Free Rogue's Angel (Rogue Series) by Farita Surdare

 
    CHAPTER
     
    One
     

     
    Rain pelted the windows loudly, like someone was standing outside throwing handfuls of BBs at the panes. The wind howled and shrieked around the loosely hung door I was always complaining to the manager about fixing. The wind wasn't quite strong enough to blow it open just yet, but the weatherman on the TV above the bar looked worried as he gestured to the big red spot on the map behind him.
    "Hey, Em! Mind if I take off early? It's Josh's birthday and I want to get home early and surprise him. It's not like anyone's going to come out in this weather anyway," my coworker, Jenny asked over the loud music from the jukebox playing in the corner.
    I shook my head. "Go ahead," I said. I flapped my hand at the door. "I can handle the rest of the night, and if we get a sudden party of bikers or something, Pedro can leave the kitchen and help."
    Jenny gave me the biggest grin. "Thanks, hun! You're the best!" she said. Then she got her purse out from under the shelf under the register and left with a little wave over her shoulder.
    Europe's "The Final Countdown" came on the jukebox. I sighed and shook my head. I turned around and glanced at the bottles lined up along the mirrored shelf behind me. I ducked down and peered at myself in the mirror between the bottles of Midori and Sauza. I reached a hand up to pat my long blond hair down. It always frizzed in the rain. I hated that.
    It was weird to hate stuff. I mean, given where I come from and how I was raised, it just wasn't right to hate anything, not even my hair. I looked myself in the eyes and sighed. My emerald green eyes blinked back at me. I shook my head again and reached for a nearly empty bottle behind the melon liqueur.
    The door opened. I straightened to greet the customer coming in the bar and banged my head on the shelf above me. Bottles rattled. Two fell to the floor and broke open.
    "Ow!" I cried as I rubbed the top of my head. I looked at my hand. It didn't have any blood on it, but man, did my head suddenly hurt bad! I rubbed the sore spot again and turned to the door.
    No one was there.
    "Just the wind," I muttered to myself and looked down at the wet mess at my feet. I sighed and shook my head and went to get the trash can and some rags. I might have to call Pedro out to mop this up.
    Before I could get anything, I heard a voice.
    "Everything OK back there?"
    I looked up. Standing at the bar was the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen, and that's saying something! Between my college campus and my work as a bartender, I saw guys all the time, and none of them had ever come close to looking as good as this guy. I couldn't help but blush and smile like an idiot. I rubbed my head again. "Yeah. What can I get you?"
    His dark chocolate eyes bored into mine. His dark raven black hair was short, but not like military short. Long enough so that his bangs fell into his eyes. He reminded me of a living Ken doll. He was at least 6'4" with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Flat stomach. Whoa. Someone spent a lot of time working out.
    "Whiskey," he said.
    I raised my eyebrows. For some reason I expected him to order a beer like just about every guy I served. Some girls ordered mixed drinks that had whiskey in them, and sometimes the frat boys did shots, but almost never with whiskey. They liked Jager and cheap tequila. "Any particular brand?" I gestured to the wall behind me. "Jack, Jim-"
    "None of that American shit. I'll take a shot of that," he interrupted me. He pointed to a bottle to my left, high above my head.
    I scowled. Where did that bottle come from? I didn't remember ever seeing it before. Still, I took it down and read the label. "Jameson?"
    "The Irish make the best whiskey, in my opinion. I'll take a double," he said, ordering two shots in one glass. He sat down on one of the black leather bar stools and rested his elbows on the polished wood of the bar.
    I raised my eyebrows and got a glass from the clean ones resting on the rag