Olivia slides his beer along the counter then wipes her damp hands down the front of her, faded jeans. He's a trucker, she can tell from his scuffed up boots to his busted up denim jacket. He lets it hang around the back of his chair, his cowboy hat on the counter as he lifts his beer.

"Will that be all?" she drawls, motioning to his mug with her chin.

"No but the rest aint not on the menu" he replies peeling her white tank top with his eyes. His eyes linger on the swell of her breasts, taking note of the thin fabric revealing a lacy bra. Olivia knows just what he's thinking with his lecherous mind and she's in no mood for a new pair of boots under her bed. Even if she was, he's certainly not her type.

"You couldn't afford it even if it was" Olivia shakes her head and shuts her eyes against the glint of a silver beer tap. Late afternoon sunlight floods the bar marking the hardwood floor with elongated shadows and swirling dust particles. It's getting late and she knows that the place will start filling up with customers going hog wild until early dawn.

"What's your name, sweetheart? Let me take you out some time" the trucker persists, laying a hand on her forearm.

Removing his hand from her arm, she sets it back on the counter and says, "I aint allowed to talk to boys"

"Oh come on sugar, I'll make it worth your while"

"Is this ass-hole bothering you?"

Her brown eyes swing up to find Fitzgerald Grant towering over the trucker and she wonders when he came in.

"Nothing I caint handle Fitz. Your usual?" she bristles and cocks an eyebrow at him.

"Hey, hold your horses. I'm still talking to this pretty little thing" the trucker's steely hand makes a grab for her again and before she can shake him off, Fitz is on him like an old strung out hero recalling his glory days.

"You're done; now attend to your drink and let her be" he hisses, his hands fisting a handful of the trucker's shirt. Another woman might have trembled, flattered by his chivalry but Olivia isn't impressed. She's learnt to take very good care of herself and the likes of a has been football hero like Grant wont take that away from her. When he releases the man, he sits, slumps in his chair and leans over the counter to glare at his beer.

"I don't need you fightin my battles for me; I was fixin to take care of the hog myself" she juts her chin, turning to Fitz as adrenalin races through her.

"Then I just saved the fella from a whole lot of hurtin" he chuckles and suddenly her cheeks are on fire. Olivia moves away from him and fills a glass with two whiskey shots, then moves to the taps to fill up his mug.

"There, double whiskey and a beer chaser" she says, slamming the glasses down in front of him. Her gaze slides down his arms and takes in the tattoos peeking under the rolled up sleeves of his plaid shirt before going back to his face. He has a shock of wavy dark hair, peppered silver at his temples and the kind of beaten up look that only a man with grit and burden can wear and he wears it darn well.

"Thanks, Liv" he smiles with his unused lips and for some unfathomable reason today goose bumps prickle her arms when he does this.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, you know that?" he nods, scratching the stubble growing on his jawline and Olivia watches him guzzle down the shot of whiskey.

"This damn heat must be scrambling your brain, Fitzgerald Grant" she retorts, already setting up another shot and setting it down in front of him. When she looks back up, his eyes hold hers for a little while. He has those sleepy kind of eyes, the kind that tug the places she'd forgotten existed. He has the sort of eyes that sooth places like rain falling on Alabama. Cornflower blue, Abby, her best friend had called them once but Olivia doesn't think she was very accurate. Fitz's eyes remind her of the blue skies stretching over yellow wheat fields in Kansas. His eyes are as deep as forever and right now they're giving her vertigo.

"Have a drink with me" he coaxes but he knows she can't because she's working. Tossing a dish towel over her right shoulder she shrugs and takes a small shot of whiskey from the bottle. She salutes him quickly before tossing it down her throat.

Fitz has been coming to the bar every night for the past three weeks straight. He talks about his kids, Jerry and Karen. He tells Liv they are living in Chicago somewhere and Karen's fixing to get married but he never talks about Mellie. His wife died of cancer nearly a year ago and he's been searching for redemption at the bottom of a whisky bottle ever since. She can't imagine what it must be like, watching someone you love being whittled down by a disease and she's not sure if she wouldn't seek the same remedy. Then again she doesn't need much of an excuse to drink; she's been winding down every night with a bottle of whisky ever since Jake left. Scratch that, she shakes her head as she pours another beer for a customer. Jake Ballard didn't leave; the bastard's incarcerated for armed robbery. She sure knows how to pick them.

The sound of a crackling stereo makes her jerk her head to the busted up jukebox where Fitz is preparing to load up a song. She hears a few of the regulars groan because they know he's fixing to play Bloody Mary Morning like he always does. He shuffles back to his stool as the song starts up then cradles the bottle like a long lost lover.

Baby left me without warning, sometime in the night…old Willie Nelson sings about being an old country boy who fell in love and discovered that the pitfalls of the city were all too real.

Abby comes in for her shift just as the bar begins to fill up, the place morphs from an old truck stop drinking-hole in Yawning, Alabama into a boisterous bar with scantily clad females looking for a good time with a couple of sawmill employees. By the time her shift ends, everything aches right down to the bone.

"Alright, I'm done for the night" she tells Abby and nods a farewell to her boss, Edison. The music has already grown louder, pumping inside her chest and the dance floor is starting to fill up with a regular crowd.

"Hey, drive safe, ye hear?" Abby calls as Liv nears the exit, brushing into incoming regulars. She sings a few more farewells and ducks unsolicited passes before she finds herself outside, a cool evening breeze licking her skin.

Taking a moment to breathe the fresh air, she closes her eyes and feels the breeze over her skin. She's looking forward to a nice, relaxing evening eating left over takeout in front of the T.V. She digs her purse for her car keys and a flash of movement catches the corner of her eye.

"Fitz?" she cries, spotting his plaid, cotton shirt. He's leaning over the hood of his pickup, face palmed in his hands.

"You alright?" she shouts and he groans back but she notices his stagger. She knows he's had one too many and possibly one too many to even get behind the wheel.

"You need a ride home?" she advances toward him, keys jingling in her hand and places a hand on his back. When he swings around to look at her, his face is blanched white and he narrows his bloodshot eyes at her and slurs something incoherent.

"Come on, I'll take you home" she tells him and grabs his arm, grateful that he's not a belligerent drunk. Fitz comes willingly and they head back to her sedan where she hustles him into the passenger seat. After setting his seat back so he can relax better, she climbs into the car and heaves a sigh.

Finding his house is not a problem because they live in the sort of town where everyone knows everyone and their dog. She parks outside his house on the gravel driveway where a porch light shines a pool of light on her rusty car hood. When she nudges him awake she knows it's futile because he's already dead to the world. Rifling through his pockets, she looks for his house key and comes up empty handed. Its late, she's tired and the devil is starting to eat a hole through her belly. After checking her surroundings and confirming that no is home by pounding at his door, she trudges back to her car and resigns to take the old drunk home with her.

He can sleep on her couch and she would have done her good deed for the day.

..

The minute she steps inside her small trailer, she tosses her keys on the table and they land next to the mason jars she keeps there. They're filled with quarters and dollars for a rainy day but most are filled up with lost and found things that she hopes will find their home one day.

She hauls Fitz up over the small steps and pushes him onto her ratty couch with a faded floral print and stuffing pouring out of it. Closing the metal door behind her, she fastens the latch and leans against it, letting out a shaky breath. For a moment she just stands there watching the man with his head lolling to one side and his mouth wide open.

"Not so attractive now, are you cowboy?" she scoffs and kneels down in front of him to remove his boots. It's been a long time since she's had a man in her trailer, even a passed out one. Next she slips him out of his shirt but stops short of his jeans. The heat of his skin under her fingertips floods her with warmth that surprises her. It's not the soothing, calming type of warmth but rather a beastly kind that quickens her breath. She can smell the whisky rising of his mouth, his skin, his hair as if he's been drenched in it but it doesn't nauseate her. She's used to it, hell she grew up on that smell. Her eyes rest on his chest covered now by a white wife-beater and watch its rise and fall. His breathing is in line with his heartbeat, the heartbeat she feels on his wrists as she holds them. Finally Liv moves again and shakes her head, shaking the heat off.

She rolls him onto his back and presses her hand against the warmth of his chest. Placing a thin sheet over him, she watches him stir before he settles down to a good rhythmic breathing.

He doesn't snore much, she thinks as she slips under the cool sheets in her bedroom.