It shuffled forward and reached out for Ledger. He tried to pull away, but Wren held him in place. Ledger wasn’t really sure if he heard the quick mutter of “Sorry” or just imagined it. Not that regret was going to make a difference.
Stick fingers grabbed his jaw and dug in until it stung. The smell of salt and old grief choked Ledger as it hit him like a wave.
…years and blood and the ache in his thighs as they clamped around a horse’s barrel and the ache inhimas the world sped forward under his feet…
…hit him like a bloodied wave.
“Find what I lost.” The voice that hammered at Ledger’s ears from the inside of his head was deep and silky smooth, not the cracked wheeze of the scarecrow. It was still Earl. “Or come the equinox, I’ll take my cut and leave you breathing. Tethered here, to the dirt that whelped you, forever.”
It let go and staggered back. The sack head sagged backward and finally ripped all the way across. The tattered filling spilled out, and Earl pitched over, exactly like a scarecrow someone had cut from its perch. It lay in the dirt, propped up by its sticks, and the ripe, dry stink of them faded down to something almost bearable.
Ledger shoved Wren away from him and staggered to the side. He doubled over, hands on his knees, while his body tried to flush out the stench Earl had left on him. It didn’t work. Breakfast and a couple of cups of coffee were retched onto the grass, and Ledger couldstillsmell Earl.
He pushed himself back up and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His to-do list suddenly had a lot more on it than when he’d started the day. Ledger wasn’t ready to deal with any of that yet.
“I need a drink.” Ledger walked over to the pickup and pulled himself up into the passenger side. He looked through the dusty window at Wren and raised his eyebrows. “Are you coming or what?”
* * *
The whiskey wascheap and tasted like it too.
It would take the edge off, though. That was all Ledger wanted from it. He swallowed the last mouthful, put the tumbler down on the bar, and gestured for another. Luckily enough, the Jawbone wasn’t a place where you had to justify your drinking.
Amountortime of day.
Wren leaned on the bar next to Ledger. He had a beer he’d nursed through Ledger’s two whiskey shots.
“You want something to soak that up?” Wren asked. He glanced at the chalked menu behind the bar. “They’ve got… chili.”
“My mouth tastes bad enough,” Ledger said.
The bartender topped up the dregs of whiskey in the tumbler and then raised a gingery eyebrow at Ledger. “Want me to just leave the bottle?”
“No,” Ledger said. “That’s how I pace myself.”
The bartender gave a “no skin of my nose” shrug and took the bottle with him when he left. Ledger picked up the glass, and this time he just took a sip instead of downing it. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t even feel the first two.
Fuck it.
Ledger pushed himself off the counter and took the drink with him as he headed over the bar to the empty table in the corner. No one had been around to clear it off yet. A plate of chewed-clean chicken bones, crumpled napkins stained in red sauce, and a clutter of dead beer bottles surrounded it.
He pulled one of the chairs out with his foot, sat down, and pushed the detritus of the previous group aside to make room for his whiskey. Wren grabbed the chair facing him, turned it backward, and sat down. He rested his arms on the back and let the beer dangle from one hand, his knuckles threaded over with fresh scabs.
“I didn’t sell you out,” Wren said. He glanced briefly at Ledger and then back down to his beer. “That was your friend.”
“Hark? He’s not even an enemy,” Ledger said. “And why not?”
Wren considered the question and then shrugged. He lifted the beer to drink.
“I wasn’t sure it would work in my favor,” he admitted. A smile curled his mouth briefly as he looked at Ledger over the bottle. “Did you want something more sentimental?”
He took a swig. Ledger watched the way Wren’s mouth wrapped around the neck of the bottle, and how his tanned throat worked when he swallowed. It was a bad idea, but it had been a worse day. So Ledger was going to give in to himself.
“Your employer is a horrifying scarecrow of fear and soiled underwear,” Ledger said. “And we met yesterday. Self-interest makes a lot more sense than sentiment.”
Wren smirked briefly. “He’s not always a scarecrow.”
Ledger took another drink and let the sour, sharp liquid coat his tongue. “What is he usually?”
