Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Naomi
“I’m going to need a shot of your whiskey and an ice-cold IPA.”
I glance at the clock above the jukebox. Sure enough, it’s quarter past seven, and it's within a fifteen minute window that I can expect the same request every night.
“Dammit,” Boss mumbles from his stool. On an exhale, he adds, “Thought we were in the clear tonight.”
“Wanna say that while you’re looking me in the eye next time, fucker?
” Viv says as she sidles up to the bar. She has more attitude than most people know what to do with.
And that’s saying something, considering where I grew up and the people who raised me, but Viv has the kind of energy that makes you hate and love her all at once.
It doesn’t help that Boss used to be married to her.
I give her a nod as I pull a frosted pint glass from the cooler. “Rough day?”
She hums to herself before she starts rambling off a roster of all the ways people are the biggest problem with the great state of Montana. The audacity of tourists stopping to take pictures of her bison, and how her new horses are stubborn as all get-out.
This bar is the opposite of the one I grew up around.
It’s slow and quiet. We work at a comfortable pace, and there’s an easy layout, where I know every exit and can see every place a person could enter.
The predictability of happy hour visitors and theme days like trivia, football, and the newest, podcast flight nights, puts me at ease.
It’s a small part of the world, where everyone tells it like it is instead of gossiping behind people’s backs.
The one thing I don’t miss from my hometown is the rumors.
“You can’t tell me there’s a single brewery in all of this big, beautiful country that makes an IPA as good as those boys down near Missoula.”
I give the regular a small nod, but I wholeheartedly disagree.
While IPAs are nowhere near my favorite, there’s a small craft distillery up in the Northeast that makes some of the best beer my near-perfect palate has ever tasted.
But I don’t share that. I don’t need to be asked more questions.
There isn’t much I can share about myself that doesn’t stretch the truth.
I can also understand loving something because it’s local.
Hell, I grew up in a household that rooted for local everything.
“Be right back,” I say, moving toward the small galley kitchen.
It isn’t that kind of place with a menu, but we have some decent snacks.
“Shit,” I huff out, looking down at the scrape along my elbow as I pull out a bottle.
The textured wood paneling is a hazard sometimes, but it fits the vibe of the establishment.
The seventies are preserved here in a way that’s familiar and homey.
Seats peppered around the bar have been refurbished in a green leather that wouldn’t be my first choice, but somehow, it works.
And the metal lamps perched at each end of the bar add their own shadowy flair.
I liked it the moment I stepped foot inside.
Even the taxidermy bison head that hangs with intention along the back wall, watching over everyone.
There’s some version of a watchful eye over every bar—it’s good for business, and for karma.
“You wanna know how many people used to come into this bar, Naomi?” she asks as I make my way back in front of her.
Sliding the shooter of specialty whiskey into her waiting hand, I ask, “Before me, or?—”
“Three,” she interrupts, chasing the shot with a swig of the pale beer. “I don’t know which one of you idiots,” she says, turning on her stool, “decided to tell people about this place, but it continues to piss me off.”
“Oh yes,” Boss deadpans. “Let’s be pissed that there are more customers.” He waves at the air in front of him like he’s swatting a fly. “Don’t listen to her, Naomi. It’s when she stops complaining that we all need to be concerned?—”
She flips him off as she takes another chug of her beer.
He returns the gesture, just as the bell above the door rings as it’s shoved open.
I take a glance around and see more seats filled than when I first started working here. Shuffling down to two regulars, I refill their pints, listening to the few words they exchange about the latest hike in feed prices.
It's been two years of pouring drinks where the median age is around fifty-five years young. Folks wandered in here after a long day despite it not being much of a destination, but Montana towns near here aren’t bustling cities; they’re small in population and vast in land.
Everyone needed some place to come and feel seen every once in a while.
“Viv, tonight is busy because it’s podcast night,” Boss says as he scribbles something in his sports book. Glancing at me, he adds, “A true-crime podcast coupled with a whiskey tasting is better than dumb-ass trivia nights. It’s a great idea, Naomi.”
I smile to myself. The first time I heard it, I dropped an entire bottle of tequila, and it shattered all over the linoleum floor.
It was a suggested podcast after my playlist hit the end.
I recognized her voice right away. My sister’s tone was always a bit sweeter than mine, and when she was fired up, she talked faster than her Tennessee roots typically suggested, and got plenty of people’s attention.
“I dare you to tell me one whiskey blend that won’t feel more elevated after you’ve distilled it in a second finishing barrel,” Stevie said.
I frantically scroll through my phone with blurred vision from the tears in my eyes and see a picture of my sister.
Reading through the podcast description, I find her YouTube channel with the recorded podcasts and nearly 1.
3 million subscribers. “The Distilled Truth” was named as one of Spotify’s top twenty-five podcasts of the year and was described as a fresh take on true crime with a “whiskey woman” as a modern-day sleuth and recorded in the heart of Tennessee.
“The podcast starts in about ten minutes,” I tell Viv with a smile. “Want me to pour you a whiskey flight?”
I don’t hear her answer as I do a double take at the man who just took a seat at the bar.
Swallowing roughly, I bite back the way I want to smile and try not to linger my attention.
Who the hell is that? I turn toward the bottles stacked high behind me and blow out a slow breath.
There aren’t too many new faces around here, and when there are, it’s always cause for concern.
But when I turn back and see his eyes on me, it’s not concern that I’m feeling.
You’re smarter than this. Get it together.
Anyone who I haven’t met before, walking into the bar, makes me anxious. A product of losing time and trust, or maybe just a survivor's penance, but Boss and Viv have been here a long time and know how to handle people wandering in. They’re brave.
Boss is well aware of him too. “Haven’t seen you here before, young man.
What brought you to this fine establishment?
The music?” he asks, looking at his refurbished jukebox.
“Maybe the tasty bar snacks?” He nods to the half-empty bowl of popcorn in front of him.
“Or did you hear about our podcast and whiskey flight Thursdays? "
The serious look on the newcomer’s face breaks as he smiles at Boss first, and then looks back at me, as if I’m the one who asked. “Sounds like a good time. But I just got a little turned around when I got off the interstate. Not many signs for where I am right now.” His brow furrows.
That’s the idea. Where we are isn’t on any map. It isn’t supposed to be found.
“What’s the name of this place?” he asks casually, glancing around the bar.
I look at Boss just as he clears his throat. People coming around and asking questions is never good—there are rules. But Boss decides to keep it light, since the handsome stranger doesn’t seem threatening.
“The bar has no name. No name means we get to choose a name each week, and the owner of that name drinks for free,” he explains while pointing to the blackboard behind the bar.
The stranger adds, “Someone down in Missoula mentioned a ranch out this way in Hideaway.” Looking at me, he asks, “Ever heard of it?”
He shouldn’t know that name—and whoever told him about it is stirring up trouble.
I don’t want to even acknowledge the question, never mind answer it.
“Nope,” I lie as I shake my head. The taste of it sours my mouth. “But there are quite a few ranches around here, if you were looking for an authentic Montana experience, I’m sure you could find one.” I smile sarcastically.
“I wasn’t, but now I’m curious. What does an authentic Montana experience look like?” he asks.
I turn toward the bottles and glance at Boss, making sure I’m not doing anything wrong.
He doesn’t look up. Instead, he carries on writing in his sports book.
I know I answered how I’m supposed to, but it’s the first time anyone’s come right out and asked about the place I’ve called home for the last couple of years.
If something was off, Boss or Viv wouldn’t seem so relaxed.
He pulls out his phone and starts typing away—there isn’t much service out here, but he busies himself with something as I playfully say, “You know, that’s a great question. Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for, and we’ll see if we’re thinking the same thing.”
“I can almost guarantee we’re not thinking exactly the same thing,” he says as he looks up from his phone, his eyes locking right onto mine. A hint of mischief shines in his gaze and across his lips.