Chasing Peace Read Online Free

her
benefit.
    She isn’t likeable or confident or happy and she’s single
when she’d rather be married. The chance to have children is quickly passing
her by. I’d feel sorry for her except I’m at her mercy right now as she
threatens my livelihood. I’m not worried, but that doesn’t mean I want her
hanging out near me at the bar all night.
    Adding the cherry, I pass over the drink as the first
strains of “Lady in Red” float from the piano. This is my reprieve.
    “I think he’s playing for you. Why don’t you head over to
the piano and I’ll have a waitress set up a tab.”
    “You think?” Now shiny and eager, the sarcasm gone, she
questions without confidence.
    “He’s looking right at you. Go enjoy the music.”
    Sliding off her stool, she saunters over to the piano. I
feel bad for the piano man, guilt like a chunk of ice taking up residence in my
gut. I did a terrible thing to a new coworker and even worse, the “lady in red”
stayed at the piano all evening trying to sink her claws into the poor guy. Now
I’m in his debt.
    The night finally slowed after midnight. I dry glasses while
Lyla washes. “So whaddya think of our new piano player?”
    “I think I did him wrong, throwing him to the wolves on his
first day,” I confess, recounting my interaction with the “lady in red” who is,
as we speak, half sprawled on the piano, her red skirt stretched tight over her
ass pointed in our direction.
    “Looks like he can hold his own,” she says, the gravel in
her voice crunching with disappointment.
    My eyes slide sideways wondering what she didn’t say, but
Lyla turns away. “Let me grab a smoke before you take off. Okay?”
    * * *
    Saturdays are always slower nights. You’d think the
opposite, but we don’t cater to people who while away the hours in self
indulgence. Our hotel serves business travelers and they like to be home on
Saturday nights leaving us quiet and lonely. Don’t get me wrong, we still have
guests. There are plenty of people ready for a little self-indulgence, but not
nearly as many as we see on Fridays. So it’s a little slow tonight.
    I make it to the midpoint of my shift without dying of
boredom. I’m not quite as sure I’ll make it through the last half, especially
when Logan walks in.
    “Oh shit.” I freeze, wanting to duck down behind the bar so
he can’t see me, but I remain glued in position, frozen. It’s like fate demands
the confrontation, whether I want it or not. Distress seethes and then flares
into flame licking at me, consuming me, piece by piece until there’s nothing
left. I tried to put it behind me, but in reality three or four months will
never be long enough. A lifetime isn’t even long enough.
    Logan spots me and veers my way. I can’t move. He’s an all-American
boy. Tall and gorgeous with thick blonde hair and bright blue eyes. His
features have the symmetry of Adonis. Perfect spacing between the eyes, a
straight slope to his nose, lips chiseled, a cajoling smile that can melt a
heart across the room, mine included.
    His years as an athlete gave his body a similar symmetry.
Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist. Long legs prowl toward me. Biceps and
deltoids bulge with strength. Slabs of prominent muscle coil, ready to strike.
Logan stands tall and proud and beautiful. Is it right to call a man beautiful?
No matter, it’s beyond true.
    Everything comes easy to Logan. He’s an only child and his
parents indulge him. Life proved carefree. I imagine that’s why he finds it so
easy to take what he wants, consequences be damned. I last saw him at Emma’s
funeral in May. He arrived angry then too. As I watch his approach today, fists
clenched, a grim militant slant to his lips, tension barely leashed, he’s angry
still. I can’t blame him. I’m angry too.
    As he approached, I dismiss the threatening inferno building
in his eyes. He has no more claim to anger than do I. It dominates, but he does
not. He made his choice and I moved on