Hard Charger: Jake & Sophia: A Hot Contemporary Romance by Tracy Fobes Page A

chuckled a little at the mere thought of it and re-adjusted his napkin over his trousers.  He was eating lunch at Rowdy Ray’s Roadhouse, one of the few half-decent restaurants in this little shithole of a town.  He looked up as a homely-looking waitress came over to his table.
    “Another beer?” she asked, as she set a bowl of peanuts on the table.
    He eyed her closely.  “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
    “Charlene,” she replied, and chewed her gum like a cow chewing cud.
    “Well, Charlene , what I would like is for my two associates to get their asses over here like I told them, so we can have our meeting .”  He shook his head sadly.  “But since they’re too dimwitted to keep an eye on the time, now they’re late , and I gotta sit here drinking beers until they show up.”
    “You want another beer, then?” she asked cautiously.
    “Go get it, girl,” he relied, an edge of sarcasm to his voice.  Still, he smiled.  He liked smiling, especially when he was annoyed.  More than one person had called him a hilarious devil, a moniker he particularly appreciated.
    “I’ll have it to you in a moment.”  She scurried away from the table, and he watched her go, wondering why Ray Morris had hired such an old bag to wait tables for him.  Where were the tits, the ass that you’d expect to see in a roadhouse? 
    He looked around, his gaze resting on the pool table in the corner, and then on the wooden stage and dance floor, before settling on the bar.  Ray’s kid Luke was bartending and slinging plates of food around, and Simon considered going over to shoot the breeze with him, but then decided against it.  His damned ankles were bothering him again.  Just a touch of gout, nothing his doctor could do about it.
    Instead, he sat back and congratulated himself.  The place looked good—thanks to him.  That was one of the reasons he liked eating here.  Not only did he get to enjoy the nice décor, but it also reminded good ole Ray who he owed.  Several people in Rockport Grove had forgotten that fact, and it made Simon sad, because he knew he’d have to send Winsome and Monahan over to remind them.
    Almost as if thinking of them had conjured them, the two men Simon had been waiting for walked through the door. Both had on jeans and dark bomber-style jackets, and they looked tense, like junkies who need a fix.   Winsome was around sixty—Simon’s age—but Monahan fell somewhere south of forty. 
    Ignoring the hostess, they stood for a moment like beagles scenting the air.  Their gazes finally fell upon Simon and they headed toward his booth, with Monahan in the lead and Winsome bringing up the rear.  Winsome rested his hand lightly on a bulge beneath his jacket. 
    Simon smiled.  They were bratok , low-ranking soldiers who were sometimes extremely stupid, and sometimes tastelessly flamboyant.  Today, they were stupid, because they were late.  Still, they didn’t mind wet work and knew how to keep their mouths shut, and so Simon tolerated them and gave them the tough jobs.
    “Look, it’s the Bobbsey Twins,” Simon commented loudly, remembering that ancient children’s book his bobcha used to read to him.  “Sit down, Bobbsey Twins.  Tell Papa Simon how life’s treating you.”
    Simon noticed that the chatter in the bar had died down.  Several other diners looked their way, but Monahan’s and Winsome’s faces remained expressionless as they slid into the booth.  Monahan positioned himself so that he could sweep the entire room with a single gaze.  That’s what he did.  He watched.  He covered.
    Winsome, on the other hand, was a protector.  He broke arms, cut off hands, shot out shins as needed.  Simon enjoyed the fact that Winsome was called winsome , if only because he was one of the ugliest bastards to ever crack a mirror.
    “Life’s treating us pretty good,” Winsome replied.  Methodically he shelled and ate the peanuts.
    Slowly, conversation returned to the