Page 9 of Thug

The timeless lyrics of the Allman Brothers tune, Midnight Rider, filled the bar. All but immediately, the dull roar of the men’s voices hushed, leaving the music and my breathing as the only sounds I could hear.

I closed my eyes and let the music take me away. Men from every direction sang along with the lyrics to the memorable song. For the first time since I opened the bar, I basked in my successes. It was my dream to have an old school tavern with a wooden bar that catered to bikers, served pickled bar essentials as the only food, and played timeless music on a vintage jukebox.

Halfway through the song, the cowbell clanged. I opened my eyes and glanced toward the door.

Price’s silhouette stood between me and the setting sun.

Considering the thirty-two leather-clad options that were in the bar, I didn’t want to immediately gravitate toward Price. Upon seeing him, however, my heart faltered.

Allowing myself to be attracted to him was a fool’s move. He was perpetually single, a loner, a rebel, and an outlaw. In the twenty-five or so years that I could recall seeing him blaze up and down the streets of Marana, I’d never seen him with a woman. In fact, I’d never seen him so much as talk to a member of the opposite sex.

I’d had my share of one-sided relationships, false beliefs of loyalty, and of having my heart broken. Knowing Price’s inability to give himself to a woman would prevent him from being a viable long-term partner. I wanted a man who knew how to treat a woman, was willing to commit to her, and was an asshole in the process of doing so. Someone who’d bark orders at me, find satisfaction in seeing me fulfill his verbal demands, and come home every night to exhaust his sexual frustrations.

They were tough shoes to fill, but I guessed that at least one of the thirty-two options in front of me was my Harley-riding Cinderella. Finding out who fit the glass boot was going to be my next quest.

Price entered the bar while the Rolling Stones Beast of Burden began playing. If nothing else, Brisco’s taste in music mirrored mine. If things went in my favor, I could see him as the protective big brother I never had.

“Come look at this jukebox,” Brisco bellowed, directing his comment at Price. “Son-of-a-bitch is sixty-five years old and looks like brand fuckin’ new.”

If Price was headed in my direction, I needed to find a place to hide. It wasn’t that I wanted to play hard to get, or that I feared whatever it was Price had to offer. My pool of qualified applicants was now vast, and I needed to make sure the decision I made was the right one. Furthermore, I knew my limitations when it came to say “no” to a tattooed man who wore leather in the heat of the summer and used a dab of gasoline as his signature scent.

In hope of avoiding another heartache, I turned toward the bar. Coming right at me, Price veered in the same direction. I increased the speed of my gait. Seeming frustrated with my antics, he paused and folded his bare arms over his chest.

His steel blue eyes followed my every move.

In nervous preparation of his arrival, I reached for two pitchers and began filling them. He meandered to where I was and took a precursory glance at the six empty stools. After choosing the seat across from me, he leaned over the edge of the bar.

“Did you think you were going to outrun me?” he asked.

Playing dumb was my best bet. It was something I was truly good at. I plastered my face with an “I’m as dumb as a sack of hammers” look and met his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“You saw me coming and you took off like a scared rabbit.”

I changed my look to one of innocence. It was another trademark expression for me, so the morph from stupidity to angelic was fluid. I batted my eyelashes. “I was just coming to fill a few pitchers.”

“Bullshit.” His gaze narrowed. “What are you afraid of?”

He could sense that I was lying. Maybe he was like a wild animal and could smell my fear. I wasn’t about to admit that he was what I was afraid of, so I blurted out my list of true fears. “In general?” I turned off the tap and set the pitcher aside. “Rattlesnakes, people with nothing to lose, the brakes failing on my car, and drowning,” I said without skipping a beat.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He glared at me for a moment before his stare softened. “Fuck it, I’ll play along.” He tilted his head toward the door. “Is that your Pathfinder outside?”

“It is.”

“Your brakes in need of some work?” He gestured to his right side with a wave of his hand. “Chin owns an auto shop.”

“The brakes are fine,” I replied. “It’s just a constant fear of mine. That one day I’m really going to need to stop and the pedal will be all squishy. I’ll come careening down a steep hill, trying to find a place to come crashing to a stop and the streets be lined with minivans that are stuffed full of balloon-toting toddlers and the sidewalks will be filled with participants of the annual wheelchair basketball tournament.”

“Use your emergency brake,” he said dryly.

I grabbed an empty pitcher and positioned it under the tap. “The brakes are squishy, remember?”

“Your brake pedal operates the brakes through a system of hydraulics,” he explained. “It pushes fluid through a small steel line, and the hydraulic pressure clamps a fibrous pad to a steel rotor, which is attached to your wheel. When your hydraulic brakes fail, you can use the emergency brake. It’s completely independent of the hydraulics. It operates with a cable. It’ll work when the others fail.”

I gave him the “I’m dumb as fuck” look. This time it was for real. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Wow.” I offered a virtual fist bump. “I had no idea.”