“That’s not exactly how it works, but he’s got the gist of it.”
Her mouth dropped wide open. “There’s a bar like that right around the corner and you didn’t tell me?”
“It’s not your kind of scene.”
Sometimes his big-brother instincts made him almost insufferable. “So do you think it should be shut down?”
“Of course not. Connor is strict as hell about who gets into the bar. Whatever goes on inside is consensual, and I believe everyone has a right to make their own choices.”
“Except me, is that it?”
“A place like that isn’t going to fix things for you, Em.”
Inhaling deeply, she counted to ten and then exhaled, trying to remember that Chris was her twin and therefore entitled to more than a little brotherly concern. Sometimes though, she wondered if he was convinced she’d be better off in a padded room somewhere. Emory placed the final touches on the arrangement and tied a pink bow around the neck of the vase. It was ready to be put in the cooler with the rest of the flowers for the weekend wedding.
Chris snagged her shoulder when she started to stand. “I’m not saying you can’t make your own decisions.”
“But you think I’m defenseless and easy to take advantage of, is that it?”
“You went through so much when we were kids. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
“I can’t be a victim forever, Chris. At some point I’ve got to get over it and move on. I need to move on. I’ve tried and tried, and I keep failing. A place like that might offer me some different options.”
Chris took a breath to answer back, but Emory ignored him. She flung open the cooler door. A cold wave of floral fragrance hit her in the face and raised goose bumps on her arms. She carefully placed the newest arrangement on the shelf with the others waiting for the upcoming nuptials.
It was ironic really. She spent most of her time on elaborate wedding arrangements. Emory specialized in bouquets to complement blushing brides, neutralize horrific bridesmaid dresses, and accessorize a church or reception hall. On the other end of the spectrum, her twin negotiated their divorces. Factor in her parents’ lopsided marriage and an abusive, holy-rolling father, and it was no wonder Emory Banks was confused about the nature of love, sex, and relationships.
Chapter Two
Emory had to take a step back and double-check the dim red sign illuminating the main entrance of the crumbling two-story brick structure. It was no wonder she’d walked past the place half a dozen times without ever noticing that it was a bar. It looked like a derelict building.
A few cracks of light seeped around the edges of the dark blinds on the second story. The first-floor windows were all painted black. The massive front doors were a double helping of ancient wood that looked as if they had survived flood, fire, and an invading army in their time. Taking a deep breath, Emory put her shoulder into a door and pushed her way inside.
She found herself in what amounted to an empty box. The soles of her chunky combat boots squeaked on the scuffed tile floor. Less than a dozen paces away the empty box gave way to what appeared to be a large, dimly lit room. A chain-link barrier stretched floor to ceiling between the box and the bar, blocking access. Standing between Emory and the barrier was a man playing the part of a troll guarding the bridge.
Emory supposed that most women would find him attractive, if they were drawn to the muscular type. The guy had a classic bouncer build: over six foot tall, somewhere under three hundred pounds of solid muscle mass, tousled short black hair, and blue eyes. He was good-looking enough, just not Emory’s type.
“You got ID?” His voice held the hint of an accent, but she couldn’t place it in three murmured words.
Emory slid the narrow wallet that held her ID and her cash for the evening from the hip pocket of her baggy black cargos. The waistband sat several inches below her navel, and the effect of her hand shoved into her pocket sent the pants skidding an inch or so lower. She flashed her driver’s license and tried not to look as young and inexperienced as she felt.
“Enjoy.”
The bridge troll swung open a door, and Emory stepped down into Phoenix Rising for the first time.
Her first impression was that of a real bar. This was not some upscale martini bar or one of MacIntyre’s generic sports bars. This was a place people came to drink, socialize, and get away from the everyday grind.
It was still early for a Friday evening, but the main room was well over half full. Men and women lounged at tables and chairs scattered haphazardly throughout the room. An old-fashioned, mahogany bar dominated the center of the back wall. Its mirrored back reflected shelves holding hundreds of bottles of liquor of every variety imaginable. The area between Emory and the bar was open. Fans twirled in lazy circles, stirring the smoky air hovering near the ceiling. On either side of the main room, the wings sat like the sides of an H. Intimately arranged tables occupied by bar patrons were wreathed in shadow. Emory strained her eyes to try and see what hid beyond the light, to see if what she’d heard was true.