Falon drops her gloves on the back of the truck and rolls her neck side to side. "That's the last of it."
"Finally." I pull my shirt away from my back. "I was starting to think that trailer was bottomless."
She laughs, short and tired, and it sounds good in the quiet of the barn.
“You still planning on skipping girls’ night?” I ask as I pull my own gloves off.
“No. I wish I’d stuck to my guns, but after a text from Daisy and Millie, I relented and agreed to meet them after we were done.”
“How ya feelin about that decision now?”
“I’m wishing for a hot shower and sweats.” She rubs her tired eyes.
I'd seen the notifications light up her phone while we worked, and the second time, Falon had answered, typed something back, and put her phone away, looking a bit resigned and, dare I say, a little pouty.
“Where is tonight’s girls' night?” I ask, knowing it changed every time. She makes a disgusted face.
“The bar.”
I knew Falon didn’t drink, and neither did any of the other girls, but Burl’s had the best nachos, and the girls loved their nachos. Falon had told me more than once that she hated bars but loved their food. She usually got it to go, which made her happy. I also know that Daisy is persuasive, and I had no doubt that Millie was already there. By the time we finished unloading and Falon showered, she’d be there just in time for the girls' second round of virgin drinks and for the nachos to just show up.
I loved the fact that she didn’t drink and respected that she'd stayed to finish the work first.
"Shower," I announce to no one in particular.
"Same." She's already headed toward the farmhouse. "There's leftover chili in the fridge if you want it."
"I want it," I say, rubbing my stomach, which felt empty and hungry.
“Good, I made bread yesterday, so it should be in the bread box.”
“Homemade bread. You’re killin' me, woman.” She laughs full out, and I watch her disappear into the farm house while I make it back to the guest house.
I'm standing in the kitchen, feeling a little cleaner after my shower, wearing a clean shirt and holding a glass ofwater, thinking about chili, when my phone buzzes on the counter.
Mason.
I stare at it for half a second.
Mason Bennett does not call at nine forty-five on a Friday night for small talk. He's not that kind of guy. He's the guy who texts "you free?" and means right now and is already holding the door open when you pull up. So when his name lights up the screen, I don't ask questions.
“Mason,” I say in greeting.
"Bar," he says. "Sarah called. It’s Kevin."
That's all I need. I look at the farmhouse, and Falon’s bedroom light is still on, and so is the kitchen and living area. Falon never left the lights on, so I might have time to get there first and help the guys.
Falon would be on her way there soon.
I'm out the guest house door as the call ends.
The drive into town takes eight minutes. I make it in six. The parking lot outside Burl's is already tense. Two trucks were parked haphazardly, canted at odd angles. A cluster of people near the side door, and a woman in a yellow jacket has her hand on her friend's arm, steering her toward the street. Her friend keeps looking back over her shoulder.
That did not bode well.
I park in a hurry and push through the old doors, and the noise gets louder with every step. It's not the usual bar music. It's a loud, drunken voice carrying through over the whole bar, and Burl’s isn’t a small bar. He has a family section and a bar section. And you could hear him in both. I've heard that tone before, overseas, in cramped bases and mess halls, and in places like this when alcohol overrides common sense. They always sound the same. bold on top, hollow underneath.
Kevin Bennett is at the bar.
