Yer going ta need it.”

“Go fuck yerself,” Max muttered, then stuck the remote into the waistband of his jeans and followed the women into the back room, where Angel and Luis, his cooks, were hanging out of the doorway to the main kitchen, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of Lille.

“Get to work, lads,” Max told them.

“Man, did you see—” Angel began.

“I saw,” Max cut him off.

“Is she—”

“—a pain in the ass,” Max finished for him. “Yes. Now get to work. It’ll be packed in another hour.”

They disappeared back into the kitchen, talking to each other in Spanish. Max spoke enough Spanish to know that they were still talking about the beautiful blonde they wanted to bend over the prep table—which wasn’t a bad idea, really. He wouldn’t mind bending her over the table, either, right between the bowls of chopped potatoes and onions that were going into the shepherd’s pie.

Max served simple food at the pub, fish and chips, burgers, corned beef and cabbage—typical shite people expected when visiting an Irish pub, whether it was in New York, Nebraska, or South Florida. He didn’t quite understand it himself—he preferred Mario’s Cuban sandwiches or a good steak. It wasn’t as if anyone had ever cooked for him in Ireland, either. He’d mostly fended for himself when he was young.

When he passed the women’s restroom, he heard Mary’s voice: “Your feet are going to hurt after a night in those boots. They’re too heavy.”

“Some pain is worth it,” he heard Lille say darkly, and he felt the hair on his arms stand on end.

That was his cue to get back behind the bar. He didn’t even know why he’d followed them. And Charlie and the rest couldn’t be trusted not to help themselves to the Guinness.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, smelling the braided leather of the bracelet he wore—a welcome antidote to the perfume that trailed in Lille’s wake—before turning on his heel and heading back to the safety of the bar. When all else failed, there was beer and the company of men. He was sure that should be a famous quote. If it wasn’t, he was going to have it made into a sign that he would hang above the damn door.

CHAPTER
Six

His wrists were perfect, Lille decided, somewhat disgruntled. She’d been watching Max pull pints beside her for most of the night, and his wrists, one of them wrapped tantalizingly with a braided leather band, were da Vinci machines of precision and grace. The man poured a Guinness the way Martha Stewart iced a cake, and that bitch could ice.

The bar was crowded with people from Hollywood and nearby Ft. Lauderdale, most of them in the pub to see a band from Shreveport called Super Water Sympathy. Bands played most nights, usually locals or kids from the high school, but the bigger groups were reserved for Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. The music was usually fun and loud more than unique, but this band had edgy lyrics and a great lead. Lille enjoyed herself in a way that she hadn’t since her engagement to Paul. He hadn’t liked crowds much, sometimes refusing to go out at all, but Lille loved them. She loved the way the beat vibrated in her chest, almost as if her heart were powered by the music, while lights flashed and people waved hands and shouted to be heard. She felt secure in her position behind the bar, where people could look but not touch, secure in a way she wouldn’t have been in the crowd, so she smiled as she scooped ice and poured and pressed the button on the soda dispenser until her thumb was sore. She hadn’t worked in a bar since her first days in San Francisco, when she’d worked days in the store and nights at a bar down the street.