I responded.
* * *
“WHO IS THIS? WHO ARE YOU TRYING TO REACH?”
* * *
The response came back immediately.
* * *
“I’M WHO SHOULD BE WHERE YOU ARE. IF I WAS, I COULD HELP HER. I KNOW YOU’RE STILL AT HER PLACE. THERE’S A LOT MORE HAPPENING WITH THE HUBBARDS THAN YOU KNOW.”
* * *
Manure boy?
Or should he now be known as roses boy?
Either way, I was certain that Clark—Preston Clark—was the sender of the message. Seeing as Vee wouldn’t be home for a few hours and I’d spent too much of the day resting my sore rib, the text message seemed like an invitation I couldn’t ignore.
From what little I knew about Preston Clark, he was a snooty asshole from the same hometown as me. Thoroughbred royalty, the Clarks liked to call themselves. People in Bowling Green had different names for them, none of which were complimentary. While I had no idea what Preston Clark wanted to tell me, I decided I’d show him that Vee hadn’t started slumming it since she broke things off with him.
Taking off the faded Cincinnati Reds t-shirt I’d been wearing, I kept my blue jeans on and donned a light tan cashmere crewneck sweater. I winced as I moved. Next, I added a wool gray and tan check jacket and replaced my running shoes with leather loafers. While the autumn day had been sunny, the temperature was past its peak and heading down. These clothes would keep the chill away on my short walk from the Vine to Bourbon on Rye.
Avoiding the first floor of the Vine building, I took the elevator to the garage and walked out to the sidewalk. Deep breaths of fresh air sent a twinge from my rib. The sky above was still blue; nevertheless, I’d been right about the dropping temperature. The brisk breeze tingled my cheeks. A large blue sign on the front of a limestone building displayed the name of my destination, Bourbon On Rye. Decorative whiskey barrels sat near the door, adorned with Halloween decorations.
A glance at my watch let me know that I was a few minutes early.
Opening the glass door, I blinked my eyes. It took a second for them to adjust from the late afternoon sun to the dim interior within the downtown tavern. Once through the door, I entered a long, narrow room with dark-gray-painted walls, small leather booths lining the right side, a long shiny wood bar with ornate wood trim on the left, and numerous chandeliers glistening overhead.
The speakeasy vibe was strong.
Being the third time I’d seen him in the last week and the fact the tavern had just opened, Clark was easy to spot. He was seated, facing the entry, in one of the last booths on the right. As our gazes met, he tipped his chin.
I passed a couple at the bar and a woman with a laptop and glass of wine in a booth. The rest of the tavern was empty.
“Clark,” I said as I settled into the seat across the table from him.
“Graham.” He swirled the amber liquid and large clear ice cube in his tumbler. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
My lips quirked. “Cryptic messages are my kryptonite.”
Clark grunted.
“Besides, it’s hard to pass up an invitation when I’m literally a few buildings away.”
He narrowed his dark stare. “Can’t fucking believe you’re living there.”
“You’d rather she was alone?”
“No.” He took a swallow of his bourbon and lowered the tumbler to the table. “I had a feeling something was in the works.” Clark shook his head. “It’s why I asked her to move in together.”
“What are you talking about?”
He tipped his head toward me. “Do you want a drink?”
“I think I better be sober for this conversation.”
