The lights of the yard glow bright in the distance, just enough to see where I'm going without issue. I avoid walking through the warm building to keep my solace just a little while longer. I'll bypass them all and head straight to the garage.
No doubt, a couple of prospects will be floating around along with a few scattered brothers, but tonight is quiet. Hades caught wind of some information he wanted checked out before the mountain pass got too difficult for the bikes to navigate. He left earlier today with several of the boys. They should have pulled in by now, engines roaring. It was just my luck that I got a call about an hour ago to say they got caught up and not to expect them until tomorrow.
The bar was on orders to phone if they needed help, and from the three missed calls I'd received when I stepped out of the shower, add on the lack of response when I tried calling back, I'm going to assume they’re swamped. I could call rank and send one of the other guys, but I value the freedoms I get and don’t want to rock the boat over something as insignificant, yet annoying, as a busted night off.
We’re still waiting for the first real hit of snow to fall. We've had flurries on the occasional day or two, but nothing that's lasted—an anomaly that has the town talking, given it's the one-hundred-year anniversary of Mary Langley’s disappearance.
It’s an event the town is selling to the masses, creating an entire month of spooky celebrations in the lead up to Christmas. Hallowed Springs already has a reputation equivalent to Salemand their witch trials, but do all our events have to revolve around The Devil's Gate Hot Springs? Are we really so convinced the girl was pulled through a gate to Hell? All it does is bring more tourists to town and more thorns in my fucking side. At this point, I'm prepared to write up a flyer outlining the main questions I’m constantly being asked.
Yes, she disappeared around Christmas.
No, I don’t know the exact date.
No, I don’t believe in the legend. She probably went for a swim and drowned.
Yes, I am single.
And no, I don’t want to have sex with youoryour friend.
Actually, I might bump the last one to the top because god knows the church wives allude to it enough. For the sake of keeping the peace, we all tend to tolerate a lot from them, but none of us are desperate enough to touch.
I don’t need them to save me. I did that myself a long time ago, and some choir mom isn’t going to convince me otherwise. If I'm going to find a woman to keep me warm at night, then it's a willing, sober, and single participant. Most importantly, one that doesn't look like a stuck up bitch, looking to roll with a bit ofroughfor the night.
Opening the side door to the garage, the interior lights flick on automatically, and I hit the switch for the roller door. My bike parked safely under the carport in the forecourt. I nod to the prospect manning the gatehouse, the perimeter gate opening just enough for me to pass through. Swinging my leg over my bike, I take a deep breath in, holding it in for four counts and out for another four—a breathing technique I'll use to get through the next few hours.
I don’t like crowds.
I don’t like people much either, but I pull my weight, and if the club needs me to cover tonight, then that's what I'll do.
One more breath in, and I bring the engine to life, its roar bringing me additional comfort as I pull out of the yard, slowly moving through the quiet streets before the bustle of town becomes too impossible to ignore.
For most of the year, Hallowed Springs looks like any of the other mountain towns you would find in this region.
This Christmas, though, it's like Santa himself chundered over everything in his path. Almost every storefront has flickering lights in the windows. Candy canes, elves—nothing has been left out of the equation. The local library even has fake snow sprayed on its windows.
Fake snow! There’s real snow on the fucking ground, and they spray shit all over the windows to make it look more festive. Thank god we didn't do any of that crap at The Gallows.
A bar should look like a bar, no matter the time of year.
Wood, leather, and booze are what you expect to find inside, and it's what you get. There is no fucking tinsel or cheer. If people want that shit, they can go literally anywhere else in town.
Turning into our staff-only car park, I narrowly avoid a couple that didn't bother to look. Lost in their own world of holiday spirit.
Assholes.
The bar is mainly brick, but at some point in the building's history, they knocked out the rear wall and replaced it with a loading dock, even adding a small studio apartment above it.
Occasionally, one of us might use it if we come across a situationship, or have drunk ourselves into the ditch. Most of the time, however, it sits vacant, but it's not as if we could rent it out. The noise of the bar would be irritating at best, soul-destroying at worst, and no one wants to deal with a disgruntled tenant.
Keeping the bike running for longer than I need to, I sit in the shadows of the building. Old school rock blares from inside, and I take another deep breath in.
It's just for a few hours.
Striding toward the back entrance, I grip the cool metal of the door handle before flinging it open to my worst case scenario.
“Sharon, what's happened? Why are you crying?” The poor girl’s sitting on a keg in the storeroom. Shoulders slumped, tears running down her face, looking like her makeup was trying to escape her face.
“I couldn't… I couldn't… We ran out of tap beer, and I couldn't li-lift it to fit another one. They’ve been yelling like that for twenty minutes!” She gestures to the staff-only door that goes out onto the bar floor, and it's only then I notice the words projecting above the music.
