“Or a double shot.”
“Let’s stick with a splash until we come up with a plan.” I rub my finger across my teeth. “I need to use your bathroom again.”
“Mi casa es tu casa. We are married, after all.” I snort. Wade has always had the driest humor of any man I’ve ever met. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, I’ve learned to pay attention. “If you’re fast, I’ll take you out for breakfast since I have nothing in the house,” he adds.
Unlike his gray living room, his bathroom has shiny white tiles and blue accents. I grab a face cloth and use the soap from the tray on the counter. It’s got the same hint of patchouli that I’ve smelled on Wade over the years.
I return to the living room to find the normal Wade that I know and lust after. The man can wear a suit, but he really shines when he’s scruffy. He hasn’t shaved, giving himself some delicious stubble that matches his salt and pepper hair. He’s in heavy jeans, a khaki green thermal sweater, and he’s holding onto a heavy leather jacket. The patch on the chest says he’s in the Lost Souls Motorcycle club. The smaller badges above it show his name as “Duck” and his rank as “President.” I knew he rode, but the rank was new to me.
“President?” I say as I climb into his pick-up.
“I’m older and wiser than the rest of these clowns. Plus, Mason was one of the original members. I’d told him that I’d tell our mom if he didn’t vote for me.”
“Will he verify this story?”
“Of course not.”
“I noticed that he doesn’t know why you’re called Duck.” I jolt forward against my seatbelt when he hits the brakes. “What?”
“You, me, Josh, Joanie and Michael were present when I got my nickname. Josh and Michael haven’t told anyone. Joanie’s hinted about it a couple of times, but I don’t think she remembers. Josh and Michael know better than to tell her.”
“Nobody knows? Where do people think “Duck” came from?”
“A live fire sidearms exercise that went badly.”
“Weren’t you stationed on a submarine?”
“Very badly,” Wade says.
I snort again. “Where are you taking me for breakfast?”
“We’re meeting one of my club brothers and his partner at the Halfway Café. She’s a lawyer. Maybe she can figure out what the hell happened to us.”
Lonesome doesn’t look much bigger in daylight. I am surprised at how new everything looks, though. The business signs aren’t faded into oblivion, and the places that are open show signs of life inside. “How big is this town?”
“About a thousand people including the surrounding area.” He points to a large building surrounded by an even larger parking lot. “That’s mine, the Lonesome Bar and Grill. It’s the place to go for supper and for a night out.”
“The only place?”
“Unless you want to drive to Dickerson. It’s a full restaurant, and a separate bar with live music most weekends. We do okay.”
“How’s the food?”
“Decent. Good steak,” he says, pulling to a stop in front of the Halfway Café, a coffee shop-slash-ice cream shop-slash-gift store according to what I can see through the window. “No Michelin stars.”
“I could fix that,” I tell him as I brace myself to open the door to the cold.
A sweet brunette shows us to a booth in the corner. “Coffee and menus?”
“Thanks, Janie,” Wade says.
Before she can return, another couple walks through the door. Like Wade, the dark-haired man is in a club jacket and jeans. The honey-haired woman, on the other hand, is dressed in wide-legged slacks and black dress boots under a bright red wool coat. She has a city haircut and sharp eyes; I like her already.
“What’s the emergency, Duck? Why do you need a lawyer?” the man asks.
“Wylie, Kat, I’d like you to meet Melissa Prescott. My wife.”
Kat continues to unbutton her coat and unwind her scarf from her neck. Wylie freezes. “Damn, Prez, when you need a lawyer, you don’t fuck around.”
