Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Cal
This place is full of assholes, the stink of stale cigarettes, spilled beer, and fryer grease.
I don’t know why I keep coming here.
That’s a lie.
I know exactly why, night after night, I step foot through the doors of the Rusty Nail, sit at this bar, and order a whiskey.
It’s not my cabin.
The cabin way up on the mountain should be my refuge. And for a while it was. But lately, the silence gets too loud.
Every creak of the wood, the way the wind shifts through the pines, even the birds that wake me up before dawn and sing their happy songs until way past sunset, aren’t enough to dull the echo of silence that permeates every inch of my home.
I spend my days in the garage with Murph, my mutt, by my side, working on whatever vehicle found its way to my shop. Murph wandered up the mountain a few winters back, half-starved, and more than half frozen to death.
He lost the tip of his ear to frostbite, but after a few days and a few more meals, he perked up and decided I was his person, whether I wanted him or not.
And I didn’t. Not at first.
The responsibility of any living thing was too much and definitely not what I was looking for in life. Not since my time in the service taught me exactly what happens to people who trust me enough to look out for them.
Murph didn’t take no for an answer, though. And now it’s the two of us.
Just the way I like it.
Yet, something keeps me coming down the mountain twice a week to sit on the same stool at the end of the bar. Where I drink one whiskey, keep my head down, and my hands to myself.
And at the end of the hour, I drive back up the mountain to Murph and the silence I came down to escape.
Nothing much changes at the Rusty Nail. Always the same rowdy roughnecks drinking too much in the corner, the occasional fist fight I stay out of, and the same shitty hot wings.
Only tonight it’s different.
The energy in here is charged in a way I don’t like. When I lift my head from my whiskey glass, my eyes lock on the very reason for the shift in energy.
Her.
I’ve seen her around town once or twice. Cute, curvy, and way too young for me to even be looking in her direction.
Yet, there’s something about her that keeps drawing my gaze. It should be her red hair, her lush ass, and full tits. But it’s something else that draws me to her.
A feisty, yet vulnerable streak that’s hiding under the surface.
No doubt it has something to do with her shitty home life. Not that I know much. But I know enough. Everybody in town does. Her dad's a deadbeat who drinks away every penny he comes across, and her brother's been in this bar enough times for me to know that the apple doesn’t fall from the tree.
But she’s different.
And she certainly doesn’t belong in this shit hole. And definitely not with Ronnie Hatch and his asshole cronies.
I roll the glass between my hands, nursing the amber liquid I should have finished over ten minutes ago. I should be almost back at the cabin now, feeding Murph his dinner, settling in for another evening of…nothing.
Yet, here I am. Watching.
Because there’s something about the scene that’s playing out in the back of the bar that I don’t like.
Then I hear it.
“Closest to the bullseye gets the girl.”
What the actual fuck?
I turn on my stool to see what the fuck is going on.
It’s not her body that stops me, but Christ, that’s hard to ignore.
It’s her face and the mask she’s working hard to keep in place while Hatch holds her arm and his friends close in.
The skinnier guy throws first. A curse, a stamp of his foot, and it lands slightly south of the bullseye.
The next asshole’s turn, and his dart lands closer.
A whoop goes up, and she flinches.
Hell no.
I’m off the stool before I’ve even made a decision.
“I’m in.”
All heads turn in my direction. Hatch’s grin falters. We have an understanding, he and I. He doesn’t bother me, and I don’t go looking into whatever activities he’s actually running out of the back of the bar.
Turns out, this bothers me.
He’s watching me like he’s trying to decide if I’m being friendly or if he’s about to have a problem.
I cross the room slowly. His asshole friends step back, giving me space.
The girl’s eyes snap to mine. I see a flash of relief followed very quickly by the cloud of suspicion. This woman clearly has only had one kind of experience with men, and she’s not about to blindly trust me.
Smart.
“Didn’t take you for a betting man, Cal.”
“I’m not.” I stop two feet in front of him. He’s still got his fingers wrapped around her arm tight enough; I see her skin turning white. “Let go of her.”
“What?”
“Her arm. Let it go.”
“She’s the prize, bud.” He laughs. “I think I’ll—”
“I’m not your bud.” I lower my voice. He flinches like I raised my hand. “And I said, let her go.”
He does. She takes a quick step back, but to her credit, she knows enough not to run. She doesn’t look at me either.
“Closest to the bullseye gets the girl? That’s the deal?” I see her shudder at my question, and I hate myself for having to say it out loud, but I need to know the rules. “And her brother’s debt? Paid?”
“You win, you pay it,” he says, seeing a way he might come out on top. “All of it. Closest to the bulls-eye, take the girl and the brother’s debt.” His eyes drag over her one more time, slowly, just enough to make sure I see it. “Six grand.”
It was less than five a few minutes ago, and only twenty-eight hundred before that. We both know it. We also both know those weren’t the rules before I got involved.
But there’s no version of this where I argue with him in front of his men. Just like there’s no version of this where I leave her in this room with these assholes a second longer than necessary.
“Six grand. Done.”
She makes a small sound. Half-breath, half something I don’t have a name for, but I don’t look at her. I know what she thought she just heard. She thinks I put a price on her, the same way Hatch did.
She’s not entirely wrong, but we’ll sort that out later.
“Your throw.” I nod toward Hatch, who picks up his dart.
He throws. It hits the center ring. It’s a good shot.
“Beat that, Reeves.”
I pick up a dart and roll it around in my fingers as I step up to the line. I don’t bother looking at the woman again. Not until this is finished.
I lift my arm, take aim, and make the shot.
Bullseye.
“What? That’s not—”
“We’re done here.” I reach into my back pocket for my billfold. I don’t have six grand, but I do have two. I slap the money on the table. “Consider this a deposit. I’ll get you the rest.”
“That wasn’t the deal, Reeves,” Hatch tries to argue with me. "It’s six grand or no—”
I step up to him, narrow my eyes, and give him a look that leaves very little room for discussion. “You’ll accept the deposit, Hatch. You know I’m good for it.”
This time, he doesn’t argue.
Finally, I turn to the girl who is still standing slightly back from the action. She’s staring at me now, her expression unreadable like she’s trying to figure out what the hell just happened, and what exactly I’m going to want from her in return.
“We’re leaving,” I tell her.
When she doesn’t immediately make a move to leave, I hold back from reaching for her. I won’t put my hands on her. Not unless she wants me to.
The thought shoots through my head so quickly, I don’t have time to let myself think about what it might mean, before I focus my attention back on the matter at hand.
“Unless I read this all wrong and you want to stay here with these dickheads?”
She opens her mouth to say something, but obviously thinks better of it, presses her lips shut, and finally steps away toward the door.
I turn my back on the men and follow closely behind, only stopping by the bar long enough to throw down a twenty for my still unfinished drink before stepping outside into the hot summer night.
The minute we’re out the door, she spins on her heel and glares at me, her arms crossed over her chest, which has the effect of pushing her tits up almost to the point of spilling out of her tight tank top. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but if you think that I’m—”
“What I think,” I interrupt her. “Is that it’s only going to take Hatch and his band of assholes a few minutes before they decide that they’re not okay with the deal we made, and they’ll be out here looking for you.”
She seems to think of that for a moment. Her gaze glances between me and the door before finally settling on me. This time her expression is easy to read: it's fear.
“Do you think…”
“Yes.” I gesture toward my truck. “I do think. Let’s go.”
She hesitates, but only for a moment before stepping toward the truck. “Why should I go with you?”
“Look, I get why you’re hesitant,” I say. “But right now you don’t have a lot of options. And technically, I did win the shot.”
It’s the wrong thing to say.