by Zahra Girard
“You have no idea what I had to give up to get the sheriff to leave,” I say. My throat is raw with emotion and my voice is shaking with a potent mix of fear and fury.
“You’re a bartender. You gave him some booze. That’s not so shocking. And, since it saved your bar, what’s there to be so fucking upset about?”
He’s so callous I want to slap him again. Once his companions are gone.
“That’s so easy for you to say, but that wasn’t just any bottle. I bought that as a gift for myself when I opened this bar. It’s special. And expensive as hell. I was saving it for a special day, for myself, to celebrate. And now I’ve had to give it away to some fat old man in some kind of devil’s bargain to save myself and a bunch of criminals that I absolutely do not give a shit about. How do you think I feel right now?”
And it’s like everything I say just washes over him; he shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. This is business. Sometimes things just don’t go your way and all you can do is pick up the pieces and do your best to move on. You should be grateful.”
One of his companions, the burly lug who gave first aid to Teddy, gives Crash a side-eyed look.
“She’s had a rough day, Crash. We all have. Why don’t we just call it a night?”
Crash nods. “You’re right, Blaze. Check your phone, look up a mechanic, see if we can get a tow truck out here and guard the cargo until it arrives. I have a feeling it will take a lot of work before our truck is running again. Everyone else, let’s get the hell out of here and go find a motel. I’m fucking beat.”
And, just like that, they break. It’s like my fury doesn’t even matter to them; they separate, go about their business, and head back to their bikes while Blaze makes a phone call for a tow truck.
These men come into my life, upend everything in a day, cost me a very special and very pricey bottle of bourbon, and now just think they can saunter off like nothing’s happened? Oh, hell no.
As the motorbikes let out their ear-splitting roars as the fire to life, I decide I’m not going to just stand here and take this mess that fate’s dumped all over me.
I run.
Right at Crash. Who is just finishing strapping on his helmet and about to burn rubber out of my parking lot.
And I catch up to him, just as his wheels turn, and I shove him. Hard.
The man hits the asphalt, hard, and springs to his feet just as quick as he hit the ground. With eyes blazing — the first actual sign of emotion I’ve seen from him all night — he stalks toward me.
“What the fuck—” He starts.
But I don’t let him finish.
I shove an angry finger in his face and I let loose with a fury amplified by the satisfaction of how amazing it feels to finally have done something to hurt this smug bastard. “We are not done. Not even close. I don’t care who you are, what you do, it doesn’t matter — we are not done. You ruined my life tonight, Crash, and you will make it up to me. I don’t know how, but I’ll think of something. And if you even think about skipping town before I say so, I will call Sheriff Cartwright and I will let him know that maybe he should look in the back of your truck. Even if it costs me everything, it’ll be worth it, because I’m sure that what you’ve got back there is enough to get you sent to jail for a very long time. So, unless you want that fat arrogant prick of a sheriff to be the one to finally throw your criminal ass in jail, you will not leave this town until I give you permission. Got it?”
Chapter Four
Crash
This psychopathic woman just doesn’t learn; I’m giving her every opportunity to cut her losses and walk away, and she keeps coming back. And it is infuriating. Even though, deep inside, I have to admit that the sight of her — with her full lips pursed, her eyes blazing bright with fury, and her chest, and her marvelous tits, thrust out like she’s trying to intimidate me — is something I’d love to take a nice long taste of.
But I can’t let myself get mixed up in this local bullshit.
We’ve got a job to do. Cargo to move. No matter how damn tempting Violet is, I have to resist.
Except I’ve got the feeling that this woman is after my own heart and will not take ‘no’ for an answer.
“Fine,” I say. “I owe you one.”
She nods. Satisfied. “Thank you. I’ll come look you up when I’ve figured out what you can do for me.”
“No. Here’s what’s going to happen, you’re going to give me your phone number, and I’m going to call you before I’m ready to leave town and you can tell me then what little errand I have to do to get you to drop this stupid issue.”
She laughs.
I have to give it to her, this chick has balls. And one hell of an ass.
“No, no way. I’m not giving you my phone number. There’s only one mechanics in this town and there’s only two motels and I know the owners of all of them. When I want to find you, I’ll come find you. And if you even think of leaving, I’ll know about it before you’ve even started your motorcycles. Got it?”
“Fine,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Good. Glad we understand each other. Now, say ‘hi’ to Max for me when he gets here. I’m locking up and going to the ER to check on my friend and won’t be able to stick around.”
“Who’s Max?”
“The only mechanic and tow truck driver in Carbon Ridge. He’s also one of my regulars and sometimes I babysit his granddaughter when his family comes into town for a visit,” she smiles. It’s confident, and sexy as hell. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m not bluffing. The only man for miles who can fix your truck is like a grandpa to me, too. You try anything and I’ll know about it. So behave, and hopefully soon we can both get as far away from each other as possible.”
With that, she turns, storms back to her door, locks it, and practically races to her pickup truck and peels rubber speeding out of the parking lot.
“Damn, she wants it bad, brother,” Blaze says from behind me.
I turn. He’s staring at me with a big old grin on his face.
“You’re joking.”
“I mean, she might hate your guts, but there’s something to be said for a good hate-fuck every once in a while,” he says.
“You’re just saying that because, before Tiffany, most of the only action you could get was from women that hated your ass.”
“Yeah, right.”
“How many did you have long term?”
“Like you and Rosa?” He says.
I flinch. That wound is still raw. And way too recent. “Come on, brother, don’t go saying her name.”
“It still hurt that she dumped you?”
“It was the other way around, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”
“What was it, anyway?”
“What it was is none of your business.”
“Then what better way to get Rosa out of your system than taking that baseball-bat-wielding maniac, Violet, for a little ride?”
I stare off into the night. For a second, I imagine what it’d be like to have her — I know a chick as angry and headstrong as her could handle it rough. And, right now, a good rough fuck sounds awfully tempting.
“You saw her, Blaze. She’s more liable to take my head off with that baseball bat of hers than she is to want to suck my dick.”
“It’s the danger that makes it fun, brother. One of the best times that Tiffany and I ever did it was when I was in the hospital after shooting up Anna Ebri’s guys. Being that close to the edge reminds you just how alive you are. And how good it can be to have a hot piece of ass in bed with you.”
The sound of a chugging tow truck engine saves me from the chore of reminding Blaze that there’s a difference between surviving a near-death experience and having good sex afterward, and having good sex with a chick who wants to give you a near-death experience by taking your head off with a baseball bat.
The tow truck pulls up next to our cargo truck and out of it steps a man who has to be at least seventy. He’s got a smooth bald
head with just a patch of short-shorn gray hair at his temples, wobbly jowls, and eyes that look comically big behind some of the thickest-lensed glasses I’ve ever seen.
“You Max?” I say.
Blaze gives me a side-eyed look.
“I am. What the hell happened here?” Max answers.
“Violet says ‘hi’. And that she’s sorry she couldn’t be here, but she had to run to the hospital.”
“All right. But I’m going to say this again: what the hell happened to your truck?” He says, leaning over the steaming and smoking open hood and screwing his face up in a bewildered frown.
“It doesn’t matter. What I need to know is: can you fix it?”
“Son, I once fixed a helicopter engine while taking machinegun fire during the battle of Hue. This truck looks a fair bit uglier than that bird, but I’m sure as hell I can fix it up, no problem.”
“You were in the Vietnam War?” Blaze says.
“No, son,” Max answers. “I was there on vacation because I got a got a good deal on a fucking cruise. Of course I was in the fucking war, as was every unlucky soul my age in the sixties and seventies.”
Blaze takes a threatening step toward the old man, who just rolls his eyes in response.
“How long do you think it’ll take you to fix it?”
Max squints, leans deep under the hood, and spends a minute there before surfacing again. “How long is a piece of string? You shot this damn thing to hell and I’m going to have to put it up on a lift and give it the kind of deep examination that would make my proctologist blush. Best-case scenario, assuming I got the parts, I get her running in a day or two. But if I have to order something special, well, I’m sure you boys know all about the road conditions out there, cause I imagine ain’t nothing except those highway closures would have some bikers from Lone Mesa spending the night in a town like Carbon Ridge. Not unless you’re hoping to get an early start on skiing up at Aspen?”
“No,” Blaze says. “But I’ve always wanted to go there.”
I give him a sideways look.
“What?” He says. “I like skiing. And the mountains. I had a great fucking time with the smokejumpers. Don’t judge me because I enjoy the outdoors, Crash.”
“You’re an odd one,” Max says.
“Pray you never meet Snake,” Blaze responds.
“Met plenty of snakes in Vietnam. They’d come into your tent and set up a nice little den in your bunk if you weren’t careful. Each night, you gotta check for them, or else you’re be waking up with a bite on your ass, and I’m not talking about the fun kind.”
“Just tow our truck back to your shop and we’ll be by in the morning to figure it out. I want this thing fixed as soon as possible and I don’t care about the cost.”
Max nods. “Then I’ll see you boys at eleven tomorrow.”
Frowning, I shake my head. “Eleven? Why so fucking late?”
He laughs. “Because I’m old and I just don’t give a shit to get up any earlier. I start when I start, and if you don’t like it, you can shove it up your ass.”
Stunned and angry, I watch as the old man hooks his tow rig up to our truck and drives off into the night.
“I like him,” Blaze says.
“Yeah, me too. If only we weren’t depending on his old ass, I’d want to have a few drinks with him.”
Blaze gives me a knowing look. “You know, I have a feeling we’re going to be stuck here for a while.”
“Me too.”
“And I have a feeling that we will not escape this local bullshit you keep trying to keep us out of.”
“No, we’re not.”
“But hey, look on the bright side, Crash: at least you’ll have more time to spend with that bartender you like.”
“Fuck off, Blaze.”
Chapter Five
Violet
I wake up on a couch to the sound of clattering pots and pans and a set of small, child-sized feet pounding down a staircase. My head is pounding, courtesy of some heavy drinking after spending a night beside Teddy and Kendra in the emergency room, but even the dull throb of a hangover isn’t enough to keep me on this couch, wrapped up in blankets, once my nose catches scent of some eggs frying in butter.
“Are you making breakfast?” I call out.
Josie, Kendra’s daughter, pokes her head out of the kitchen. She’s bright-eyed and smiling and has no idea what happened to Teddy.
“Aunt Vi, mom’s making omelets. With cheese and bacon,” she says.
I sniff the air. And realize that I’m so hungover that I didn’t pick up on the smell of bacon — one of the most blessed smells in the entire world — until just now. Why did I have to have that seventh glass of bourbon?
“Save me one,” I call out. “Actually, make it two.”
“Josie gets hers first. The school bus will be here any minute and I am running so behind,” Kendra says.
Groaning, I heft my achy butt off the couch and, still wearing last night’s clothes, shuffle my way into the kitchen. Somehow, Kendra is just as much a flurry of energy and activity as her daughter, which is amazing considering she matched me glass-for-glass last night. Maybe she’s too worried to feel hung over, I think.
“Aunt Vi, are you OK?” Josie says, looking at me with concern while shoving a big forkful of cheesy, bacony goodness into her mouth.
“I’m fine,” I croak. “I just need some coffee. Like, eighteen cups, and I’ll be fine.”
“Here, let me,” Kendra says, turning away from the stove to reach for the burbling coffee pot. But, before she can get there, Josie is up and out of her seat and pulling a coffee mug down from a cupboard.
“Would you like me to make you a latte, Aunt Vi?” She says. “I’ve been practicing.”
“Sure, Josie. I’d love that,” I say, settling into a chair.
Josie takes the coffee mug, fills it half full of coffee, then pulls a pitcher of milk out of the fridge. She dumps a bunch of milk into the cup — spilling half of it onto the counter — and then adds two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into the cup. She stirs it vigorously, while making whooshing sounds like an espresso machine with her mouth. When she’s finished, she hands it over to me with the biggest smile in the world on her face.
I take a sip. It takes mostly like sugar. Which isn’t that bad, considering my hangover.
“Wow, this tastes just like Starbucks,” I say.
Somehow, Josie’s smile gets bigger. “Mom says I use too much sugar, but my friend Alison’s mom took me and her to Starbucks, like, a week ago, and I ordered a Unicorn Frappuccino, and they put, like, eight pumps of sugar in it, plus all the syrups. So, actually, this latte has way less sugar than Starbucks.”
“You were also bouncing off the walls for two days afterwards,” Kendra says, smiling at her daughter. “And you were three hours late getting to bed.”
“Because I had coffee, mom. Coffee has caffeine in it, and caffeine is supposed to keep you awake for a long time. That’s why people drink it.”
“She’s got you there, Ken,” I say, taking another long drink of the milk-sugar-coffee concoction.
“She does,” Kendra says. “But you’re too young for crackhead energy, Josie, so maybe we’ll hold off on playing barista for a while, OK?”
“Mom, what’s a crackhead?” Josie says.
“It’s what you turn into when coffee just isn’t enough,” I say.
“Vi,” Kendra says, aghast.
“You look tired, Aunt Vi,” Josie says. “If the latte isn’t enough, I don’t mind if you have to be a crackhead to wake up.”
“Thanks, Josie. That means a lot to me,” I say. “One of these days, I just might.”
Outside, there’s a honk and Kendra leans down to give her daughter a kiss.
“That’s the school bus. Time to hurry up, Josie,” she says.
Josie gives her mom a kiss back and then, with arms and legs flailing and her backpack held in one hand and trailing behind her like some kind of wayward k
ite, she sprints outside to catch the bus.
It’s quiet for a moment once she’s gone; just Kendra, me, the sizzle of an omelet in her frying pan, and the occasional slurp I make as I sip the gateway drug in my coffee cup.
“Last night was scary,” she says after a minute.
An omelet — sizzling, oozing with cheesy goodness and smelling like heaven — follows her words. I pick up a fork and take a bite. It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life. I’m four bites in before I remember I need to say something to my best friend.
“It was.”
“Who were those other guys?”
“Trouble from out of town,” I answer, and then take another too-big-for-my-mouth bite. I wash it down with a sip of the almost-crack in my coffee cup.
“Do you think they’re going to make any more trouble? Should we call the sheriff and see if he can send a deputy by the bar tonight?”
Frowning, I shake my head. “I don’t think they will bother us any more. Well, any more than they already have.”
“Oh. I mean, if they want to come by and have some drinks, that’s fine. They were kind of cute.”
Her words make me freeze. And I stare in her at disbelief over the rim of my coffee cup.
“What? Them? Cute? Are you serious?”
“Well, the one you were flirting with was pretty handsome. In a mean and growly kind of way. I dated a couple guys like him back in college and they were good for some short term fun.”
“No. Ken, don’t even start. I don’t think Crash is handsome and I definitely do not want to spend any more time with him other than the time it’ll take me to mix him a drink and shove his money in my cash register.”
“Really? Cause it sure looked like you were flirting with him last night. And, I’ll be honest, Vi, it’s been over four years since Edgar. Getting divorced is no fun but, at some point, you do need to move on. And maybe doing something easy — like Crash — is what you need.”
I pour myself another cup of coffee and drink half the mug before I answer; to hear my best friend lay out my relationship — or lack of relationship — issues, while hungover, is more than I can bear. The coffee goes down easy and tastes fine enough, but I find myself wishing I had another one of Josie's sugary crackhead lattes.