“There’s a lot of Americans here lately,” the bartenders said, walking away to put in his order.
That caught his attention.
The man not far away was nursing a pint, and watching him.
“Hey,” he said.
The man nodded.
“Are you with the other Americans?” he asked. “Two just left, and there seems to be so many running around.”
That might be who he was looking for after all. This was a small village, and off the beaten path. This would be the ideal place Michael would go hide.
He’d bet on it.
“Yeah, I’m supposed to meet them, but I’m a little lost. If I show you a picture of one, can you tell me if he’s been in?”
The man pointed at his beer.
“If you pay for my round,” he said.
Riley hoped this was worth it. He wasn’t rich—like Michael—especially now that he’d lost his job.
Pulling out his phone, he showed the man a picture of him and Michael together.
“Nah, he wasn’t in today. He was in last night. He got mad at me in the bathroom.”
He lifted a brow.
“Why?” he asked, as he drank his own beer.
The man was to the point.
“I went in there to get the name off the wall of this whore. He takes dick for anyone in the village. He nearly throttled me over it.”
He blinked.
“Really?” he asked. “That doesn’t sound like him,” he stated.
The man nodded.
“It was him. He told me to never call him, and to mind my manners. Then, he scraped the number off the wall.”
Another man came over.
“Yeah, he must be a friend of Graham’s,” he said, sitting down next to his friend.
That name registered.
Oh, and it hit hard.
“Graham?” he asked.
The second man nodded.
“Yeah, the village whore,” he said. “The man must know him or something. When he left here, he headed toward the castle where the whore lives.”
What the hell was this?
