Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

JENNIE

Rain slashes angrily across my windshield in heavy sheets. Visibility is nonexistent. I can’t see a damn thing, though I should come up on my turn soon for my rental for the next week. The last time I checked, I don’t recall there being a chance of torrential downpours in the weather forecast, either.

Glancing at my GPS, I still have another ten miles or so until I reach my destination.

I internally cheer at the update. My ass is tired of this seat. I’m ready to unpack and settle in. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for weeks. A quiet week alone in a cozy cabin nestled in the mountains of North Carolina. Just me, my laptop, and some wine. And best part of all, my stalker can’t harass me. I went out of my way to post that I was traveling to the west coast. Even used an old photo of me at the airport to make it appear as if I were flying. Once I left home, I shut my business cell phone off. No one can reach me unless they have my private number. To make sure I’m no contact, I don’t even have social media apps installed, and I refuse to log into my email on this device. I need this trip to go smooth. No distractions. Not to mention there’s my looming deadline to consider. That is the main reason for this excursion. Lately I’ve not been connecting with my characters. This story is due to my editor in two weeks. Now or never. It’s do or die time.

Perhaps I’ve lost my magic. My love for a good story. I can’t put my finger on it, but something is missing. Mindy says it’s my lack of a romantic life. Perhaps that’s true. Hard to write about undying love and happily ever afters if you aren’t very happy. Faking my way through it no longer works the same as it used to. The evidence is in the reviews for my last release.

Readers didn’t love the story. They liked it, which might as well mean they hated it. They thought Roman was too over the top. I never realized there was such a thing when it came to alpha male jerks. Then my leading lady was referred to as cold and bitchy. Unlikable. Bitter. Too cynical. I guess I had a theme.

The rumbling of my stomach reminds me I skipped lunch, and it’s well past time for dinner. I’d hoped to arrive early enough for a trip to the local grocery store, but an accident on the freeway followed by the rain delayed my travel plans. While idling at a red light, I do a quick search for nearby restaurants. The only thing popping up that’s open and located before my turn off is Some Bar. That’s the name.

I hope the kitchen isn’t closed.

There are a few motorcycles parked out front near the door under the glowing red sign that simply reads, SOME BAR.

As soon as I enter, all eyes shift to me. I quickly saunter to the bar, avoiding the curious stares of the other patrons. I hate how paranoid I’ve become since I started getting harassed. Could my stalker have followed me here? Are they sitting in the parking lot waiting for me to get to my cabin so that I’m alone and an easy target to pick off? I don’t enjoy asking anyone for anything, but I knew if I went to my Uncle Slick, he’d make sure I’m looked after.

One of the guys from his club has been following me since I left my house. I spotted him right away. It’s not every day that a Royal Bastard is parked at my curb. Most people would be terrified of a big bad biker following them around, but I’ve never felt safer. For as long as I can remember, my uncle has been tied to the notorious biker club, and I figured he’d call in a favor.

“You lost?” The bartender asks, pulling the towel from his shoulder and polishing the bar in front of the stool I’m settling on. He smiles and places a coaster down, obviously judging me. Like I’m too fancy for his honkytonk establishment. I’m wearing jeans, but maybe it’s my black silky camisole and pearls. I like to feel sexy when I’m working and when you’re a writer and out and about among people. Every moment is a working moment. The possibility for story fabric to weave before your very eyes.

“Is your kitchen open?”

“The grill is closed, but the fryer is still on.”

“That works. What are my options?”

“Tenders, mozzarella sticks, fries, or onion chips. What will it be?”

“Sticks and chips.”

“You got it.” He turns to a small window behind the center of the bar. “Sticks and chips for the lady,” he yells through the opening before turning his attention back to me. “And to drink?”

“I’m driving so a Coke.”

I glance around the bar while he fills a glass with ice, taking in the rustic charm of the place. Metal signs and framed black and white photographs litter the walls. Classic rock hums from the speakers strategically placed around the room. The sound isn’t overpowering, but gentle enough to entertain. Pulling out my phone, I type in some notes for my book about a rough around the edges bartender with dirty blonde hair that reaches just past the ears who wears checkered flannels and dark jeans. I can’t see his shoes, but he’s giving grumpy mountain man vibes. I’ve not even made it to the cabin and already I’m bursting at the seams with inspiration.

As my newest muse slides to the glass filled to the brim onto the coaster and I dare to ask, “is it possible to get this to go?”

He lets out an annoyed grunt, proving my grump theory right. “No problem,” he grumbles, muttering something to himself as he updates Rufus on the status of my order. With a cranky snarl wrinkling his facial features, he pours my drink into a white cup. Observing him, I can’t help but wonder what his story is. What makes him so cantankerous? Is it simply his disposition? Woman or man troubles?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He grumbles, passing my drink back to me.

“What’s your story?”

“My story?”

“You know…what makes you so um…?” I trail off, unable to find the words to tell him he’s kind of hateful in nature in a nice way. I finger the pearl necklace, choking my throat as it feels tighter under his intense glaring.

“An asshole,” someone says from a couple of stools over, followed by barking laughter.

I offer the man a timid smile.

“Pay no mind to Howie. Boy was born with a chip on his shoulder.”

I glance between them, noting that Howie isn’t correcting him.

“You new in town?” The older man questions.

“Only visiting.”

He nods, accepting my answer and resumes nursing his draft beer.

The bartender, or I suppose I should refer to him as Howie, places my to go order on the counter. “Ten fifty.”

I hand him a twenty. “Keep the change.”

The rain has eased up once I leave the bar and head off to the cabin. As I drive, my thoughts keep drifting to Howie and his permanent scowl. I’ll give him a leading lady capable of making him smile.