Lance laughs. “Did that radar just start working? Because I distinctly remember you getting balls deep with some psychologically-challenged women. One in particular.”
“Are you feeling froggy tonight? Because if you keep that mouth runnin’ like that, I’m about to knock those glasses off your face.”
I’m kidding. More or less. The problem is Lance knows it.
“Oh, go to Hell,” he laughs.
“Already there, brother. Already there.”
He takes his glasses off his face and places them on the table. “I usually look at your life and think I’d hate to have it. But after the day I had today, I’d trade you places.”
“What? Did the high school kids refuse to learn about the American Revolution?” I laugh. “You have such a cush job.”
“I’m a professional.”
“A professional bullshitter, maybe.”
He makes a comeback, but it’s swallowed in the roar of the crowd as a popular song blares through the overhead speakers.
Crave, an old brick building along Beecher Street, is longer than it is wide, and pulses with the noise of the crowd and music. Alcohol ads, high school sports schedules, and a giant cork board adorn the walls. The latter is a good read and filled with letters and notes from one townsperson to the next. Affairs have been called out, coon dogs found, marriage proposals made, and entire conversations about who is working what shift at the factory have taken place on that thing. It’s been a mainstay of the bar since our uncle founded it almost fifty years ago. When our younger brother, Machlan, took over Crave thanks to Uncle George’s failing liver, he extended the wall of corkboards all the way to the door.
“That’s new,” Lance says, moving over one seat closer to me. Motioning to the phallic design made up of yellow rubber duck Christmas lights on the wall between the pool tables, he laughs. “Let me guess: that’s Peck’s handiwork.”
“Naturally. Machlan wasn’t thrilled, but Peck rallied the masses and they convinced him to keep it.”
“It is nicely done,” Lance says, chewing on the end of his glasses. “I can see the art in it.”
“Fuck. I should’ve been an artist if that counts as art.”
“Apparently things didn’t go well with Molly,” Lance says, twisting in his chair.
“She’s never gonna give Peck a chance.”
At the sound of his name, Peck walks through the front door. He stops just inside, the glow from the exit sign giving his mop of blond hair a pinkish hue.
Peck makes a beeline for our table, a look etched in the lines on his face that sends a ripple of concern up my spine. After growing up with him and then working with him for the last few years, I can read him like a book. Something is wrong.
“What’s going on?” I ask, scrambling to my feet as he gets closer.
“Walker, man, you need to get outside,” Peck says. “Someone just bashed the front of your truck.”
“What?” I hiss, sure I misheard him. “Someone did fucking what?”
“Yeah, man. You need to get out there.”
Blood ripping through my veins, I plow my way through the bar. Machlan lifts his chin, sensing something is off, but I shake my head as we pass. I know he loves a good fight, but this one is mine.
Lance is on my heels as we make our way through the crowd. “Who did you piss off now?”
“Someone who wants to die, apparently.” My fingers flex against the wood of the door, the warm summer air slamming my face as I hit the sidewalk. “You sure you don’t want to stay inside? I think getting into a street fight is against your teacher code of conduct.”
“Fuck off,” Lance chuckles. “I’ll have Peck hold my glasses and I’m in.”
“You, my brother, are an intelligent heathen.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. I think.”
The top of my black pickup truck comes into view, sitting beneath one of the few lamps lining Beecher Street. There are two people standing on the sidewalk next to my truck.
“Do we know them?” I ask Peck through gritted teeth.
“I promise you we’ve never seen them before.”
“So it’s not . . .” Lance doesn’t finish his sentence. “Holy shit.”
The two women turn to face us and I think all of our jaws drop. The first is tall with jet black hair and a strong, athletic build. It’s the second one who has me struggling to remember why we’re out here.
Long, blonde hair with faint streaks of purple and the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, she assesses me in the hazy streetlight. She doesn’t make a show of looking me over like most women do, batting their eyelashes like some damsel in distress. There’s something different about her, a quiet confidence that makes her almost unapproachable.
Unapproachable, but still hot as fucking hell.
My gaze drifts down her ample chest, over the white lace fabric of the top that hugs the bends of her body. Cutoff denim jeans cap long, lean legs that only look longer next to the Louisville Slugger half-hidden behind her.