Duke’s is the only bar on this side of town, so even on a Thursday, it’s busy with the blue-collar type. The neon signs buzz faintly against the dark wood-paneled walls, casting everything in a low, colorful glow. The smell of liquor, fried bar food, and an obnoxious amount of cologne hangs thick in the air. Boots scuff against worn floorboards, laughter and country music blending into a steady hum.
The barstools are taken by old men nursing beers, chatting up the young bartender, who looks unaffected by their advances. Their gravelly voices carry, competing with the crack of pool balls and the occasional cheer from the dartboard in the corner.
I spy a free table across the small dance floor. Unfortunately, it’s next to the pool tables, where a group of guys who look like they just turned twenty-one claim the space. Their voices are loud, and their movements exaggerated with that unwarranted confidence that comes from a lack of social experience. Lovely. The moment another table opens, we’re moving.
“I’m going to go get us drinks.” Harlow breaks away before we cross the floor, already weaving through the crowd like she owns the place.
“Oh god, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Charlie whispers, like she didn’t anticipate me hearing her over the noise.
“Are you good? I know the other day at work you were about to tell me something?”
She lets out a long sigh, her shoulder slumping, before she shakes her flaming locks. “I was, but honestly, I never go out. I just want to forget about it and have a good night.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
Harlow returns with a tray, the pitcher of margaritas carefully balanced, surrounded by shots of golden liquid and a bowl of limes. Eyes around the room skate across her body as she leans down and hands out the bad decisions waiting to happen in a drinkable form. She might be the most casually dressed of us, but Harlow’s always had that air about her. Her confidence oozes from her pores, attracting the notice of anyone she comes in contact with.
It’s hilarious when you know she can’t stand the general population of men out there and is always itching for a reason to stab them.
“To not letting men dictate our freedom.” Harlow raises one of her shot glasses.
We cheer, shooting the burning tequila back, with a whoop. A shiver racks through my body as the liquor’s sharp nails claw down my throat, warming my belly and loosening the strain of stress I’ve been harboring for weeks.
Let the night begin.
TIME TO UNCAGE THE BEAST
VIKING
The house isdark when Ghost pulls to a stop in the driveway, and I’m grateful he doesn’t comment. Twelve hours locked up with the guys, while Rosenfeld’s deputies took every chance to sneer in our direction, has me jonesing for a shower and a cold beer.
“Hey, before you go.” Ghost reaches into the back seat, a file folder in his big paw, when he shifts forward again. “A few things to get Trenton started with school until we have the final results from the lab.”
I nod, taking the falsified papers from him. “Thanks, man. I owe you. For this,” I lift the folder, “and today.”
“Nah, Pres. We’re square. There’s a reason why you let me miss half the shit with the club.”
“Right. See you later, man. Thanks for the ride.”
I unfold myself out of his tiny sedan, but before I can close the door on the last twenty-four hours, he clears his throat.
“Tell Trenton to lay low until we get everything sorted. The last thing we need is him getting into trouble at school and someone digging into things.”
“I’ll let him know.” I shove the door closed and double-tap the roof before heading for the front door.
Bear sprawls across the entryway carpet when I get inside. He doesn’t bother to move, clocking it’s me, with his half-opened eyes, as I skirt around his huge form.
“Hello?” I call through the house, making my way to the fridge, but only silence greets me.
“Where the fuck is everyone?” I whisper to the emptiness, cracking open my beer and downing the refreshing brew in two quick pulls.
Dragging my cell from my pocket, the damn thing remains black, dead as a fucking doornail. I chuck the bottle into the recycle bin and stomp down the hall toward the bedroom where it can charge.
Waiting for it to power back on, I hop in the shower, letting the stench of the cell wash from my skin. There’s not usually more than the odd drunk and disorderly stored there overnight, but they tend to leave behind the stink of failure and regurgitated alcohol.
The heat softens my strained muscles until I remember my house is empty once again and that my wife and kids are nowhere to be found. There’s no note left on the counter to ease my anxiety that Josie’s up and ran off.
She wouldn’t. Not after last time. Especially, not with Trenton in tow. Maybe she left me a text instead. I cling to that hope, rinsing away the suds and stepping out into the fogged-up bathroom. I wrap a black towel around my hips and all but run for my phone, which now glows with a little battery life.
