I raise a brow. “An opportunity?”
He nods. “Yes. I think we could work something out that benefits the both of us.”
I let the silence stretch. He shifts in his chair, his cologne flooding the bar with the unmistakable stench of an expensive department store. Finally, I tap the bar in apathy and razor-edged disinterest.
“Buddy, the only thing I want from you is for you to stop sweating on my barstool.”
His tongue flicks across his lips, gaze darting, searching for eavesdroppers. I don’t rush him. I’ve found that silence is an incredible motivator. People tend to spill faster when they’re left alone with their own bullshit.
Satisfied with whatever peace this bar gave him, he forcefully pushes air through his nostrils, folding his hands atop my counter like a half-wit prayer. “I need something handled.”
Of course you do.No one comes to me from the other side of Stillwater Bend just for the cheap whiskey he’s got in his hand.
I purse my lips as I repeat the word. “Handled.”
It could’ve meant a hundred different things, but I already know where this is going. He wants a problem removed. Cleaned up. Erased.
“I heard you could help, Hex,” he adds when I don’t take the bait.
“Hector,” I correct sharply. We are not friends.
Goddamn it.I didn’t even get both feet down on the ground before the bullshit-of-the-day showed up. I should’ve known when the ride in didn’t suck for a change. We’ve hit the sweet spot where spring finally warmed things up enough to unclench my teeth against the cold. That narrow window of time in Texas when my balls aren’t stuck to my thigh on a long-term contract. Would’ve been nice to enjoy the post-ride high for more than five damn minutes.
Inside, the bar is quiet, holding its breath before another wild Friday night. Edison bulb light fixtures set throughout the bar cast their brilliance over polished wood, and pair with the sharp tang of lemon cleaner lingering in the air.
We’re still closed, but Will’s already behind the counter, wiping down bottles as if the health inspector’s due any second. I know he’s listening. We’ve known each other since elementary school, and he’s one of two people I trust implicitly—with the bar, with my business, with everything.
I roll my shoulders, my leather jacket creaking with my shifted weight. My eyes flick over the mess of a man in front of me once more. Whoever he is, I know his type. He’s too soft for the fight he’s about to step into and needs someone to do the dirty work.
With a heavy sigh, I push off the counter, reaching for the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s 23-Year. It’s the kind of bourbon that comes with a price tag high enough to make grown men weep.
The cork pops, releasing an oaky aroma rising seductively into the air. This isn’t just bourbon. This is patience in a bottle. Thekind of thing you sip slow and let linger. And it sure as hell isn’t for this asshole.
Pouring myself a glass, I watch the liquid settle, thick and syrupy, before drawing in a sip.
“Do you know how I bought this bar?” I ask, swirling the amber liquid in my glass.
His uncertain eyes dart up to mine. “I—no.”
“I fought for it.” I take another sip, savoring the burn. I lift my free hand from the bar. He flinches. “Literally. Underground fights. No refs, no rules. Just fists and the grit you carry in your bones. Paid good money if you could survive it.”
I set my glass down, watching him. What fucked-up hole has he crawled into that has him convinced I’d be the one to haul him out? A flash of suspicion tightens my gut.
Most of the ghosts from my past aren’t trudging some moral straight line. They’re slinking through back-alley barters beneath flickering neon, trading favors in smoke-stained rooms and leaving trails of blood money in their wake. Those aren’t the shadows I answer to these days, but this bastard radiates that same rotten void. Every flit of his nervous eyes and twitchy fingers tells me he’s itching to haul me back into the abyss.
“Ned Stauder suggested you might be interested,” the man says, hands shaking as he brings his drink to his lips. His eyes dart to the door, as if expecting Ned to step through it at any second.
The name hits my chest hard, a boot on thin ice.
My jaw tightens.
Stauder.
Old Ned has his fingers in just about every dark pocket of Stillwater Bend. Illegal gambling, rigged fights, backdoor deals. A weathered bastard, tough as boot leather, with a web of connections so tangled it could black out our whole little corner of Texas. I left that life behind, along with every debt andobligation. I swore to myself I’d never owe another favor to men who operate the way Ned does.
Yet he keeps at it, indirectly pulling strings, sending me garbage to clean up.
I stare down at the bourbon in my hand, remembering the copper taste of blood in my mouth, the feel of swollen knuckles and cracked ribs. “Ned should’ve told you better,” I say finally. My voice is low, edged with a quiet threat that leaves no room for negotiation. “I don’t owe favors. Not to Ned, not to anyone. When I bought this place, I bought it outright. No loans. No debts. Just blood money turned into business. Done.”
