My arms wrap around her, pulling her even closer, as I realize this is a level of peace I’ve never experienced before.
It’s what I must protect at all costs.
The Steel Saloon is unusually dead for a Thursday afternoon. I make my way through the main floor, scanning faces for the one that isn’t here.
Tom’s absence is becoming increasingly more obvious. Almost like it first felt when he was sentenced to life behind bars.
“You seen Cutty?” I ask Bush, who’s nursing a beer at his usual spot near the pool tables.
He shakes his head. “Not for a couple days.”
The back office sits empty, Tom’s desk cluttered with papers and an overflowing ashtray but no sign of the man himself.
I check the Chop Shop where we custom tailor the bikes, the garage doors wide open.
As usual, Cash and Korine are inside working on a project they’ve taken on for one of our regulars. Ozzie’s with them as he swaps out the spark plugs on his Softtail Deluxe.
“Nobody’s seem him,” Ozzie grunts when I ask. “Probably drank himself blind as usual and has the hangover of a lifetime.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Cash adds.
Korine frowns, her coveralls streaked with motor oil as usual. “Then why is he president again?”
Frustration builds as I turn and head back into the saloon. Mick’s at the counter wiping down glasses. The old bartender looks up as I approach, his weathered face reading me like an open book the way he always has.
“What’s got you so edgy lately?” he asks, setting down the glass. “You’ve been wound tighter than a spring ever since Tom got back.”
I drop onto a barstool and scrub my hands over my face, suddenly exhausted by the weight of everything I’m carrying. “It’s complicated between us, Mick. You know that better than anybody.”
“I’ve been around this club since before you and Tom even prospected,” he reminds me, pouring me a shot of whiskey and sliding it across the counter. “I watched you boys come up together, thick as thieves for more years than I can count. Whatever’s going on between you two now, it can’t be worth throwing all that history away.”
“Something’s off about him. Has been since he got back from prison, but I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is. He’s different in ways that go beyond being in prison for a few years.”
Mick tosses his dishrag over his shoulder and leans against the bar counter. “Prison changes everybody who goes through it, Silver. Nobody comes out the same person who went in. Maybe you need to sit down and actually talk to him instead of dancing around each other like fighters waiting for the bell. You were brothers once, closer than blood. Could be this is all a big misunderstanding that’s festered too long.”
I concede his point with a nod because he’s not wrong, even if the idea of having a heart-to-heart with Tom feels about as appealing as walking on broken glass.
“You know, taking on too much can make a man seek escape in unexpected places,” Mick goes on with a knowing glint in hiseyes. “But make sure the escape you’ve sought won’t land you in any more hot water than you already are in.”
He doesn’t need to say another word for me to understand what he’s talking about.
As I’ve anticipated, Mick has gradually caught onto me and Solana. He’s pieced together the puzzle and figured out things between us… aren’t what they should be.
On a strictly rational level, I recognize he’s right. He’s correct that me and Solana are playing with fire. But I can’t say I give a damn anymore.
She’s worth the risk. The feelings I have for her are.
I merely give a nod and then down the shot of whiskey he’s poured me. Setting the glass back down on the counter, I slide out of the bar stool.
“Gotta go,” I say, turning for the door. “I’m gonna find Tom… wherever he is.”
After an hour checking Tom’s old haunts, I give up on finding him. Wherever he’s gone, it isn’t to places like the Titty Bar or liquor store.
I’m halfway home when I finally do spot Tom’s beat-up Mustang at the gas station on Maple Street. The faded blue paint is one of a kind in a town as small as Pulsboro.
He stands at the pump, filling his tank like any other ordinary citizen going about their day. My foot eases off the gas pedal without conscious thought, and I pull into the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant across the street, positioning myself with a clear view while staying out of his line of sight.
Tom finishes pumping gas and heads inside the station, probably to pay or grab cigarettes. I sit idly by and wait for the moment he comes out.
