Flint’s deep voice pulls me out of my internal thoughts. “You look a million miles away. What are you thinking about?”
“A lot of things,” I say before changing the subject. “Why don’t you tell me about the room?”
He looks up from his plate. “It’s just a convenient place to crash late at night.”
“You mentioned that it’s stocked. What do you mean by stocked? Is it up to Flint standards like your house?”
He makes a small sound of disbelief. “Of course it is. I take care of the things that are important to me. It has a full bed with cotton sheets, a quilt, and comfortable pillows. I have a footlocker to store some gear and a desk and chair. I keep it clean. There’s a bathroom two doors down. It’s not a large space, but it meets my needs. I even rewired it two years ago.”
“You rewired your clubhouse bedroom?”
“To be quite honest, the original wiring was a bit of a fire hazard. I rewired half of the rooms in the basement when I was prospecting. Rock got a team together to do the rest of the building. It needed to be done.”
“Yeah, I can see you doing something like that. You’re a real go-getter.”
He just shakes his head and reaches for his beer again. “I guess if not wanting to die in an electrical fire makes me a go-getter, sure.”
We finish our food, and Flint grabs another round of drinks for us. It’s nice to just chill out for a change. The afternoon slowly fades into evening as we talk about work, visit with his club brothers, and enjoy the atmosphere of the clubhouse.
Suddenly, Flint asks, “Do you want to shoot some pool with me? You might even beat me this time.”
Shame fills every corner of my soul as I remember the last time we played pool. Not really shame. More like a dent to my ego because I made such a poor showing that night.
“Sure, you’re on.”
“Fuckin’ great,” he says enthusiastically. “The loser buys the next round. How about that?”
Frowning at him, I begin to think he’s had too much to drink already. “Drinks are free at the Sons of Rage clubhouse, Flint. Remember?”
“Fine,” he smirks. “The loser owes the winner a favor, then.”
Not that I’m naturally competitive or anything, but a harmless bet only increases the fun. “You’re on.”
We move to one of the back pool tables, one with a window ledge to hold our drinks. Flint racks the balls and gives me the first shot. My shots land better this time, but I’m not really any competition for the man who’s been shooting pool most of his adult life. I watch his muscular body lean over the pool table and take shot after shot until he’s cleared the table.
“Eight ball, corner pocket,” he tells me, lining up his last shot of the game.
I drain the last of my wine cooler as I watch him line up his shot. The ball ends up rolling right into the corner pocket.
I toss my wine cooler bottle into an open trash can and turn to him. “You make it look easy, Flint.”
“Tough break, Jules.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
That’s when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out, excited that it might be Tommy.
It’s not, though. It’s a text from my old landlord in LA, and the first line of the preview tells me something’s up before I even open the message.
This is Mr. Ramirez from the rental office. I hate to bother you, but something happened this afternoon that I think you need to know.
I open the full message and read it. Then I start at the beginning and read it over again, horrified by what I’m seeing. I hear myself make a small, distressed sound. It slips out before I realize it.
Suddenly, Flint is beside me. “Jules, what’s wrong? Did something bad happen to Tommy?” he asks in a worried tone.
“No. It’s my old landlord, Mr. Ramirez. He says two men in dark suits came into the rental office this morning asking about the place I used to live in. They wanted to know if it was still occupied. He told them my lease was up and that theapartment was available if they wanted to fill out an application. They declined and kept pestering him with questions about me.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” Flint mutters under his breath.
