I exploded into a room that was only slightly brighter than the hallway I’d just emerged from. It certainly looked like the kind of place someone would go when they were looking for trouble. The walls matched the door—flat, black paint—although the smell of smoke was so overpowering I wondered if the walls were also shellacked with an inch-thick layer of nicotine. There were no tables or chairs, no mirrors or pictures, only a stage of questionable construction to the right of me and to the left stood a waist-high bar behind where bottles filled with clear or gold liquid were staggered on shelves and several untapped kegs were propped up on barstools.
“Boooon-jour, Mmmmm-Mademoiselle,” called out a voice that was as French as it was courteous. A man carrying a keg flashed a smile that was all ego in my direction before heaving the keg on the bar.
“Did you see someone pass through—”
“American,” he said, sounding pleased. He wiped his hands off on his jeans and hooked his leg under a bar-stool and slid it over, taking a seat. “Californian, if my male radar isn’t off.” He scanned me up and down and then winked.
And I’d wager my female radar that he’d never put a foot in California. It seemed men who hadn’t experienced the state except through television and their imaginations thought all Californian women were tall, thin, and edgy. Those that had visited knew the women were also gorgeous, blonde, and rich—none of which I was.
“New Jersey?” I snapped back, looking him head to toe in much the same way he’d just looked at me.
He grinned. “Attitude—definitely Californian. I like that in a woman.”
I glared. “Ego—definitely Jersey. I hate that in a man.”
He laughed, slapping his thigh. “I concede. I hail from Jersey, but I now call this seedy excuse for a bar home.”
I didn’t hold a lot of stock in stereotypes, but the man before me fit each and every one I’d heard of New Jersey boys. The orange tan, the hair styled as if each strand had been carefully placed, the painted on t-shirt, and the ego that stifled the room of air.
“Your turn,” he said, nodding his head at me. “Where you from, sugar?”
I hated I had to affirm his assumption. “Santa Cruz,” I muttered, scanning around the room, knowing if he’d been here, William was long gone. I couldn’t even picture him in this place with its filthy walls and sticky floors.
He clapped his hands together. “Boy, I’m good.”
I shot him one more glare before turning to leave.
“Hey,” he called out, interrupting my retreat. “Did you say you were looking for someone?”
“Nope,” I replied, not about to confess to him that I was looking for the man I loved, but had abandoned after nearly killing him, and, oh yeah, he just so happened to be Immortal. So not going there. “I was looking for something.”
“Oh,” I heard the bar-stool screech against the floor and his voice was nearer when he spoke next. “What were you looking for?”
I exhaled my annoyance. Persistent . . . so New Jersey. I had to give California boys points for walking away when a girl ignored them, whether or not it was a game of hard-to-get. There were other bikini-clad beauties in the sea. “A job.” I spun around to find him only several strides behind me. “But since I don’t see any of those hanging out around here, I’ll be on my merry way, thank you.”
“A job, huh?” he said, sounding every bit as New Jersey as he looked. “This must be your lucky day.”
The word lucky had never been one I’d used to describe my life, at least pre and post William. “Why’s that?”
He leaned against the hall and crossed his arms. “One of my bartenders got herself knocked-up and just started to show,” he said, sounding inconvenienced. “I just let her go, so I’ve got a bartender opening as of . . .”—he consulted his blinged-out watch—“ten minutes ago—give or take.”
“Thanks, but this isn’t really my scene,” I replied, pointing with my eyes around the hall.
“Too good for the Rue St. Jersey, are we?”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” he asked, knowing he’d called it for what it was. “You need a job, I’m handing you one.” His eyebrows peaked. “No thanks even required.”
I cleared my throat, stalling. “I really don’t think I’m qualified.”
“Please,”—he threw his arms in the air—“you know how to tap a keg?”
“No,” I answered truthfully.
His face lined with surprise. “You know the difference between tequila and vodka?”
“They’re different colors,” I said, hating how straight-laced I sounded.
He laughed as if he couldn’t figure me out. Rubbing his chin, he asked, “You know how to pour a shot?”
I hadn’t, but I was beginning to feel like he was teasing now. “I scored a 2200 on my SAT’s,” I said, crossing my arms and taking a step towards him. “I think I can figure it out.”
“And there’s that attitude again,” he said. “The customers are going to love you.”
Realizing too late I’d somehow conceded to his job offer, I tried to brainstorm some way I could back-track my way out of this one.
“When can you start?” he asked, turning to head back down the hall.
I could think of a few hundred jobs I’d rather do than bartend in this place for this guy—scrubbing toilets at a trucker stop was on that list—but knowing I was fighting for my life, as empty as it was, I answered, “Immediately.”