Jax Rainer is 67, has spent four decades fixing vintage slot machines for Reno casinos and private collectors across northern Nevada, and he has one non-negotiable rule for himself: no fraternizing with anyone connected to his clients. It’s a rule he’s stuck to for 12 years, ever since his ex-wife left him for a regular at the casino he worked at, a 28-year-old cocktail server who’d once asked Jax to fix her grandma’s old penny slot. He’s gruff, hates small talk, would rather spend his weekends hiking the pine trails outside Carson City than making awkward chit-chat at bar happy hours, and he’d planned to drop off the refurbished 1978 Bally slot at The Rusty Spur, collect his check, and be home by 8pm to rewatch a John Wayne western he’s seen 17 times.
The rain hits when he’s hauling the last heavy internal component through the bar’s back door, hard enough that his work boots slip on the water-slicked concrete before he can get over the threshold. A warm, calloused hand wraps around his bicep to steady him, firm enough to keep him from dropping the 40-pound part, and when he looks up he’s face to face with a woman he’s never seen before, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, chipped deep red nail polish, a tiny tattoo of a slot reel peeking out from the cuff of her faded bartender flannel. She’s Clara, the bar owner’s niece, he remembers, in town to run the place while her uncle recovers from knee replacement surgery, 39 if the rumors he’d heard from the parts supply guy are right.
He mumbles a thanks, sets the part down next to the slot cabinet on the main floor, and gets to work, the familiar clink of wrenches and low hum of the bar’s neon signs wrapping around him like a blanket. He can feel her watching him, every time he glances up from the wiring she’s leaned against the bar across the room, eyes on him, not the handful of regulars nursing beers at the other end. When he finally gets the slot powered up, the classic dinging chime echoing through the room, she walks over to get a closer look, leaning over his shoulder so her chest brushes the back of his worn work flannel, her hair falling forward to brush the shell of his ear. She smells like coconut shampoo and the bourbon she’s been sipping behind the bar, warm and sweet, and he has to fight the urge to lean back into her.
He tries to ignore the twist in his gut, tells himself he’s too old for this, that she’s nearly 30 years younger than him, that his rule exists for a reason. She asks him questions about the machine, about the old casinos he used to work at, laughs so hard at his story about a guy who tried to cheat a slot with a bent coat hanger and got tackled by a 70-year-old pit boss that a snort slips out, and he realizes he hasn’t laughed that easy in years. His ex used to roll her eyes whenever he talked about slot mechanics, called it “stupid old man work”, but Clara is leaning in, asking follow up questions, like she actually cares what he has to say.
When he’s done, she hands him his check, plus a cold draft beer and a shot of bourbon, on the house, she says, for getting the machine done three days early. He finishes the drinks, checks his phone, walks out to his 2008 Ford F-150 to head home, and the engine won’t turn over, dead battery, of course. He trundles back inside, soaked through from the rain that’s still hammering the metal roof, and she offers to jump him after her shift ends in 45 minutes, no charge. He agrees, sits back down on the sticky cracked leather bar stool, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t check his watch every two minutes, doesn’t make up an excuse to leave early.
The last regular leaves at 10pm, she locks the front door, flips off the neon open sign, and grabs the jumper cables from behind the bar. They walk out to the parking lot together, the rain slowed to a fine mist, the streetlights glowing gold through the fog. He’s leaning over his truck’s engine bay hooking up the cables when his boot slips on a puddle, and he stumbles backward, right into her. She laughs, loud and bright, and grabs his shoulders to steady him, their faces inches apart, rain dripping off the brim of his worn baseball cap onto her cheek. She leans up and kisses him before he can overthink it, her lips soft, tasting like bourbon and the cherry lollipop she’d been sucking on all night, and he kisses her back, no hesitation, no voice in his head reminding him of his stupid rule.
The truck starts on the first try a minute later, the engine rumbling low. She asks if he wants to come back to her place for coffee, she makes it strong, just how he likes it, she says, and he doesn’t make up an excuse about having an early hike, doesn’t say he needs to get home to his hound dog, doesn’t overthink any of it. He tosses his tool bag into the bed of his truck, locks the doors, and climbs into the passenger seat of her beat-up Subaru, his boots leaving small wet prints on her floor mats. She reaches across the center console when she pulls out of the parking lot, laces her fingers through his, calloused palm against his work-worn knuckles, and he doesn’t pull away.
