She’s been nursing the same cosmopolitan for forty minutes, stealing looks between fake conversations with her friends. They’re all the same type—college girls from the state university forty minutes away, slumming it at the Rusty Anchor because someone told them this is where the “real” locals drink. They order fruity cocktails in a dive bar that specializes in cheap beer and cheaper whiskey, then act surprised when the drinks taste like cough syrup mixed with food coloring.
“Can I get another round?” The blonde leans over the bar, giving me a view that’s definitely intentional. Her friends giggle behind her like they’re still in high school.
“Same thing?”
“Unless you have a recommendation?” She bites her lower lip, eyes tracing the ink that disappears under my rolled-up sleeves. “Something…stronger?”
I pour four shots of tequila without looking at her. “Forty-two fifty.”
Her face falls slightly at my flat tone, but she hands over her credit card. The machine takes forever to process—everything in this place is held together with duct tape and spite—and she uses the time to try again.
“That’s beautiful work. The tattoo, I mean. Where’d you get it done?”
“Portland.”
“Oh cool! I love Portland. So artsy. Do you go there a lot?”
“Not really.”
She waits for more. I don’t give it to her. The receipt finally prints and I slide it across the scarred wood along with a pen that’s missing its cap.
“I’m Chelsea,” she offers, signing with unnecessary flourishes.
I’m already turning to wipe down the other end of the bar. “Enjoy your drinks.”
She retreats to her table, and I catch her friends immediately leaning in for a debrief. One of them glances back at me and whispers something that makes them all giggle. Probably sharing whatever bad boy fantasy they’ve conjured about me. Girls like that see the tattoos, the motorcycle boots, the general air of “don’t fuck with me” I’ve cultivated over the years, and think they’ve found their small-town rebellion story.
They have no idea that the most rebellious thing I’ve done lately is organize the bar’s receipts by date instead of amount.
The door slams open hard enough to rattle the neon Budweiser sign, and Earl Miller stumbles in like he’s being chased. His eyes are wild, face flushed with more than just the cold October wind.
“Holy shit. None of y’all are gonna believe what just happened!”
Half the bar doesn’t even look up. Earl’s dramatic entrances are as regular as the tide.
“Let me guess,” one of the bikers calls from the pool table. “You saw another UFO behind the hardware store?”
“Or Bigfoot in the harbor again?” This from Aaron Keenan, vice president of the Sinners biker gang and one of the biggest assholes I’ve ever met. “How many beers deep were you for that one?”
Earl’s face goes red. “I ain’t drunk and I ain’t lying! I just gave a ride to Phoenix fucking Riviera!”
The bar goes quiet. Even I pause mid-wipe.
“Bullshit,” Aaron says flatly.
“I swear on my mother’s grave?—“
“Your mother’s still alive, Earl. Her fat ass was at the grocery store yesterday with a cart full of snack cakes.”
“Fuck you, Keenan!” Earl’s practically vibrating with indignation. “She was in my truck, I swear. That actress from that kids show my niece used to watch. The one who’s always in the tabloids now.”
Aaron snorts. “Right. And I suppose she needed a ride because her private jet broke down?”
“That’s exactly what happened,” Earl replies smugly. “Engine failure or something. Had to emergency land at the old airfield. I gave her a ride to the Seafoam. Had her right next to me in the truck.”
The skepticism in the bar is thick enough to cut. Earl’s been known to embellish, especially after a few drinks. Last month he swore he saw Tom Brady at the gas station. Turned out to be a cardboard cutout someone was moving.
“You’re full of shit,” another biker says, turning back to his beer.
