Running in Place (Mending Hearts) Page 3

  Helen’s lips tip up slightly as she watches Noah behind the bar just before bringing her eyes to meet mine. “Well, honey, I would dare say that my Noah is very protective of you.”

  Surprised, my eyes immediately fall to the huge diamond present on her left hand. Her Noah?

  Oh, this is good. Mr. Perfect fraternizing with patrons of the bar. Older, married patrons.

  “Your Noah?” I snicker. “Well, if that’s the case, he’s all yours. You can have him. I can’t stand him.”

  Helen laughs softly under her breath. “Well dear, I’m married, so I don’t think that’s a possibility. I just like to flirt a little. No harm in that. But even if I were single and much, much younger, I couldn’t have him. You see, that boy’s already taken. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  Okay, so Helen’s a little off her rocker.

  As my beer comes into view, I reach out to snatch it, curling my fingers around the base and bringing it to my lips while maintaining my eye contact with her.

  “Really? Interesting. I feel sorry for that person,” I say, taking a long draw from the bottle. I break my gaze at her to watch Noah pour the remainder of what looks like a Cosmo from the shaker into a fresh martini glass.

  A loud cackle escapes her as she reaches forward, taking her drink from Noah. A hint of a smile barely appears on his face, and surprisingly, I can’t help but grin as well. It’s the most awful laugh I’ve ever heard in my life. I find it oddly hilarious.

  Noah’s brown eyes slowly drift away from hers to mine, the barely there smile still present on his face. As soon as our eyes meet, a blush creeps into my cheeks and my grin fades just a little.

  Maybe it’s the tequila starting to work its magic. Maybe it’s the softening of his normally tightened features. Or maybe it’s the fact that I just realized that he has a dimple in his left cheek.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile — ever.

  As the flush continues to spread across my face, I hold his stare. In this moment, he seems so young. Relaxed. Human, even.

  But it soon passes as I watch the ease in his face disappear, slowly solidifying into its typical concrete scowl. His deep brown eyes once again narrow as he takes another glimpse at the shot glasses in front of me. I can barely see them through the thick barrier of black lashes guarding them. His lips tighten in frustration — again, no idea why — before he brings his steely gaze back to me.

  “Take it easy tonight, Tatum. I’ve got enough going on right now. I really don’t need any trouble from you.” He dips his head down to the bar top. “And with two tequila shots down in less than fifteen minutes, it doesn’t look promising. Pace yourself.”

  My eyes triple in size. I look at Mrs. Harris and then back at Noah in disbelief.

  Who the hell does he think he is? My daddy? I don’t think so.

  Standing up on the bottom rung of the bar stool, I place both hands flat on the bar and lean across so that we’re eye-to-eye before speaking. “I’m a grown woman, Noah. I don’t need you to tell me what I can and can’t drink. I’m also a paying customer tonight, not your lowly employee, so back off. I’ve had a hell of a night, and you’re about to make it a million times worse — for the both of us. So please, cut the judgmental bullshit.”

  Surprise flashes briefly in his eyes, but he quickly recovers. His triceps flex as he presses both palms face down on the bar top, stretching his long body forward, closing the remaining distance between us. He casts a quick glance down at my mouth before shaking his head. “Grown woman?” He snickers. “Right.”

  My gaze tightens, and I feel my lips purse as my jaw sets with extreme aggravation. I open my mouth to speak, but when his eyes break from mine, only to end up on my lips once again, I lose my words. My heart begins to pound within my chest, distributing even more warmth throughout my cheeks. After a few seconds, the corner of his mouth barely tips up and his eyes soften slightly before he pushes himself off the bar. Throwing his towel over his shoulder, he finally tears his stare away from my mouth, flicking one last glance to my eyes before turning away from me towards the order printing by the wait station.

  In a daze, I remain standing on the bottom rung of the stool, still leaning across the bar top, staring completely open-mouthed into the space that was just occupied by Noah.

  What the hell was that?

  Another loud, shrieking cackle jars me abruptly from my thoughts. Slowly, my eyes float over to Mrs. Harris, who’s in the process of laughing while dipping her head in Noah’s direction. “See what I mean? Definitely taken,” she adds as her cell phone rings from the inside of her purse. Reaching over the back of the stool, she grabs the handle to open it, removing the phone now blaring Simon and Garfunkel’s Mrs. Robinson as a ring tone, winking back at me before answering the call.

  “Hey, hun. No, it’s okay. I’m ready to go, although, I have a feeling I’m going to miss out on an interesting show later.” A calculating grin spreads across her face when my eyes widen. “Taking care of the bill now. I’ll meet you outside in a few minutes. Mmm-hmm. Love you too. Bye.”

  After sliding her finger across the screen, she drops her phone back in her purse and signals to Noah from across the bar. I feel his presence approaching, but choose to keep watching her in an effort to avoid any more awkward moments between the two of us. I have no idea what the hell that was just now, but there’s no way it’s going to happen again.

  Just to make sure, I keep my eyes on Mrs. Harris until she walks out the door. Damn it. I need something new to look at now — or something to drink so I just don’t give a shit anymore. Taking a chance, I brave another look at Noah, relieved to find he’s busy.

  I watch him shaking some concoction in the silver shaker between his hands. My eyes graze slowly along the sinewy muscles in his arms as he works. From the tightened cords that make up his forearms, all the way to the shoulders that flex each time he moves, I’m completely mesmerized watching him. And the tightening of his muscle-fit polo across his chest isn’t helping.

  I’m once again jolted out of my disturbing thoughts when a huge purple monstrosity slams down beside me. There’s only one person I know with a huge purple Mary Poppins carpetbag for a purse. I swear she keeps floor lamps and plants in there too.

  Turning my head slowly, I watch my best friend as she takes the seat next to me. Hair in pig-tails, two dimples sinking deeply into her face, and the same short-ass shorts she should have been busted for wearing to work the other night are the first things I notice about her. After a longer look, I also note that she took the time to change out of her work shirt, into a yellow sequined tube top that shows off her bronzed skin, and I suddenly get the feeling we’re staying here for a while.

  “Tate, you okay?” she asks breathlessly, no doubt from the purple sack of rocks she’s just flung on the bar top. “I’m so pissed about Cash. I can’t believe he did that to you! Asshole.”

  She raises her hand, calling attention to Daniel who must have stepped in for Noah, who’s no longer behind the bar. Thank God.

  “I’ve got you girl. Don’t worry about a thing. I told Daniel to get him out of here so we can do some damage, but we’re going to have to hurry. We sent him to find Trace, who just left to pick up Harlow. That buys us some time, but not a lot.”

  As she orders a round of tequila shots and two Long Islands for the both of us, I zone out, thinking about tonight.

  First, I’m deserted by my shithead boyfriend — again.

  Second, I meet Mrs. Harris who likes to imply that Noah is taken, by whom I’m not totally sure, but I think she’s insinuating it’s me, which is ludicrous.

  Third, between the shots of tequila and the implications of Mrs. Harris, I can’t seem to keep my eyes off of Noah, who suddenly seems to be infatuated with my mouth.

  As soon as the shot glasses fly in front of me, I down them both, taking Sadie’s in the process.

  Numb. That’s what I plan on being tonight. No more anger, no more questions, no more t
hinking.

  Just numb.

  Starting now.

  Where the hell is Trace? I’ve been sent on a mission to find him, but with every second that ticks by, I get more anxious. I feel as if I’ve been deliberately led astray.

  Looking down at my watch, I realize that I’ve been gone from the bar for almost half an hour. Definitely not a good sign.

  After taking one more pass by his office, I give up my search and head back to the bar. I don’t like leaving Tatum there by herself with Sadie, who’s probably been pouring shots down her throat in my absence. I know I’m supposed to be keeping my distance, but there’s just something about her that I’m drawn to, and I’m seemingly defenseless against it. There’s a part of me that’s just overcome with the need to protect her, mainly from her own masochistic tendencies.

  Turning the corner, my eyes scan the bar for Tatum until I find her. With her arm draped over Sadie’s shoulders, she’s yelling something over the music.

  She looks…wasted. When the hell did that happen?

  Picking up the pace, I make my way towards the bar just as Tatum turns her neck, glaring at me over her shoulder, the look on her face clearly indicating that she’s not happy my mission has been aborted.

  Well, too fucking bad.

  Just as I’m about two feet from my destination, my path is blocked by blonde hair, a pouty expression, and massive attitude. Ryder.

  “I’ve been looking for you forever,” she whines. “Where have you been? I needed you to comp some stuff for my table. Daniel messed up every single drink they ordered, which isn’t really surprising since his head seems to be up Sadie’s ass.” She turns to stare at Tatum, who’s now dancing with Sadie, drink in hand. “What the hell are they still doing here anyway? They’re such losers.”

  She twirls her hair around her finger and smacks her gum while eyeing them. Turning back to me, she places her hand on her hip and just stares at me. Impatiently, I try to move around her, but she steps in front of me, yapping some more, but not before she grazes her chest against mine. “Noah. Are you listening?”

  Grumbling inwardly, I take in a deep breath. I don’t have time for this shit. “Ryder, I need to get back to work. Can you move please?” She looks back over her shoulder at Tatum, who’s now started dancing way too seductively with Sadie to David Guetta’s Sexy Bitch as it begins to play over the sound system. I need to catch this before it gets out of control. Before she gets out of control.

  Trying once again to step around her, Ryder moves herself again into my path. “No, you need to comp my drinks. What’s the big rush anyway? Daniel’s got the bar covered — obviously, judging by those two.” She tilts her head and waits for me to respond. Unfortunately, I can’t take my eyes off of Tatum. Or her ass. Those shorts are too goddamn short.

  From the corner of my eye, I watch as two dickwads start moving in her direction. That’s when I decide it’s time to make a break for it. I need to get over there.

  Placing my hand on Ryder’s shoulder, I brush her to the side as gently as I can with her resisting me. “Noah!” is the last thing I hear before I tune her out, because the only thing I can focus on right now is the fact that one of those dickwad’s hands has molded itself right onto Tatum’s ass. My blood pressure skyrockets and my feet step it up triple time. Marching up to them, I deliberately slam Dickwad Number One’s shoulder with mine. Tatum stumbles back a bit, and I try to reign in the anger seething through my entire body as I watch him cop another feel, but the second his hand cups her left ass cheek, all control is lost.

  “Hand. Off. Her. Ass. Now.”

  Fists balled at my sides, I’m more than ready to throw down if I need to. But, when she turns to face me, Dickwad finally releases her and steps two full paces away. Smart. My hands instinctively relax on their own, but I make sure to crack my neck slowly for further emphasis. After he moves an additional four feet away from her, my attention falls solely onto Tatum. “What the fuck happened to you?”

  I move my gaze to glare at Sadie who is once again trying to pull puppy-dog eyes, but that shit is not going to work this time. My eyes form into slits as I shake my head at her.

  “Nice, Sadie. I’m glad that you accomplished your goal of getting her completely obliterated tonight. Was that the plan all along when you guys sent me on a wild Trace chase?” I jerk my head at Daniel, who’s pretending not to listen to this conversation. Well, at least he’s making drinks.

  Tatum moves herself between me and Sadie, losing her balance — again. I place my hand under her elbow to support her, but she jerks her arm away. “What the fuck happened to me? What the fuck happened to you?” she yells above the music. If I weren’t so pissed right now I would laugh. That doesn’t even make sense.

  “I’m fine. I’m always fine, Noah,” she slurs while waving her arms in the air. “I don’t know why you feel like you have to say something about everything! Jesus!”

  She turns to Sadie. “Can we just dance, please? Screw him.”

  Sadie apologetically glances back at me before nodding her response. After watching them for a while I eventually head back behind the bar, making sure to glare another warning to Dickwad Number One the entire way. I think he finally gets the point.

  As soon as I round the corner, a pair of tan legs and cowboy boots climb their way onto the bar top. My eyes find the ceiling and I take a deep breath in preparation for the absolute hell that’s about to break loose.

  Wrapping my fingers around the leather of her boot, I squeeze like a vise out of frustration. “Tatum. Get your ass off the bar. Now.”

  She looks down at me, her crystalline blue eyes glazed over as her long dark hair falls over her shoulders. “I can’t help it, Noah. I’m a sexy bitch,” she laughs. “And I need to dance — as every sexy bitch should.”

  As her hips begin to sway slowly to the beat, cat calls begin to break loose throughout the bar and Dickwads Number One and Two fall into place right underneath her while flashing dollar bills.

  How dense are these motherfuckers?

  Slamming my towel over the sink, I release her from my grasp, once again forced to leave my station behind the bar to try to find Trace. Maybe he can talk some sense into her drunken ass, although it’s highly doubtful. She’s evidently on a mission tonight.

  “Noooooooah! I need you!” My teeth grate and my jaw clenches as my eyes close in an effort to fend off the inevitable. Turning slowly to Ryder who could not be further up my ass tonight for some reason, I’m once again reminded to never, ever, ever sleep with chicks from work. Ever. Or to take them up on ride offers because I’m undoubtedly stuck with her shit for the rest of the night.

  “Ryder,” I say as pleasantly as possible. “I will be with you in one second. I’m in the middle of an emergency right now, but I promise, I will get with you as soon as everything calms down.” I chance a glance at Tatum over Ryder’s head. She’s still standing on the bar, but she’s no longer dancing. Still as a statue, her eyes gaze over the crowd with her mouth wide-open. My stare follows across the bar in the path of hers, until they land on a gap-toothed hillbilly douchebag with his arm around some platinum blonde chick’s waist. Cash.

  I quickly cast my glance back to Tatum, whose mouth is no longer open, but tightly sealed with her lips pressed together in a thin line. Then, I watch as her crazy switch flips. Her eyes ignite with fury as she turns her back to the crowd in front of her and jumps behind the bar — pretty deftly actually — the adrenaline no doubt fueling her new-found coordination. After opening the door where the reserve liquor is stored, she reappears a second later, with a devilish and eerily calm smile spreading across her face as she exits from behind the bar. Sadie attempts to grab her shoulder, but Tatum shrugs her off as she strides toward the exit. A whirling flash of silver catches my eye as she tosses an object into the air, catching it in the palm of her hand just before the front door slams behind her. My eyes lose her at that point, but the irony that Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is now blaring over the s
ound system seems to serve as some kind of sick warning.

  This is so not good.

  Once again, I push Ryder to the side, gently of course, hearing her huff as I book it towards the exit door as fast as my work boots will carry me. Throwing it open, I end up in the parking lot, my eyes frantically searching the rows of cars for any sign of Tatum. Sadie’s high-pitched shriek catches my attention. “Tatum O’Connell! Do not do this! He’s not worth your ass goin’ to jail!”

  What the fuck?

  Swiftly turning the corner, I skid to a halt when I see Tatum standing in the bed of a navy blue, 4x4 Chevy Silverado truck, her fingers curled around the grip of the baseball bat that’s supposed to be tucked safely behind the bar with an inebriated, lopsided smile on her face.

  “Noah! Get her out of there, please! She’s gonna hurt herself!” Sadie pleads, once again with the damn puppy dog eyes. Just as I open my mouth to try to talk some sense into Tatum, three things all happen at once, seemingly in slow motion.

  Several footsteps are heard behind me followed by “YOU BITCH!” As I twist my body to see Cash running up, still with his arm around bouffant Barbie — idiot — I see the headlights from Trace’s truck turning toward all the commotion while Tatum yells from behind me, “Happy One Fucking Year Anniversary, Asshole!” The sound of glass shattering all over the place follows with Sadie screaming her head off nearly drowning it out.

  I turn back towards Tatum, who’s now laughing while tears are running down her cheeks. Blood begins to trickle down her arms and legs from where shards of glass have embedded themselves into her skin. While my natural instinct is to run to her, protecting her is my first priority. So, instead, I immediately hook my arm around Cash’s neck when he tries to pass by me and drag his ass towards the bar.

  “I’m going to fuckin’ kill you! Bitch!” he yells over my shoulder at Tatum while I force him backwards. Once we’re at the back exit, I throw him against the building, moving my forearm into his throat directly under his chin and pinning him about three inches above the ground. After a couple of futile seconds of him resisting me, I clench my teeth as I deliver my warning.