Chapter Three #2
My heart has gone from a gentle thud to outright pounding.
I follow Balthazar on legs made from jelly into the bar, through a pair of wooden saloon-style double swing doors, like something out of a western.
Inside the bar is heaving – more so than I would have expected for a Thursday night, bodies packed in both downstairs and on the upper balcony.
Despite it being pitch black outside, the inside of the building is well lit, and everybody seems to be having a good time.
Many of the men have thick biceps and tattoos on show.
Some of them seem like they’re bikers, in leather vests and boots.
In contrast, some of the women aren’t wearing much at all.
There’s a circular blue neon sign covering one wall. A scorpion, with an oversized tail, dripping red blood. It’s surrounded by the words, Hell’s Venom Motorcycle Club.
I pause to stare at the sign for a moment, then follow Balthazar as we push through the crowd, walking across wooden floor boards toward an area at the back of the bar.
When we get there, there’s another wall of people.
I stop when we can go no further and crane my neck, only to find a separate annex opening out in front of me, containing two large pool tables.
The music at this end isn’t quite so thunderous.
Two lightbulbs are suspended from ceiling wires, one above each table.
Through a gap in the crowd, I can see a man crouched over the pool table, at the far end, facing me. He’s concentrating hard, the cue stick resting across his outstretched arm, and cradled in the crook of his hand. When he pulls back and takes the shot, he misses the pocket, and I watch him wince.
Then, a moment later, I see him. AJ Callahan.
He cuts across the people in front of me, holding his own cue stick.
I recognize that same slow and gentle swagger.
He’s wearing a fitted light gray T-shirt with a single button open at the neck.
My gaze is drawn to the way the ribbed cotton material, like his jeans, clings in all the right places.
For a moment, I can’t bring myself to take in his face, in case it’s changed somehow from the one that I remember when I imagine myself back in that closet.
But when I raise my eyes a fraction further, it feels like the air has been sucked from my lungs, because while he’s not changed, AJ’s certainly matured.
His jawline is more defined. His lips are a touch fuller.
He still has the dark, slightly messy hair that first drew me to him, the intense look in his eyes, like you wouldn’t dare cross him, and there’s an intricate tattoo that travels the circumference of his bicep.
I watch him position the cue stick before bending forward, his concentrated expression on the blue felt of the pool table. I notice that he’s chewing gum, like he always used to.
Balthazar elbows me in the ribs, like we’re best friends. ‘AJ makes these two shots, he wins the other guy’s jacket.’
I watch AJ, still considering the angle of his shot. Memories of my teenage self pining over him flood my brain.
‘That other dude rides a Turbine Streetfighter,’ Balthazar whispers excitedly. ‘But his jacket’s bespoke and is—’ He presses the tips of his fingers together and gives a chef’s kiss motion.
‘Right,’ I say back, never more conscious of my innate Britishness. None of what he said means anything to me and this evening is growing crazier with every passing second. I wish I’d never offered to take out the trash at Sunset Pines.
Balthazar looks at me and shakes his head. I glance at him and feel like I’m in high school again.
It means I miss AJ’s shot, but he pockets the ball, leaving only the black 8-ball remaining. A hushed ripple goes through the small crowd.
He pockets the 8-ball with ease, and a cheer goes up. The other man doesn’t look very happy as he shakes AJ by the hand. Someone else passes AJ a black leather jacket. AJ turns his back and the man helps him into it. I note that the back has an intricately embroidered image of a human skull.
‘Reyes!’ a voice snaps behind me, and I turn.
An older man stares me down, a look of menace on his face.
He has thick brows, a handlebar mustache, bulging eyes and a rounded belly.
His long, gray, curly hair is tied back into a low ponytail.
He wears a black leather motorcycle vest over a white T-shirt.
‘Hey, Echo,’ Balthazar says over his shoulder, though I detect a note of uncertainty in his tone.
The older man, who I now know to be Echo Salinger, jabs a large finger at me.
‘What the hell you think you’re doing bringing her in here? You know who this is? This is the goddamn mayor’s daughter!’
Balthazar pales. ‘Sorry, Echo, I clean forgot.’
Echo is still thrusting his finger at me. ‘Well, she can’t be in here. She needs to go.’
I’m mortified. People are watching. I hold up my hands, as though in surrender. ‘She’s not my mother,’ I stutter. ‘She’s my, um, stepmother. I’m so sorry, I didn’t—’
In a blind panic, I turn to Balthazar. ‘Please tell AJ I need to talk to him. It’s about his brother…’
And without thinking, I run out of there as fast as I can.