"Wyatt!" a deep voice bellows.
I turn, and the hairs on my arms rise.
Jeb Smoody, a former classmate and guy Jagger and I used to hang out with, stumbles toward me. He used to be the "cool kid" in our class. Now, I barely recognize him.
He's at least fifty pounds heavier, sporting large rolls under his too-tight T-shirt. Three stains stretch down the right side. His hair spikes in every direction and is in desperate need of a cut, just like his beard. He plops down on the stool next to me, slurring, "Well, I'll be, if it isn't the famous Wyatt Houston!"
"Jeb. It's been a long time," I offer.
"Too long. Now that you're all famous, you don't have time for us little people," he teases.
I chuckle.
Bo points out, "You can't call yourself little anymore, Jeb."
He pounds his hand on the wood, ordering, "Bring us a round."
I hold my hand in the air. "I'm good. Just got a drink." I tap my mug.
He points at the shot. "Why's that sitting there?"
I glance at the shot of whiskey. Heat crawls up my neck. I try to distract him. "What have you been up to?"
He motions to Bo to bring him a whiskey, and scratches his head. "Living the dream. I'm down two hundred today, but I'm about to win it back. Put another grand down to sweeten the pot."
"That's good," I reply, but my gut screams he's going to lose his ass.
Bo puts the shot down.
Jeb picks it up and holds it in front of me. "To the good old days."
Swallowing back bile, I pick up the shot and clink it against his glass.
He downs his, then waits for me to take mine.
"You take mine," I offer.
His eyes me warily.
"For good luck," I add.
He grins, grabs it, and shoots it back.
There's no way I'm getting out of here if I start drinking whiskey.
"What bets are you placing?" Jeb asks.
I glance at the boards, staring at the odds. I open my mouth, then shut it.
I picture Willow's face again.
"Well?" Jeb pushes.
My chest tightens.
A roar fills the bar.
"About time!" a fifty-something woman cries out in excitement.
