Panzer and I both laughed.
Brisco blinked a few times. “I don’t get it.”
“Hey,” Teddi said, appearing to have a revelation. She leaned over the edge fo the bar and looked Brisco right in the eyes. “Did you hear anything about your cats?”
“I can’t take it anymore,” Brisco said. He looked at me. “I think I’m hittin’ the road.”
“You headed out this early?” I asked.
He nodded. “I’m gonna do some soul searching.”
Teddi thumbed the bill of her cap up. “For what?”
“Who I fucked over the worst,” Brisco said. “Women wise.”
“Any of them brunettes?” Teddi asked.
“Couple of ‘em, I’m sure,” Brisco said. “I’ll have to think about it though.”
“They’re the ones you’ve got to watch out for,” Teddi said. “The blondes are too dumb to know you fucked ‘em over.”
“I’m out,” Brisco said.
Teddi dumped the ice from the bucket of beer and tossed it into the sink. “He needs to quit being such a pussy about those cats.” She shook her head. “I mean, really. They’re fucking cats, for Christ’s sake.”
Panzer pushed his empty bottle halfway across the bar. When Teddi reached for it, he clenched it tight in his fist.
“You’re going to get on the back of my bike,” he said. “Gray’s going to get on the back of Price’s bike. Then, we’re all going to go somewhere and do something. What night works best for you?”
“Any night after three am, or any time on Sunday,” she replied without skipping a beat. “Let me know what you figure out.”
“Will do,” Panzer said.
“Be right back,” she said.
She shot through the kitchen door.
“Damn,” I said. “That went well.”
He grinned. “Sure did.”
She burst through the door with our sandwiches. She slid one to each of us. After a quick study of the plates, she promptly switched them. “There,” she said. “I think that’s right.”
She nodded at each of us, smiled, and turned away.
“What was that about?” Panzer asked.
“I think you’re going to have your hands full with that one,” I said.
He picked up his sandwich. “Thinking you might be right.”
It seemed Panzer was finally on his way to recovery. Brisco, on the other hand, wasn’t even close. I needed to find a way to forgive him for what he’d done. Only then would he be able to start living life again.
I was close, but I wasn’t there yet. I needed to devise a way that would satisfy all three of the parties involved.
29
Gray
Standing in the bathroom doorway in my panties and bra, I scowled at Price. “Why won’t you tell me where we’re going? That’s just crappy. How am I supposed to know what to wear?”
He stretched his arms out wide. He was dressed in a clean wife beater, faded jeans, and a pair of white socks.
He checked his watch. “Look at me,” he said. “How am I dressed?”
“You always wear the same thing,” I complained. “Jeans, boots, your kutte, and a wife beater.”
He walked to the doorway and picked up his boots. “I wear a tee shirt every now and again.”
“Is it against the rules to go without your kutte?” I asked. “Other than when you’re at home, I’ve never seen you without it.”
“If you’re on your motorcycle, whether you’re with the club or alone, it must be worn. If you’re not on a motorcycle, it’s your choice.”
“Because you never ride anything but a motorcycle, you always wear it?”
He sat on the corner of the bed and pulled on his boots. “Correct.”
“So, we could be going to the Opera and you’d still be wearing the same thing.”
“We’re not going to the fucking Opera,” he insisted. “Now, or ever.”
“You’re exhausting,” I huffed.
“Wear a nice top, but not too nice. Not too revealing, either.”
“I don’t have anything nice that’s not a little revealing. Is a little cleavage bad?”
“Tonight?” he looked up. “Yeah.”
“Just tell me.”
He gave me a dirty look. “Get dressed.”
Men were ridiculous. They could put on jeans and a tee shirt and fit in just about anywhere. The world was critical of women, and we were chastised for our choices. If we wore sneakers, jeans, and a tee shirt to a nice restaurant, we were labeled a lesbian. If we wore a little black dress to Taco Bell, we were labeled a slut.
We couldn’t win.
“Fine,” I said. “I don’t have too many options, anyway. I’ve only got like three outfits here.”
He checked his watch and stood. “Ought to make picking one easy.”
I picked my best jeans, a pair of 2” heels, and a sleeveless black V-neck top. After getting dressed I did a pirouette. “How’s this?”
Pacing the floor, he glanced at me. “You look great.”
I put my hair in a ponytail. “Not many options with the hair.”
He continued pacing. “You’ll be fine.”
“You seem nervous,” I said.
“About what?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I guess I’m asking.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Where are the hostages?”
Something weird was going on. I just didn’t know what it was. “I haven’t seen them in a while. They’re probably sleeping.”
He disappeared.
I touched up my makeup began my search for Price. Shouting in his home was frowned upon unless it was an emergency. If one of us didn’t know where the other was, we were supposed to look, not shout.
I found Price in the living room, petting the hostages.
“Let’s go,” I said, my tone expressing slight frustration.
He whispered something to each of the cats and carefully placed them on the sofa. “It’s not a big deal,” he said. “We’re just going to eat.”
“It must be a big deal,” I argued. “You shaved. Whenever you decide it’s time to shave, it’s never at night.”
“I looked like hell.”
He had a week of growth on his face. He always had a week of growth on his face. I scowled. “You looked like you.”
“C’mon.” He gestured to the door. “Let’s go.”
I followed him to the motorcycle. I hopped on and crossed my arms in a huff, prepared to go to nowhere. I loved Price all that came with him, but I really couldn’t bring myself to enjoy secrets about something as simple as a dinner destination.
We rode for twenty minutes in silence. With the sun low in the sky we exited the highway. Each side of the narrow chat road was lined with giant saguaro. They were a hundred years old, at least, which gave hint as to the age of whatever was at the end of the road.
“Secrets are dumb,” I said into Price’s ear.
“It’s not a secret,” he said. “We’re here.”
The road seemed to lead to nowhere, other than the distant mountains. My interest piqued. We weren’t going to a restaurant I knew that much. A mile of gravel road later, we pulled in front of an expensive looking stucco home.
I pulled off my sunglasses. “Who lives here?” I whispered.
“His name’s Jim Gardner,” he said. “But he goes by Jack. Cactus Jack.”
I couldn’t remember anyone named Cactus Jack. “Does he ride with you?”
The front door opened. A frail man who appeared to be in his late seventies or early eighties stepped outside the home. He was dressed in a brown and white plaid long-sleeved shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, and a straw cowboy hat.
He lifted his hat. “Evening.”
“Evening, Jack,” Price said. “Not too early?”
Jack faced the mountains. “If you want to see that sun set, I’d say you’re on the cusp of being too late.” He looked at us. “Time’ll tell, though.”
&n
bsp; “He’s adorable,” I said. “Where’d he come from?”
“Friend of my father’s,” Price said. “Mother and father, actually.”
“Secrets told amongst friends are nothing more than relabeled lies,” Jack shouted.
“Holy cow,” I whispered. “He’s got good ears.”
Jack, standing nearly thirty feet from us, laughed. “He sure does.”
I was embarrassed and wanted to redeem myself. He reminded me of my grandfather, who died when I was in middle school. While Price situated the motorcycle, I introduced myself.
“Hi.” I extended my hand. “I’m Gray.”
He pushed his hat up with his thumb. He scanned me from head to toe. “Name’s Gray?”
“Yes, Sir. Gray Forester.”
He removed his hat with his left hand, bowed, and then shook my hand. “Jim Gardner. You can call me Jack. Cactus Jack.”
I grinned. “Pleasure to meet you, Cactus.”
He laughed. “Call me Jack.”
“Okay.”
He draped his arm over my shoulder. “Follow me,” he whispered. “We’ll be in the kitchen,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Whenever you’re done goofing around.”
“Be right in,” Price said.
The home’s ceilings were high, the space was vast, and the décor was southwestern. Windows at the rear of the home provided an unobstructed view of the mountains in the distance. The sun was thirty minutes away from folding in behind them.
“The original home was built here when this was New Mexico Territory,” Jack said. “Long before Arizona was a state. I tore it down a few decades ago and built this in its place. Twisted it a little when I poured the foundation, so I could get a look at those mountains of an evening.”
“The view is beautiful.”
“You eat meat?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Figured I’d ask,” he said. “So many these days don’t.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Do you drink wine?”
I smiled. “I do.”
Price came through the front door and followed us into the kitchen. “Have any of that scotch left?”
“Nope,” Jack snapped back. “All I’ve got is wine.”
“Wine?” Price scrunched his nose. “No whisky of any—”
“You’re drinking wine,” Jack said dryly. “We’re all drinking wine.”
A bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and a platter of meat were situated on the bar.
Jack handed Price the bottle of wine. “Here.” He gestured to a lighted section of cabinet. “Glasses are up there.”
Price looked at the wine as if Jack had handed him a rattlesnake.
“Give it to me,” I said, taking it from his grasp. “I’ll pour it.”
Jack leaned over a gas grille that was fitted into an island in the center of his massive kitchen. “You can have your choice of medium or medium on the steaks.” He looked at me. “How would you like yours cooked?”
Twisting the corkscrew in the cork, I grinned. “I prefer medium.”
He glanced at Price.
“Medium,” Price said.
Jack turned up the flame. “In about ten minutes, we’ll be ready. Should be just in time to see the sunset.”
While I poured three glasses of wine, Jack tossed the steaks on the gas grille. “Nothing more frustrating than three or four people all wanting something cooked differently. Tryin’ to get them all done at the same time is a pain in the ass.”
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“You cook for a big family?”
I laughed. “Kind of.”
He looked up. “What does that mean? Kind of?”
“I own a bar. I just started serving food. My customer base consists of Price and all his friends. None of them like their burgers cooked the same. Medium, medium rare, and well-done—all at the same table.”
He looked at Price. “You’ve got friends?”
Price scowled. He tried the wine. He lowered the glass and looked in it. “This isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.”
Jack gestured to a wine fridge and then to a cabinet. “If you’ve got a better suggestion, I’ll entertain it. Man at the wine store recommended that bottle to pair with these steaks. Bought two of them.”
The wine, a Courtney Benham Cabernet Sauvignon, was as good of a cabernet as I’d ever had. I lifted my glass. “I like it.”
Jack turned the steaks. “Tell me about your bar.”
“Well,” I gestured to Price. “I cater to bikers. I just started selling food. For the time being, I’m the only cook. I was the only bartender until a few weeks ago, but I hired another bartender so I can have a little time to myself.”
“I’m guessing you’re closed today?”
I nodded. “I’m closed on Sundays.”
“You plan to hire another cook?”
“I do.”
“When do you plan to do that?”
“I interviewed two, today.”
“Men or women?”
“One of each.”
“Didn’t hire either of them?”
“No.”
“Were they qualified?”
“More or less,” I replied. “The woman worked at a bar as a cook, but I’m not too impressed with her. She’s really opinionated.”
“What about the man?”
“I want to be impressed with him, but he doesn’t have any real-world experience.”
“Was the woman married?”
It seemed like an odd question. “Yes,” I said, “she was.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “The man’s Hispanic.”
I looked at Price. He shrugged. “I didn’t say anything.”
I glanced at Jack. “He is.”
“Hire him,” he said.
I laughed. “Why?”
He removed the steaks and placed them on a clean platter. “Those’ll be ready to eat in five.” He opened the oven and removed two casserole dishes. After getting a salad from the refrigerator, he stepped to the island. “A Hispanic man applying for a cook’s position is working to provide his family with a place to live, food to eat, and clothes to wear. He knows damned good and well that he’s already got one strike against him, because he’s a Mexican. In his eyes, he started the job with one foot out the door. He’ll work his ass off to keep it. The woman is either working because her husband told her to get a job or because she wants a new handbag, dress, or jewelry of some sort. None of those reasons will make her a good cook or a good worker.”
He was probably right. Regardless of what was driving him, the man’s lack of experience troubled me.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“Hire him,” he said. “If he doesn’t work out, I’ll come cook for you for free until you find someone else.”
I laughed.
He looked at Price. “She doesn’t think I’m serious.”
Price chuckled. “Neither do I.”
Jack held out his hand. “Hire the man. If he doesn’t work out, I’ll work for free.”
“If he’s offering to shake on it,” Price said, nodding toward Jack’s outstretched hand. “He’s serious.”
“I’ll decide after dinner,” I said.
Jack peered into the living room. “Sun will be setting in a few minutes.” He nodded toward the food. “Brussel sprouts with bacon and onions, Caesar salad, and andouille sausage-potato casserole. Dig in.”
We fixed our plates and took a seat at a rustic wooden dinner table on the back patio, a covered concrete area that faced the mountains. The food was seasoned—and cooked—to perfection. The Brussel sprouts—which I’d always claimed to dislike—were fabulous. The sausage and potato casserole was so good I wanted the recipe.
I’d take Jack for a cook any day.
I gathered the perfect bite of casserole. “What else can you cook?”
“Damned near anything,” he said. “Been doing it since I was a kid.” He gestured to Price. “His mother and I would have contests,
baking pies. The men who ran with me would try ‘em and give ‘em a ranking. We were about fifty-fifty when she passed.”
“That’s commendable,” I said. “Considering Price’s comments about her baking.”
“That woman could bake,” Jack said. “Loved making cakes, cookies, and such. Had a touch of a sweet tooth.”
I nodded at Price. “So does he.”
“Well,” Jack said, grinning as he spoke. “He came about it honestly.”
We sipped our wine, ate our food, and watched the sun set over the mountains in the distance. It was a fantastic change of pace from our normal Sunday dinner out—or cooking at Price’s place.
It was easy to convince myself that we were eating Sunday dinner as a family. It was something I never had as a kid. I often wished for it, but it never happened.
Jack pushed his plate to the side and looked at each of us. He took a drink of his wine. “You two remind me of McNealy’s parents, Earl and Kimberly. They had an energy about ‘em just like you two.”
I was intrigued. “We have an energy?”
“I’m not a pot smoking weirdo,” Jack said. “I’m not meaning something other than worldly. I’m sayin’ you two complement one another.”
“I didn’t think you were a pot smoking weirdo.”
“Well, you were looking at me like you thought I was.”
“I was not.”
He scowled. “Damned sure were.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was. I was intrigued.”
“I do that to people.” He sipped his wine. “Did you two meet in the bar?”
“Price and a friend came in one night,” I said. “I knew right then and there that I wanted to know more.”
Jack chuckled. “Did he intrigue you?”
“He did.”
“Sounds like that’s an easy thing to do.”
“Not really.”
“I beg to differ,” he said. “You find one hundred percent of the men at this table intriguing. That’s an inarguable statistic.”
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