A Fresh Fiction favorite is a finalist for the 2010 RWA RITA category Novel with Strong Romantic Elements. 

Pamela Morsi
Author Book List

Unruly Red knows she's no one's idea of a sweet old granny. But with one long-distance phone call, the fortysomething bar owner with the tattoos and tight jeans is suddenly responsible for two young grandchildren she hardly knows.

Red's rowdy friends, late-night lifestyle and tiny apartment above her San Antonio saloon definitely aren't kidproof. And Red's pretty sure the hot young fiddle player she's been dallying with will run for the hills when he learns she has a daughter, let alone grandkids.

But Red is about to learn that age doesn't necessarily come with wisdom. That a nine-year-old girl can be as exacting as the strictest parent. That the school of hard knocks never had bake sales. And that her boy toy is more of an adult than she is.

Excerpt

The sidewalk was full of smokers and spitters. The light from the open doorway was muted, but the sound from inside was not. It was a typical Thursday night of cold beer and live music at Red's Hot Honky-Tonk. The bar, frequented by only a certain segment of San Antonio locals, was a rough-looking spot in an old two-story mill house on the corner of Eight and B. Patrons had once joked that the area was so unloved by city hall, they hadn't bothered to name the streets.

Inside, as most nights, Red Cullens herself was at the cash register, totaling up the tabs. Backlit from the lights on the bar, she was an attractive woman. Petite, some would have described her. Only five foot three inches, she stood on a box as she worked to give her a better view of the crowd. It also gave them a better view of her.

Her figure, encased in tight blue jeans and a soft, clingy blouse short enough to expose her bare midriff, was very good. However, what caught the eye of men, in this place and out of it, was her hair. Thick and full, it hung down past her waist. If she held her head just right she could sit on it. And it was red. Really red. She was no carrottop or strawberry blonde. Loop, one of the regulars, called it barn red, and that was certainly closer to the truth than terms like auburn, copper or ginger.

Her hair had taken over her identity. It obscured her name, her age, her past. And to Red's way of thinking, that was just fine.

A man stepped up to the counter in front of her as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.

"You taking off, J.B.?" she asked him.

"Yep, better get home before my wife decides to kill me," he answered.

Red shook her head. "I don't think you have to worry about that happening," she told him. "After putting up with you for thirty years, she's surely got the life insurance paid up and pinned her hopes on natural causes."

He laughed aloud at that. Red smiled broadly, revealing a slight overbite and a gap in her front teeth.

"Just to be stubborn," he told her, "I'm planning to live forever."

He paid his bill and made his way out the front.

Red took change out of the drawer, extracting the man's tip, and dropped it into the appropriate waitress's jar on the shelf beneath the register.

The place was busy. All of the booths and most of the tables were full, and a half-dozen guys loitered around the pool table. The stage area outside had seating for forty, though tonight there was barely standing room. The band was playing here more and more often and they were developing a nice local following.

Somebody held open the front door so that Leo and Nata from the Mexican restaurant down on Jones Street could bring a couple of trays inside. The two men were dressed in their flashy yellow-and-green outfits and wearing snowy-white aprons. Passing Red, they began unloading the plates at the far end of the bar. Gracelia, the waitress who was sweet on Nata, hurried to help set them out.

As those two seemed to have it covered, Leo wandered back up the length of the bar to Red.

"What have we got tonight?" she asked him.

"Albondigas," he answered. "Those are your favorite, right? And jalapeño relleno."

"Mmm," Red commented. "You tell Mrs. Ramirez that she's going to make me as fat as her sister if she keeps this up."

Leo laughed. "I will tell her," he assured Red.

Mrs. Ramirez was famously feuding with her sibling, whom she called la gorda—fatso.

"How much do I owe you?" Red asked. Leo handed her the ticket and she paid it.

The honky-tonk didn't serve food beyond chips and salsa. Red had a deal with Mrs. Ramirez. She wouldn't compete with her restaurant, but at the end of the night, if Mrs. Ramirez had something that Red's customers might like, she'd bring it down. The late-night tapas were more and more a success. The regulars had begun to expect them and they sold out fast.

Knowing most of the inside customers would hang around for food and the outside customers wouldn't leave until the set was finished, Red signaled to Karl, the bartender, that she was leaving her post.

He quickly poured her a brown liquid in a highball glass. Anyone just looking would think she was having a double bourbon. In truth, it was iced tea in disguise. Red had given up drinking years ago.

She took a sip and smiled appreciatively, adding to the drink deception.

Karl waved her on with one muscular, heavily tattooed arm. Red walked out from behind the counter and began weaving her way through the customers. She knew the names of many and the faces of even more. And they all knew her. Nine years of running the bar made her a local. The red hair made her easy to recognize. And the stories of her standing up to punks and knocking heads of mean drunks had made her a legend.

Red dutifully shared a word here and there, to let her customers know she appreciated them and that they were part of the good time available at Red's Hot Honky-Tonk. She patted shoulders, gave hugs and kissed cheeks as she went through.

"Hector, how are those kids doing?

"Casey, did you get that truck running?

"I guess you're feeling better tonight, Señor Puentes?"

A nearby customer gave her a hug.

"My God, Elena, what are you wearing?" Red asked, surveying her pin-striped business suit.

The woman, a curvaceous dark-haired beauty in her thirties, laughed. "I came straight from work," she said. "This is what the well-dressed office slave is wearing these days."

Red shook her head and tutted in disbelieving disapproval. "Have you got on panty hose? I didn't even know they still made them. I'll tell you, it makes me grateful I don't live in real America."

"You don't live in real America?" Elena asked.

"Nope," Red answered. "Honky-tonk bars are a whole 'nother planet."

"Down at city hall, they're still talking about redeveloping this part of the river," Elena reminded her. "I can see this place now as Red's Hot Panty-Hose Bar."

Red sucked in her cheeks, emulating haughtiness. "Perhaps we can begin competing with the Bright Shawl for lovely tea outings with the bejeweled matrons who do lunch."

Elena laughed so hard she snorted.

Red grinned. "I don't think that the Brides of the Cavaliers are quite ready for me."

There was laughing agreement from everybody within hearing. The Cavaliers were one of the most prestigious and discriminating social organizations in town.

With a backward wave she moved on to a booth near the pool table.

"Hey Alfred, nice to see you. Remember me to your mama."

She spoke to one of the men at the table whose face she could recall, but not his name. He'd rested his beer on the corner of the pool table.

"Better set that glass on the wall shelf," she told him. "With all the louts in this place, somebody's bound to knock it over and spoil the game."

The guy gave her a nod and moved his mug to a safer location.

Approaching the back door, she heard the music get louder and by necessity her words did, too.

"I don't think I know you folks. Is this your first time here?" she asked. "If you want to move closer to the stage, at the next break, just ask your waitress if she can set you up out there."

A buxom blonde stopped her near the doorway to get a hug. "Haven't seen you around here for a while," Red pointed out.

"I've been dieting," the woman answered. "So I've been staying away from the beer. I hear that you're still robbing the cradle?"

Red grinned and then feigned offense. "Robbery? You know I don't steal, Jenny. I'm just borrowing from the cradle."

Jenny laughed. "He's the fiddle player, right?"

Red nodded.

"Cute."

"I know. And I'm warning you off."

Jenny laughed. "You don't have to worry about me. I can't afford to take on a handsome poor boy. I need an old man who can pay my bills."

"And I thank heaven for that," she answered. "One less blonde for me to worry about."

Red stepped through the exit onto the bricked patio at the back of the building. Most of these folks were not her nightly regulars. They were at the place for the music. The beer and the crowd were just incidental. She made no attempt to greet anyone here. The lights were all dimmed, except for those on the stage, which showcased four pickers in Western gear and Stetson hats. She gave only a quick glance in their direction before skirting the edge of the bricks to a set of stairs that hugged the side of the building. A gate across the entry was not welcoming.

No Admittance

Private Property

Protected by Smith & Wesson

The warning on the gate was for others. Red unhitched the latch and went inside, going up about four steps before seating herself. She liked the band's sound. It wasn't true honky-tonk style. It was softer, smoother somehow, but with plenty of edge in just the right places. The lyrics were more pop psychology than pop-a-top. That was Brian's doing. A well-read college dropout, he wrote of the angst of Texas affluence. But it was the music that Red loved. And the music was mostly Cam. Her Cam. Long and lean, with dark eyes and an easy grin. He was smart. Smart about music, smart about people. Smart about what made her happy. Campbell Smith Early. Red shook her head in disbelief. What was she thinking, shaking the sheets with a guy who was barely thirty and had three last names?

Mentally she shrugged. It was a great deal, but it would never last. For Red, things with men never lasted. But he was good to her and the beginning part was always fun. So she was just going to lie back and enjoy it.

1 he phone was ringing. Ringing wasn't truly an apt description. The small, personal-communication device was pinging out the familiar refrain of "It Wasn't God Who Made Honky-Tonk Angels" in tinny musiclike tones.

From beneath a tangle of bedsheets, Red unhappily opened one eye. She had blackout shades on the windows, but one of them was caught up unevenly on the edge of the windowsill, allowing a broad shaft of early-morning sunshine to penetrate the room.

She pulled her pillow over her head, muffling the sound and hiding the sight. When the phone finally went to voice mail, she relaxed into the mattress. She was almost back to sleep when it started up again.

Now thoroughly annoyed, she threw back the covers and rotated to a sitting position. This elicited a slight moan from her lips. Cam, still beside her, didn't awaken, making only an ugh sound of protest. She retrieved the phone from the bedside table and, squinting, tried to make out the numbers on the front of it. The area code was not one she recognized.

"Telemarketer," she muttered like a curse.

She flopped back down on the bed, slinging one arm across her eyes. She was exhausted, but she knew she wouldn't sleep. Deliberately, she turned away from the window. On that side, her view was all Cam. He looked even younger than usual, almost boyish, with his face relaxed and his hair askew. Red edged up closer. She really liked him. No, she really liked him. Walking around in the world, he made her feel admired and desired. In bed, he made her feel…wonderful. She allowed a sigh to seep through her like warm molasses.

Then she caught herself, physically pulling away from him. It was crazy to let her guard down like that. And what was he still doing in her bed? She didn't let guys sleep over. Once they were done, it was time to get out. Men were a lot like stray dogs. You think you're just throwing them some scraps. But it doesn't take much for them to start making themselves at home.

Red got to her feet and walked to the foot of the bed. She ripped the covers off him.

"Sun's up, cowboy," she announced. "Time to hit the trail."

"Damn," was his inarticulate response.

Red continued to the bathroom. Without turning on the light she sat on the toilet, elbows on knees, her face in her hands, her hair falling around her like a curtain.

The phone went off again.

"Do you want me to get that?" Cam called out.

"No."

When she'd finished and flushed, she flipped on the light switch above the sink. She pulled her hair back and tied it in one giant loose knot to keep it out of the way as she washed her hands and face.

Afterward, she stood for a moment in front of the mirror, assessing her body for imperfections. The nightlife had left her skin perfectly pale. Her breasts weren't very large, but they were still high and pretty she thought. She turned slightly to survey her backside. Her butt wasn't as good as it once was, but it was still better than most, she assured herself. And the armadillo tattoo that had been inked into her right buttock a quarter century earlier still looked perfect.

Not bad for forty-six, she thought to herself. Not bad at all.

Naked, she walked back into the bedroom. Cam was sitting on the edge of the bed. He glanced up and when he caught sight of her, he smiled.

"Come on back here," he said, patting the mattress beside him. "We don't have to get up yet."

Red appreciated the gesture, but she didn't take him up on it.

"I'm going downstairs to make coffee," she said. "You can be first in the shower."

She didn't bother with underwear as she pulled on a pair of ratty jeans and a T-shirt. She grabbed her keys and her phone and stepped out the door of her apartment. She went down the stairs to the back patio, which was strangely serene in the midmorning light. Shaded by the building, it edged up against the San Antonio River—the real San Antonio River, not the beautifully controlled and manicured park of the River Walk with its wide pedestrian walkways and its quaint overhead footbridges. This was no Venice of south Texas, but the narrow springfed waterway that had made the area habitable for thousands of years.

Red unlocked the back door of the bar and propped it open. The distinctive smell of beer and cigarettes could never be obliterated, but she still liked to air the place out.

. . . possibly one of the best books of the summer and one which comes highly recommended.

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