"Now those sweatpants," he says, "are going to smell like sex and war paint and I think that's perfect for tonight."
I burst out laughing. I'm leaning against the bar with my sweatpants around my thighs and the hot pink shirt bunched under my arms. My legs are shaking and the man I love is on the floor smiling at me like he just won the lottery. I laugh because what else is there to do? What else is there to do when the world is terrifying and beautiful and you're standing in a bar being loved by someone who is impossible and enormous and all yours?
"Get up here," I say.
"I'm comfortable down here."
"I seriously doubt that. Get up, Tex."
He gets up. It takes a while because getting up is a production when you're his size and your knees have been on a hardwood floor. He groans and his knees pop and he steadies himself on the bar. I pull the sweatpants back up and straighten the shirt. Then I pull him down by his collar and kiss him.
"Your turn," I tell him.
"No baby. Not until tonight. After. When this is done and he's gone and it's just us." He kisses my forehead. "Right now, I need to go stand in a cold shower and think about income taxes so I can function like a human being for the next twelve hours."
"You're going to walk around all day—"
"Hard as a rock and thinking about you in those sweatpants? Yes. Yes, I am. It's not a new experience. I did itfor an entire week when you first got here. I'm a professional at this point. I have a system. Cold water. Taxes or baseball statistics."
I shake my head, smooth down the sweatpants and adjust the shirt. Somewhere out there a monster is planning and in here, two people are choosing to be alive and ready for whatever comes.
"You look incredible," he says again, quieter this time. "Did I already tell you that?"
"I look like a flamingo."
"Kinda and I'm in love with a flamingo and God help the man from Alabama who tries to touch my flamingo."
"Come on," I say. "We've got a bar to set up."
"Yes, we do."
He follows me toward the kitchen. As I pass, he reads the back of the sweatpants out loud.
"Follow this ass to Big Tex's Roadhouse." He whistles low. "That is the finest advertising this bar has ever produced. I'm serious. Over the years, I've spent thousands on marketing. Thousands, Stormy. Radio ads. Flyers. A billboard on Route 98 that cost me four hundred dollars a month and featured a photo of me that Sheila said made me look like a hostage. None of it has ever been as effective as you walking around in those sweatpants. That's the whole marketing campaign. Stormy in sweatpants. Revenue doubles."
"I'm burning these tomorrow."
"I won't allow it."
We set up the bar, prep the grill, get ready for tonight. The sun moves across the sky. The bikers will be here soon. Denny and his crew. The regulars. The wall of leather and loyalty that Tex built with phone calls and trust.
And somewhere out there, Ron Jackson is making his decision.
I touch the knife in my pocket. I read the letters on my chest in the reflection of the bar mirror.
PROPERTY OF BIG TEX'S.
Come and get me, Ron.
I fucking dare you.
Chapter 37: Tex
The parking lot starts filling at seven.
Denny and his crew roll in first. Twelve bikes, staggered formation, the sound of them coming up the beach road like distant thunder building. They park along the far side of the lot, a solid row of chrome and leather. Denny comes to the grill with a handshake and the look of a man who drove forty-five minutes for a reason that has nothing to do with barbecue.
"Smells good," he says.
