She’s innocent, joyful, and behaves adequately for her age.
With a defeated sigh, I fling my feet over the edge of the bed. Maybe getting out of the house will do me some good?
A moment later, Tayler pulls into the driveway in his thirty-year-old Ford Ranger that looks and sounds like it wants to kill you the second you get inside. Rick’s in the passenger seat, unmoving, while Tayler hops out onto the gravel to wait outside. He leans against the hood with a cigarette in his mouth, a cell phone in hand. He taps at the screen, seemingly focused on the task, but when Jean stops in front of him, he tucks the phone away immediately and lets his eyes rove the length of her body, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. She’s borderline cliché in her love for those things.
“Finally,” Tayler says, his attention on me long enough to see me standing there. He hardly ever notices anything when Jean is around. “I thought you’d stand us up again.”
“She wanted to, but I told her I’ll send you up to her room this time.” Jean hops in the pickup.
“Am I that scary?”
Not in the slightest. He looks like he’s been taken straight out of a cowboy movie: a hat, shin-high leather boots with spurs, and a checkered shirt tucked into his jeans. I have a feeling that’s not his style, merely a ploy to weaken Jean's resolve to keep him close, but only as a friend.
“Not so much.” I bite my cheek, winking at him in the rearview mirror as I settle into the back seat with Jean.
Tayler slams the door with all his might to force it shut. He does that every morning when he arrives at the store to see Jean before starting work at an old junkyard in town. You’d think he’d find a working set of doors or a locking mechanism of sorts, but no. He’s perfectly content with forcing the door shut using the little muscles he has.
“Have you played pool before?” Rick turns in his seat to face me, larger than life and coldblooded with an apathetic expression that sends a fit of unpleasant shivers down my spine. He reminds me of Luca.
Luca reminds me ofthatnight.
Andthatnight reminds me of Dante.
There’s no escaping that man.
“No, I’m quite bad at games. Any games, really. It’ll be safer for everyone if I watch and cheer.”
He nods, but with that expressionless face, there’s no guessing whether he agrees or if he decided to teach me the ins and outs of the pool. After living in Chicago my whole life, I’m used to the street noise: traffic, horns, and crowds of pedestrians on the sidewalks. Flashing billboards, smog, and a sort of liveliness of the place.
There’s none of that out here. During a ten-minute drive to the bar, we pass three cars and zero pedestrians. It’s odd, almost unnatural, for any place to be this peaceful. Even the interstate, by which our destination looms in the distance, seems forgotten.
A few trucks and bikes are parked outside the tall, wooden building where a scruffy sign hangs over the door with an ever-so-original name:Joe’s Place.Not a soul loiters in the cold January air. Everyone crowds the spacious bar, sitting at the tables or at the bar on wooden stools. A pool table is tucked out of the way, the place bathed in warm, dimmed lights.
“What’s everyone having?” I ask once we shed our jackets by one of the larger tables. It still barely accommodates the four of us.
“Beer, of course,” Jean says. Auburn locks dance around her cheerful face as she shakes her head with an amused smile. “Don’t count on any fancy drinks around here, Layla. You can have whiskey, vodka, more whiskey, or a beer.”
Neither would be my choice of poison back in Chicago. I feel like I went through the looking glass and emerged in a different, unknown reality. I make my way to the bar, resting my hands on the spotless countertop, and wait for a barmaid to approach.
“What can I get you?” she asks, eyes narrowed.
“Four beers, please.”
She folds her hands under her impressive breasts. “ID?”
Oh... I didnotthink of that. Again, this is so unfamiliar that I’m instantly taken aback. I’m nineteen, so being asked for ID shouldn’t surprise me, but back home, I’ve never once been asked to prove my age. Being Frank Harston’s daughter and then Dante Carrow’s girlfriend came with certain perks.
“Relax, Sydney, Layla’s with us,” Tayler shouts from across the room. A seemingly irrelevant comment, but it’s enough for heads to snap my way.
Everyone around drops dead silent, their burning gaze on my head. Sydney cocks a questioning eyebrow, and with a roll of her eyes, she reaches for four beer glasses, then wipes them clean with a crisp white cloth.
“Put it on my tab.” I hear behind me.
My heart goes from zero to sixty faster than Dante’s Ducati. The voice is different, not as low, not as enticing, but the words evoke a wave of memories.
“Thanks, but I pay for my own drinks.” Irritation, sweet and sticky, lace the words shooting out of my mouth, firing like bullets from a nine-millimeter.
The man sits on the stool beside mine, the corners of his lips curled into a coy smile. He’s not a drunk idiot. No, he’s sober and lethal. A black leather jacket hugs his broad chest and shoulders, hiding a thin, grey t-shirt. It works well with his short, dark hair and sharp features. My cheeks heat when emerald-green eyes meet mine.