Serving Trouble(8)

Damn war follows me everywhere.

He suspected the noise was part of the reason Chad and Lena had headed out to their truck. Lena, a West Point grad, had served two tours in Afghanistan, and now she relied on her ser­vice dog to navigate her PTSD. A bar overflowing with college kids and house music was too much for her. But Josh still hadn’t turned up and they were determined to wait for the youngest Summers brother.

Noah handed over a beer with a forced smile and scanned the room for Josie. She’d looked ready to crumble after taking Travis’s order. One glance at her pale face and Noah had been tempted to start a fight in his own bar. He’d told himself not to bother. He didn’t need to play the hero. Not here. Not for her.

But he’d abandoned his post behind the bar and found himself at Travis’s table by the time he’d finished telling himself to stay away. He’d threatened to break the other man’s nose a second time if the lazy, unemployed ass didn’t leave. Travis must have heard the rumors about Noah returning home unhinged and mad as hell, because Josie’s ex had left. Sure, Travis had called him crazy. But the words had bounced off Noah as he’d headed for the back room.

Eyes on the busy bar, he caught sight of Josie. She was fighting her way through the mass of ­people with a tray of drinks for the corner booth. The crowd parted for her, the women offering a friendly smile and the guys—­shit, they moved out of the way to get a better look at her curves. Even that black dress, better suited for an office than a bar, couldn’t hide the fact that her breasts were fit for a fantasy.

Or maybe that was just his wicked imagination wanting something he couldn’t have now that she was wearing a Big Buck’s apron. Hell, these kids probably smiled at her just to be freaking nice to the woman distributing the drinks. He was the one who took one look at her chest and daydreamed about her breasts stripped free from that dress. And yeah, he was also the one who’d abandoned “nice” when he’d walked away from the marines.

He’d tried those first few months back. He’d smiled at every damn person in The Three Sisters. Most of the time. Once he’d walked away before getting his lunch. He’d bit his lip when men like Frank, who’d fought long before him, offered a simple thank you. Hell, he’d even tried flirting while volunteering at the Willamette Valley Gun Club. He’d dusted off his charm for Lena, pissing off both Chad and her ser­vice dog.

Now he didn’t give a damn if everyone thought he was an ass. The things he’d done, the ­people he’d fought for, and the ones he’d been forced to call enemy had smashed his idea of good and bad. He lived in the grey area. Aside from keeping this bar running, a blow and a beer topped his list of wants.

Josie tapped a tipsy fool on the shoulder as she fought her way to her customers. Hell, he didn’t want his best friend’s little sister serving him a beer . . .

“Hey, man, I need three light beers. Whatever’s cheap,” a freckle-­faced kid called.

Noah turned and retrieved the drinks. He set the bottles on the bar. And then it happened. One quick glance at Josie—­because damn, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her—­and he saw a tall, built guy stumble right into Josie’s filled tray. She fought to keep the cups balanced and failed. Three vodka tonics spilled down the front of her dress.

Noah moved to the side of the bar and lifted the slab of wood that separated his domain from the rest of the room.

“Hey, you didn’t open these!” the guys who’d ordered the beers called out.

He didn’t answer. He headed straight for Josie, pushing his way through the crowd. The jackass who’d pushed her had stumbled away. And she’d bent down to collect the cups on the ground.

“Leave it,” he growled when he arrived at her side. “I’ll send someone to pick it up.”

“I can do it.” She set the tray on the floor and reached for a plastic cup. As a rule, he stopped using the glassware after eight to avoid broken glasses everywhere. Also, he didn’t have a dishwasher at the moment, which was starting to look like a damn good thing. If she’d been carrying glass . . . hell, he could picture broken pieces nestled between her breasts, cutting into her skin . . .

He took her arm and drew her up from the ground. “You’re wet.”

“And I smell like a vodka,” she said with a laugh, holding the tray covered in empty cups. “Can you make new ones? Without charging them? I can cover the cost of the ones I spilled.”

“They can wait for new drinks or go to the bar,” he said as he led her through the crowd, toward the door to the back room. He pushed his way into the quiet storage area.