11. Bar Trouble
Bar Trouble
Bo
It's just past nine-thirty when we finish the last bale.
Oliver and Atlas had been underfoot the entire time, playing with each other and herding the cat. Dispatch took their nipping as her signal to sit in the hay loft and watch from there. Her tail was twitching every so often. She was such a princess.
Falon drops her gloves on the back of the truck and rolls her neck side to side. "That's the last of it."
"Finally." I pull my shirt away from my back. "I was starting to think that trailer was bottomless."
She laughs, short and tired, and it sounds good in the quiet of the barn.
“You still planning on skipping girls’ night?” I ask as I pull my own gloves off.
“No. I wish I’d stuck to my guns, but after a text from Daisy and Millie, I relented and agreed to meet them after we were done.”
“How ya feelin about that decision now?”
“I’m wishing for a hot shower and sweats.” She rubs her tired eyes.
I'd seen the notifications light up her phone while we worked, and the second time, Falon had answered, typed something back, and put her phone away, looking a bit resigned and, dare I say, a little pouty.
“Where is tonight’s girls' night?” I ask, knowing it changed every time. She makes a disgusted face.
“The bar.”
I knew Falon didn’t drink, and neither did any of the other girls, but Burl’s had the best nachos, and the girls loved their nachos.
Falon had told me more than once that she hated bars but loved their food.
She usually got it to go, which made her happy.
I also know that Daisy is persuasive, and I had no doubt that Millie was already there.
By the time we finished unloading and Falon showered, she’d be there just in time for the girls' second round of virgin drinks and for the nachos to just show up.
I loved the fact that she didn’t drink and respected that she'd stayed to finish the work first.
"Shower," I announce to no one in particular.
"Same." She's already headed toward the farmhouse. "There's leftover chili in the fridge if you want it."
"I want it," I say, rubbing my stomach, which felt empty and hungry.
“Good, I made bread yesterday, so it should be in the bread box.”
“Homemade bread. You’re killin' me, woman.” She laughs full out, and I watch her disappear into the farm house while I make it back to the guest house.
I'm standing in the kitchen, feeling a little cleaner after my shower, wearing a clean shirt and holding a glass of water, thinking about chili, when my phone buzzes on the counter.
Mason.
I stare at it for half a second.
Mason Bennett does not call at nine forty-five on a Friday night for small talk. He's not that kind of guy. He's the guy who texts "you free?" and means right now and is already holding the door open when you pull up. So when his name lights up the screen, I don't ask questions.
“Mason,” I say in greeting.
"Bar," he says. "Sarah called. It’s Kevin."
That's all I need. I look at the farmhouse, and Falon’s bedroom light is still on, and so is the kitchen and living area. Falon never left the lights on, so I might have time to get there first and help the guys.
Falon would be on her way there soon.
I'm out the guest house door as the call ends.
The drive into town takes eight minutes.
I make it in six. The parking lot outside Burl's is already tense.
Two trucks were parked haphazardly, canted at odd angles.
A cluster of people near the side door, and a woman in a yellow jacket has her hand on her friend's arm, steering her toward the street.
Her friend keeps looking back over her shoulder.
That did not bode well.
I park in a hurry and push through the old doors, and the noise gets louder with every step.
It's not the usual bar music. It's a loud, drunken voice carrying through over the whole bar, and Burl’s isn’t a small bar.
He has a family section and a bar section.
And you could hear him in both. I've heard that tone before, overseas, in cramped bases and mess halls, and in places like this when alcohol overrides common sense.
They always sound the same. bold on top, hollow underneath.
Kevin Bennett is at the bar.
I clock him before I clock anything else. He's got that loose, off-center posture that doesn't come from one drink or two. His jacket is half off one shoulder, and he's gesturing at the bartender with wild gestures, broad sweeping motions that take up more space than he needs.
Levi's already there, stationed at the far end of the bar with his arms crossed.
Levi Marshall, crossing his arms, is not Levi Marshall relaxed. It's Levi Marshall doing the math. He’s calculating how bad this gets, how fast, and what it costs to keep it from getting worse. His eyes cut to me the second I walk in. There's relief in them, just a flicker.
Austin's near the pool table with his cue still in hand, but he's not playing. I haven't known him long, but he's watching Kevin the same way I've noticed him watch everything. He’s already run the scenarios and is waiting to see which one Kevin picks. He spots me and gives a slight nod.
Mason appears at my shoulder. That's his talent. Quiet materializing.
"How long?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"Forty minutes, give or take." He tips his head toward the bar. "Started with volume. Moved into personal about fifteen minutes ago. Bartender's been watering his drinks, but Kevin keeps waving cash around like that'll change Burl's mind."
I watch Kevin for a moment. He's not throwing punches yet. He's doing the thing that comes before punches. He’s circling, testing, looking for the right surface to bounce off. His eyes keep moving around the bar, cataloging reactions, looking for someone who'll give him what he wants.
"What's up? Why am I here?" Mason's jaw tightens. Just slightly, and he nods toward Kevin. It doesn't hit me right away. Mason, Levi, and Austin are here. They could have easily handled Kevin.
"Nothing worth you reacting to. Not yet, but I thought you should be here." He looks at me sideways. "And that's not me being diplomatic. That's me telling you the smartest thing you can do right now is nothing."
I breathe out through my nose. He's right. I know he's right. I roll my shoulders back and let the urge fade a little, but I stay alert.
And then Kevin's voice rises above the general noise of the bar.
"All I'm saying is—" He's talking to the guy beside him, or maybe to the room, it's hard to tell at this point. "—she's out there every night playing farmhand with some guy who can't even commit to a zip code. And I'm supposed to take a number?" He snorts. "She deserves better than a placeholder."
Nobody answers him. The guy beside him stares at his beer.
Kevin spots me.
The whole room shifts in about half a second. His posture reorganizes, the performance changing gears. He straightens up from the bar and spreads his arms wide like he's welcoming someone he's been waiting on.
"Well." His voice carries the full length of the room. It's designed to carry. "Bo Gates. Come to watch over your girl?"
The noise level drops.
I don't answer.
I walk to the bar, take a stool two down from Kevin, and nod at the bartender. "Water's fine."
The bartender's eyes say thank you, and I'm sorry in the same look. He sets a glass in front of me.
Kevin laughs. It's designed to irritate and engage rather than connect. "Water. Real exciting. A real man's drink." He snorts. "No wonder she keeps her options open."
A few people shift uncomfortably. Someone near the pool table sets down their cue.
"Kevin." Levi's voice is flat and even. Just his name.
"What?" Kevin swings toward him, throwing his hands up. "I'm having a conversation. This a crime now?" He looks around the bar, playing to an audience that's actively trying not to be one. "Bunch of veterans running the whole town. Can't have a drink without somebody hovering."
"You've had enough drinks," Austin says from the pool table. Calm and factual.
Kevin doesn't like that. He doesn't like the calm, doesn't like being outflanked without a single punch being thrown. His eyes move from Austin to Levi to me and back again, and I watch him recalculate.
"You know what your problem is?" He points at me, that loose, unfocused sweep that takes in the whole room.
"All of you, actually. You act like you own this town.
Like being in the military makes you something special.
" His voice tips mean at the edges. "Bo's been hanging around Falon since he got back, and nobody blinks.
I try to have one conversation with her, and suddenly there's a committee. "
My hands are loose at my sides. I keep them there.
"That's enough," Mason says. His voice is lower and older. It's coming from a man who was actually the problem before he became the solution.
"I'll tell you when it's?—"
Kevin takes a step away from the bar. His elbow catches a glass. It hits the floor and shatters into pieces, and the bar goes fully silent.
The bartender's hand moves to the phone behind the counter.
I see it, and I don't stop him. He's right to call.
I stand up. I just put my feet on the floor and straighten up, and it's the most deliberate thing I've done all night.
Kevin stops mid-sentence.
Then he swings, wide and sloppy, shoulder leading, hips late, telegraphed three seconds early.
It's got no aim and no real weight behind it, just frustration looking for a target.
Levi steps left without even hurrying, and it catches nothing but air.
Kevin stumbles half a step with the momentum of it, almost taking himself down.
Nobody moves to hit him back.
Levi repositions, easy and unhurried, closing the angle between Kevin and the rest of the room.
Austin sets his cue in the rack.
Mason stays at my shoulder.
The front door opens.