looked up, trying to compose herself. She’d seen this guy before. The bartenders had a nickname for every customer. They called this one Mr. Sleazy. She suddenly realized he could have been Oliphant’s older brother. The too-bronze tan, the overly highlighted hair and the sucked-gut vanity that begged you to believe he was twenty-five instead of forty.
“Sure.” She slid the cell phone under the bar and smiled. “What’s in a Slim Spiffy besides cherries?”
Mr. Sleazy leaned in, and she got a whiff of his breath. Oh. So that was a Slim Spiffy. Gin, cranberry juice, orange slices and the guarantee that, before the night was over, he’d puke his guts out into the sand.
Her smile stiffened. His eyes probably weren’t nice on his best day, and this was definitely not his best day. Tiny red spiders crawled across the whites, and the pupils didn’t quite track. She felt her hand begin to tremble again. She hated mean drunks. Jim Oliphant had been a very, very mean drunk.
“Just cherries,” he said, then flicked his tongue over his lower lip. “That’s all I’m interested in. The boys and I made a little bet over there. About whether you’ve still got one.”
Kitty considered pretending she didn’t understand. That was usually her first resort. But she could already feel her blood in her ears. It sounded like the incoming tide. He couldn’t imagine what a really bad time he’d picked to get nasty. She needed this job, but she was inches from either bursting into tears or breaking his ugly nose.
They’d both get her disciplined, but the nose option would at least feel good. She hadn’t cried in eight years, and, by God, she didn’t intend to start tonight.
She scanned the tables, the dance floor, even the artificially lit beach, looking for Jill. Jill actually thought this guy was cute. And Jill owed her—Kitty had covered for her about half a dozen times lately, when Jill wanted to slip out with some hunky customer she’d just met.
But Jill was nowhere to be seen. As usual. That meant the bouncer, one of Jill’s lovers this week, was also MIA.
“Look, the bar always has plenty of cherries,” Kitty said, though her teeth would hardly open to let the words through. “Let that be enough, okay? Just play nice, and tell me what’s—”
“No, no, not the bar.” He winked. “See, honey, we’re thinking you can’t be more than, what…maybe nineteen? We think that green hair, that eyebrow ring…they’re just for show, to cover up that baby face. Come on, baby face. We think maybe you’ve still got a cherry.”
Bastard.
She was twenty-six years old, and felt every year of it, so the “nineteen” comment was pure hogwash. And “baby face” was what Jim Oliphant had loved to call her.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Well, let’s see, honey. What I’ve got…I’ve got a low tolerance for butt-ugly morons and a big, fat can of pepper spray.” She glanced at his crotch. “Any of that make you feel spiffy, Slim?”
His bloodshot eyes hardened as he processed the insult. “What the—” He reached out, as if to grab her arm. “I’ll have your job, you little—”
Technically, this wasn’t a problem. She’d been a bartender less than a year, working her way up from waitress. The first thing you learned, though, was how to handle a drunk. But as she saw his meaty hand move toward her, something snapped and she found it hard to breathe. She inhaled, but choked on the tears she’d been trying to hold back. Suddenly all she could see were sparkling crystals, fracturing the colored lights strung between the poles that held up the bar tent.
Oh, God. She was losing it. Where was the bouncer? Fumbling with her apron, she turned, made an inarticulate sound and started to head for the beach.
“Hey!”
She glanced over her shoulder—he was coming around the bar, head lowered like a bull. An icy feeling spread between her shoulder blades.
And then, out of nowhere, another man was standing in his path.
“Steady, now,” she heard the other man say as he put a palm against the charging bull’s chest. “I think the lady needs—”
She didn’t hear the end of the sentence. She saw her chance, and she took it. She walked fast, and then faster, until she was running. She ran beyond the party lights, through the bright landscape spots that turned the incoming tide to a frothy milkshake, and finally into the darkness of the natural night.
Even when she’d left the noisy bar far behind, she didn’t stop. The Sugarwater Resort was built on a crescent-shaped spit of beach, and she blindly traced its eastern curve. When the soft piles of sand got too thick, she kicked off her sandals and continued to run.
Though her lungs burned, she kept going until she found herself where no lowly bartender should be, out at the very tip, beside the luxury cottages that were rented only by the month, only to people who never asked “How much?”
She finally ran out of steam, and beach, at the last stand of palm trees. She looked around, as if she thought there might be another way out, but of course there wasn’t. The ocean was just a yard or two from her toes. Its dull, scraping sweep was louder than the blood that roared in her ears. She tried to focus on the sound. She tried to find something steady, something to hang on to.
But it was hopeless. She’d run as far as she could, as far as there was, and she hadn’t outrun the memories or the fury. Without her permission, hot liquid began to stream down her cheeks. She pushed her fingers against her eyes, as if she could force the tears back.
No, no. She wasn’t this weak. She was tough, and in control of her life, her body, even her tears. She wasn’t afraid of Mr. Sleazy. She wasn’t afraid of any man. She wasn’t afraid of anything.
But damn Jim Oliphant. Damn him for exiling her from the home she loved, the home that held the memories of her father, who would never have let anyone treat her like…
With a strangled sound, she dropped to her knees. The sand gave under her weight, and then, at the last minute, something sharp bit into her skin. Heat flashed up her leg like lightning. She rocked back on one heel, shocked by the pain, and lifted the other shin.
She must have landed on a sharp shell. Or a broken bottle. Blood—it had to be blood, though it looked black in the moonlight—seeped from a curved gash along the fleshy edge of her shin. And it hurt. It hurt like hell.
“Are you okay?”
She looked up, glaring, furious with herself that she hadn’t heard the man approaching her along the beach. What if it had been that sleazy jerk, arriving for another round? Men like that were gluttons for punishment.
But it wasn’t. Instead, it was the man who had stood in his way, giving her a chance to get free. Now that she was thinking clearly, she realized she knew him—all the female bartenders did. Their nickname for this guy was Gorgeous.
Blond. Blue-eyed. Six-one, with the body of a god, and an endearing way of seeming unaware of any of that.
His real name was David Gerard, and for the past few weeks he’d been renting one of the premium cottages, the best of the best, right here on the tip of the crescent. She’d processed his room card a dozen times or more at the bar, but he’d never hit on her. Oddly, he never hit
