“Why the hell would you give it to that incompetent dickwad?” She says, sitting up straight and her eyes on fire; she looks like she’s ready to march over to the Sheriff’s station and retrieve the bottle herself.
“To get him to go away,” I say. And, when Kendra looks to me expectantly — because she’s my best friend and knows when I’m trying to dance around an answer — I pause for a second to think of a believable lie; whatever cargo those bikers from the other night are transporting, it has to be dangerous and highly illegal, and it would be an awful idea to tell Kendra about it. “He and his deputies were making all these suggestions, like they’d have to close my bar to investigate everything that happened, and if word got around that the Timberline Tavern was a place where bikers stabbed people and shot up cars in the parking lot, I would lose almost all my customers. Well, all my customers except for those stupid bikers who like to stab people and shoot up cars in my parking lot. And those people suck.”
There’s a lengthy pause; I don’t speak because it hurts to say any more about losing the expensive bottle of bourbon that I’d been holding on to for all these years until a special moment came along, and she doesn’t speak because she’s my best friend and she knows when I’m really hurting inside.
“Hey, Vi, I know things suck right now, but we’ve been through worse. Remember the first few months when we opened the bar and how the only regular customer we had was Creepy Ray?”
I laugh. “Oh my god, Creepy Ray! I almost forgot! What was his deal, again?”
“He kept telling me that I looked hot, just like his daughter, and then he kept asking if I was open to being adopted by a much older man.”
She always knows how to make me feel better. Even if it’s at her own expense.
Suddenly feeling much better — and so grateful not to have been on the receiving end of Creepy Ray’s months-long adoption quest — I drink some more coffee with a smile on my face.
“I think we’ll open a little later today,” I say.
“Oh?”
“It’ll take me a little while to do all the cleanup from last night. I left things in a state.”
“You want me to come in early and help? I can have a sitter pick Josie up from school.”
“No, no, you don’t have to do that. Just have her make me up a thermos of her crackhead latte and bring it with you. I think I’m going to need about a dozen of those to get through today. My head feels like death.”
“Deal. But only if you promise to stop spurring my daughter’s interest in crack.”
“Fine.”
Three heavy knocks ring through the house. Kendra and I trade looks and then she stands up to go answer the door.
Another sip of coffee goes down before I hear her scream.
Dropping my coffee cup — which shatters against the floor, spilling coffee everywhere — I grab a butter knife from the table and run to the front door.
Standing there, gun in his hand, is Switchblade.
He smiles at Kendra. Then at me.
“Hey ladies, I told you I’d be back.”
Chapter Six
Crash
“Yup, it’s just like I said last night: this will definitely be a project car,” Max says as he climbs out from beneath our shot-up cargo truck, his hands, face, and overalls all covered in grease.
My hands find their way to my temples and I try to massage away the headache I feel brewing.
“What’s your best estimate on how long until we can get this thing back on the road?”
“Few days. Maybe more.”
I cast a look behind me, further in to Max Paisley’s auto repair shop, where Mack, Blaze, and Snake are looking over one of Max’s real project cars: a cherry red, mid-1960s MG roadster. I’m not a car guy and won’t ride in something with more than two wheels unless there’s no other option, but even I have to admit it’s a sweet machine that seems tailor-made for summer days, and open roads with the wind blowing through your hair.
“Do your best. Whatever you can to get this truck back on the road as quick as possible, I don’t care about the cost, just do it.”
He smirks. “Son, I don’t half-ass things. Hell, even if it did, I know my ass is big enough it’d still do a better job than most regular men. Trust me, I’ll have your truck running soon enough.”
“Fine. Just do it,” I say and, turning away from him, I head over toward my brothers to break the news. But, from the way their expressions change, the bad news must be showing on my face already.
“Shit,” Blaze says. “How long?”
“Few days, at least,” I say. “The thing’s been shot to hell.”
“You want me to pull him aside, see if I can motivate him?” Snake asks, patting the spot inside his cut where I know there’s a sheathed knife that he is just aching to put to work.
“Stabbing him isn’t an option, Snake. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“It could work,” he insists. “Might make him take it a little more enthusiastically.”
“The only person who gets more enthusiastic when they see a knife is your mum when she’s sucking my cock,” Mack says.
“Dude,” Snake says. “Come on.”
“Snake, I will say this to you one more time: no stabbing, no knifing, no murdering, no torturing. Besides, I don’t think anything you could dream up would work on this Max guy.”
“True,” Snake concedes. “He’d probably tell me he saw worse in Vietnam and then try to correct my technique. Maybe I’ll see
