by Hattie Hunt
Joe hadn’t gone far, and she closed the distance between them in a few long steps. Stopping beside him, she looked up at the small tattered sign hanging over the back door. “I don’t know how to run a bar.”
Joe shoved his hands in his pockets—his whole damned hand disappearing inside them—and shrugged deeply. “Buy booze, sell booze, mix drinks, break up bar fights, make a small mint.”
She gave him a fuck-you look and stepped inside.
Toot manned the bar, surprising Ripley a bit. He’d been a year younger than her, so they had kind of grown up together. In the way that people in a small town do, at least. She didn’t even know his real name. He had picked up the nickname in first or second grade because he had a lisp. It wasn’t really that bad, but the poor kid couldn’t say the word tooth to save his life. Now, he was a big, burly man with an Alaskan bush beard. His red and blue flannel shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
He turned, hands busy wiping down a pint glass. His irritated expression turned immediately to surprise and then excitement, each level accentuated by the way his beard moved with each subtle facial expression. Except his eyebrows. They shot right up into his long hair and stayed there.
She pulled up to the bar and thumped it. “Heya, Toot.”
“Heya, Rip,” he said with a wide smile. He set his glass down and leaned in. “I was hoping to see ya. Read the will yet?”
Ripley nodded, tipping her head to the side, her dark braid falling to the bar. “It’s why I’m here.”
“Well, good. Boyfriend?” He pointed to Joe. “’Bout damned time.” He rose and offered Joe a hand.
Joe stepped up to the bar and took it, looking a little surprised by the gesture. “We weren’t great friends, Toot.”
“Not in school, sure.” Toot took his hand back. “You were a right damned ass. All fists and insults, but we’re grown up now. We can choose to be assholes.”
Ripley chuckled. Toot hadn’t changed. There’d been a reason the other kids had picked on him. They couldn’t get to him. His anger had such a long fuse, she didn’t think anything could set him off. “We gonna have issues?”
He frowned at her, confused. “Over what?”
“The bar.”
“The—” He interrupted himself with an explosive chuckle. “Hell, no. I want you to take it over. I’m a bartender, and only part-time. I’ve been working full-time—more’n that, really—since your Uncle Jib died. No. You get your ass back in here. Now, if you can.”
“Well…” She needed to take a look at the place, to get her head wrapped around what she was going to do with it. But she wasn’t ready to take it over. Not yet.
“We burned Jib’s body today,” Joe said quietly.
Toot nodded, solemn. He reached behind him with one hand, down under the bar with the other. He brought out three glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “Had to man the bar.” He poured them all a finger of whiskey. “Woulda been there otherwise.”
Ripley raised her glass. “To Jib.”
Someone joined them, shoving Joe aside slightly to get a better view. “What about me?”
She curled her lips at the unfamiliar intruder. He had dark, disheveled hair and clothes that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in a year. He smelled clean enough, though, aside from the stench of alcohol radiating off of him.
“Nice to see you, sis,” he said, grabbing Joe’s whiskey glass and raising it. “Miss me?”
Chapter Seventeen
Anger and disappointment flared together in Ripley’s chest. So much for taking a breather. “What do you want, Sean?”
He looked at her from around Joe’s back, one eyebrow raised. “Now, is that any way to say hi to your brother?”
Actually? Yes. “What do you want, Sean?” she repeated, her tone low.
“Aw, come on now. Don’t be like that.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
Toot sighed and reached under the bar for a bottle of vodka. “Show me the green first.”
Sean licked his lips derisively and set his glass down, with the whiskey still in it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a couple of bills.
Toot took them, separated out what he needed, and gave Sean back the rest. “You got what you want. Now get.”
Sean settled onto the barstool beside Joe. “So, what did ol’ Jib leave you? The house? The bar?”
“The bar,” she said through tight lips.
Joe leaned forward, anger ripping across his face, his bear rising to the surface minutely.
Which was safe here because this was a paranormals only bar. Ripley had to admit, she was glad for the support.
Sean ignored Joe entirely.
“You know what he left me with?” Sean asked mournfully, leaning back around Joe again.
Ripley was surprised he managed to stay on the stool.
Joe shot back his glass of whiskey and glared.
Toot flared his hand in a calm-yourself-the-fuck-down gesture, his expression remaining cool as only a bartender could maintain.
“My tab.” Sean chuckled dryly. “Can you believe that?”
Ripley gave him a grim smile and nodded once. “Well, just pay up and we can be done with one another.”
“You’re not going to help your brother out?”
“The same way he helped his little sister?” she asked with false cheer.
“I’d just lost both my parents, Rip.”
“So, had I.”
“And I was being strapped down with you, taking care of my bratty baby sister.”
“Poor you.”
“The best thing I could have done was leave you.”
Ripley snorted, but she was curious to hear what he had to say. Though, why? That, she couldn’t quite fathom.
“You found Tuck. Strange combo, that, but it works. He took care of you when you went all weird.”
Went all weird. That was one way to put it. Ripley stilled.
“Still don’t make sense that it didn’t pick me,” Sean muttered under his breath, pulling the vodka bottle closer to him.
Something clicked. He didn’t know. Ripley had always assumed he’d find out somehow. Seeing now how much he’d wanted the padfoot stirred a bitter pool of satisfaction in her stomach. She should tell him. Twist the knife. Remind him how he had failed.
The padfoot stirred, raising its head in curiosity.
Ripley had always treated it—him—her—she didn’t even know—like it was the enemy. Now, she was curious. She reached for it and asked in her mind, Should we tell him?
Silence.
Ripley shouldn’t have been surprised. Tuck’s theory was an interesting one, about how any living thing would want to have a little freedom, that caging the padfoot might not be a great idea. She didn’t know what she’d expected. Did she really think that after all this time the padfoot would suddenly speak?
Do you want to hurt him? a soft, female voice asked, smoky and smooth.
Ripley jerked in surprise and almost yelped.
Joe’s attention shot to her, his dark eyes slits.
She gave him an apologetic smile and shook her head to let him know she was okay.
Yes, Ripley said in a whisper, a hint of shame tainting her word.
Then, stay silent, the padfoot said. Let him guess. Let him imagine. Knowing is easy.
She had a good point. The three men continued to talk in stunted conversation, but Ripley didn’t pay attention to what they were saying. You speak.
A pause. I do.
Not all shapeshifters can talk to their animals, Ripley said, her heart fluttering with excitement and fear and curiosity. Surprisingly, no revulsion.
You’re not a shapeshifter.
Then, what am I?
Something…else.
That was helpful.
I heard Tuck’s theory, her padfoot said.
Yeah? So had Ripley.
Do you think he might be right? her padfoot asked.
Maybe. Ripley didn’t know, bu
t if she put herself into the padfoot’s situation, she did.
I may have been wrong to…take over the way I have.
They were definitely treading in new waters. We may have been wrong to trap you through the generations.
Gratitude flooded Ripley’s system, and she found herself able to understand for the first time. Perhaps the padfoot was exactly what Tuck had said, a living creature trapped in a meat cage.
I have not met another like you, her padfoot said, her smoky voice almost hesitant.
If what her Aunt Myrtie said was true. Ripley bet not.
I would like… Her padfoot’s voice drifted off.
Ripley took a sip of her whiskey and then licked the remnants from her lips, waiting.
I would like to enter into a partnership with you.
One where we don’t barter lives. Please. She’d really love that.
It’s not bartering, her padfoot’s voice hardened. It’s a balance. We cannot save all life. When we do, we throw the balance out of sorts. I am only trying to help you maintain that balance.
All I’m trying to do is some good.
Good? Bad? Her padfoot snorted and derision flew like a whisper in Ripley’s heart. None of that matters to life or death.
I want… Ripley closed her eyes for a moment, trying to think of a way to phrase what she wanted to say without pissing her padfoot off. …to make up for what we do.
Her padfoot went quiet, all sense of emotion falling away.
Great. After years of sharing the same headspace, they’d finally spoken to one another, and Ripley had sent the padfoot fleeing with her overly sharp words. Just like everything else Ripley ever touched.
I do, too, her padfoot said finally. The silence that followed was different. Almost companionable.
Ripley could feel Joe’s gaze on her, could see him watching from the corner of her eye, but this was the first time she’d ever spoken to her padfoot. She wasn’t going to interrupt her conversation just to fill Joe in. He could wait.
But she did want to tell him. As soon as she could.
What was wrong with her? Nothing between them had really changed. Nothing and everything. Who didn’t want to run to their best friend with news every time something happened?
And that was the truth of the matter. He was her best friend.
The realization hit her like a sledge hammer.
Her padfoot had been studying Joe as well. His family hates us. Hates me.
They’re jerks, Ripley said. Her padfoot apparently had emotions, just like she did. Who would have thought she hadn’t been the only one hurt by Cheryl’s words? Ripley’s head was starting to spin. So many thoughts, ideas, feelings. Questions. She suddenly wanted—needed—to know the name, the name of this person sharing her heart, her mind, her soul, her body. What is your name?
No one—the padfoot stopped herself and Ripley thought she might have heard a quiver in the voice. Decima. My name is Decima.
Well, it’s…good to finally meet you. And it was. A little awkward. But good. Decima.
You as well, Decima said, a slight hesitation to her voice, Ripley.
Decima pulled back, receding to the far recesses of Ripley’s mind. For now, she had gone.
Ripley frowned and downed her whiskey in one gulp, motioning to Toot for her another.
Toot didn’t even look at her. He just poured another finger of whiskey. “Get out of here, Sean. We don’t need your shit here today.”
Sean curled his lip and turned away.
Decima’s presence reared up, focusing all of Ripley’s senses on her brother.
Sean jerked and turned toward her.
Quinta, Decima whispered.
What? Ripley asked.
Decima practically shivered in Ripley’s skin. My sister.
You’re kidding. Uncle Jib’s padfoot had chosen Sean? And he was still moping about how he hadn’t been chosen when their father had passed away?
No. A tremor of fear shivered through her.
Why are you scared?
Because of what I’ve done with you, Ripley, Decima said, her smoky voice trembling. Quinta is the fifth daughter. She has the power to end us.
Ripley took in a breath, staring her brother down, getting the feeling that someone else was staring at her through his eyes. Are you just saying this? Are you just toying with me?
Another tremor ripped through Ripley.
She fought to restrain it.
No, Decima said simply. I broke the rules, Ripley. I was supposed to choose Sean and I refused, choosing you instead. I ensured you weren’t trained. She knows.
There was something in the dark tone of her words. Very bad things were about to happen.
That’s the only reason she would have chosen him. Especially now.
What do you mean?
Decima crept toward the back of Ripley’s mind, as if hiding. He’s been untrained for so long. She is hiding herself until he’s strong enough to meet her.
Which is what you did with me?
Decima seemed to take a deep breath. No. That is not what I did with you.
Ripley blinked and forced herself to smile cockily at her brother. “Do I have a growth?”
He narrowed his eyes and ran his tongue along his teeth. Then, he jerked his head and went to a table to sit alone.
Someone else came into the bar and took Sean’s vacated seat. “Joe, where’s your brother?”
Joe stared into this whiskey glass. “I don’t know. Why?’
“Because.” The man leaned forward, looking up at Joe from the bar. “There’s a death warrant on his head.”
Joe went still.
The man slapped the bar and stood up. “I’m just warning you. He needs to keep his head down.”
Joe found Ripley’s gaze and held it until the man left the building. “I thought that witch bought us more time.”
Apparently not enough.
Chapter Eighteen
Joe lost himself in Ripley’s features. Her eyes. Her lips, the perfect mess of hair pulled into its braid over her shoulder. Anything he could find to ground himself in her presence. What the fuck was he supposed to do? He couldn’t go to his family. He couldn’t stay in town. Someone would link him to his brother. They would follow him and find him. Then, they would be out of time.
Ripley set her fresh whiskey glass on the bar without drinking it. “I’ve got a plan.”
Joe barely registered what she said, blinking back to focus at the sound of her voice. Then she grabbed his hand and pulled him back to the truck.
They drove to Tuck’s place in silence, though Joe looked like he wanted to tear the truck apart. Ripley could feel the tension radiating off him, filling the cab with a suffocating intensity. He could have been fully shifted for all the space she felt she had on her side of the truck. She stretched her fingers in and out on the steering wheel. She could still feel the roughness of his calloused hand against her skin. What had she been thinking?
Grabbing his hand had seemed so natural. So easy. She hadn’t been thinking. And now all she could feel was the signal it might have sent.
Shit. Ripley rolled down the window, sucking in a long pull of fresh air as they pulled onto Tuck’s drive.
Ripley parked the truck and bailed out the door, all too ready to be free of the suffocating cab.
“Why are we back here?” Joe asked, following her determined steps towards the cabin.
Ripley bypassed the cabin for a pair of cellar doors off to the right. Without hesitation, she pulled them open and paced down the steps. At the bottom, she reached up and pulled the chain hanging from a bare bulb fixture.
A set of six lamps on dangling strings lit up, brightening the room in slow, revealing succession.
Shelves of supplies. Ammo. Food.
Joe spun in a slow circle. “He’s a prepper.”
She shrugged. “Everyone has to have a hobby.”
Joe shook his head. “And why are we here?”
Ripley g
rabbed a packet off one of the shelves and waved it in front of his face. “This. Food stuffs. Because if we need to lay low for a while, we need supplies, namely food.”
“You said we.”
Ripley could feel his eyes on her. Had she? Ripley ignored the comment and pulled more dried food packs off the shelves. Tuck had expanded his selection since the last time she’d been down there. Originally, it had all been MRE’s and whatever the Navy had. They weren’t bad, but she had high hopes for the ones in packages marked with sweeping mountain landscapes. They looked like they were packaged for actual human beings. “Here’s hoping we like tuna casserole, because there must have been a sale on it.”
Joe grabbed her shoulders lightly and turned her around, searching her eyes. “Are you staying, Ripley?”
She stared down at the tuna casserole pack in her hands. A lot had been thrown at her in a very short period of time. She probably shouldn’t really answer that question, not yet. “I’m thinking about it. I have a contract I need to fill first, you know. I can’t just renege on it. So…” She shrugged.
He reached up with one hand and tilted her chin back to him, forcing her to meet his eyes. She blinked them shut, pulling in a long breath.
She didn’t want to lead him on. She didn’t want to drag out the inevitable. Ripley Kent didn’t stick around. She wasn’t the stay-around-for-the-grief kind of person.
As soon as she opened her eyes, Joe looked away. He could see her truth reflected back at him.
Her heart tugged at her in the wake of his disappointment. He turned away, pointedly inspecting another of the photo-laden food packets. She needed to be honest with him. He’d been her damned best friend since they were kids.
“Look…” She reached towards him and hesitated. She should be pushing him away, but she didn’t want to push him away. Her fingers fell to his arm and he turned back, the question all over his face. Reaching up, Ripley settled her fingertips along his eyebrow ridge, her heart hammering as if she was touching a bomb.
She might as well be. This whole thing could end badly. Very badly. His family hated her and if Brett died, too? Cheryl would be furious.