Chapter Seventeen Fitz
Fitz could not have been happier. As Ren stared up at the outside of the Screaming Eagle, he could practically see her brain spinning through a mental encyclopedia of shady characters. Did she even realize she was still clutching Max’s door handle?
Behind them, the car shuddered once, engine still ticking. Fitz covertly kicked the tire with the heel of his sneaker.
“Is this really a restaurant?” she asked.
He pointed to a sign in a dusty window. “That sign says tacos are fifty cents apiece every Thursday from three to six. And that one,” he said, moving his finger just to the right, indicating the next window, which was somehow grimier, “says it’s ‘Wing Wednesday.’” He rubbed his stomach. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a few chicken wings right about now.”
With a reluctant nod, she let go of the handle and followed a half step behind, nearly glued to his side. In front of them, the front door burst open and an enormous man wearing a dingy apron reading THE SCREAMING EAGLE: BIKES, BEER, BABES stepped out and poured a giant bucket of what appeared to be biohazardous waste onto the dead bushes nearby.
“Oh good,” Fitz said, smiling over at her. “They’re open! Let’s go.”
They were temporarily sightless when they stepped into the dark interior, and it felt like sound fell away, too. When his eyes adjusted, Fitz realized the sudden hush was the result of every head in the place swinging in their direction.
A crowd of what looked to be a very well-attended meeting of very large motorcycle riders parted as they passed through the middle of the room, aiming for a table, the bar, any stretch of open space. Whispers followed as they went, quiet whistles and catcalls, a couple mutters of “Whatd’ya got there, kid?” and “Did somebody get lost on the way to the mall?”
Fitz placed a reassuring hand low on Ren’s back and leaned in to whisper, “Don’t worry. If one of them challenges me to a fight to claim you, I’m pretty sure I can win.” He paused. “Unless they have a weapon.”
She turned her round eyes on him, exhaling a terrified “What?” before her attention was drawn over her shoulder. Following her gaze, he spotted a piece of paper that looked to be a failed health inspection pinned to the wall with a knife. All around them, the decor theme seemed to be rustic, with wood everywhere, sawdust on the floor, and dozens of deer antlers mounted on the walls.
“This is so cozy!” he crowed, ushering her forward. They found a pair of empty stools at the bar, and Ren reached forward to steady herself with a palm on the bar top as she sat.
“You look like a young lady who’d like a root beer,” he said.
Grimacing, Ren turned her hand over, palm up. It was wet with some sort of thick, brown liquid.
“Yeah, bar muck,” he said, nodding. He tried to hide his own revulsion. “You’ll get used to it.”
Ren dry heaved a little before finally moving to stand. “I’m just going to use the restroom. Order me whatever looks the safest.”
“You got it, Sunshine!”
A man approximately one and a half times Fitz’s body mass approached, swiping a filthy rag over the bar in front of him. “What’ll it be?”
“Two root beers, please.”
The man stilled, drawing his eyes from his rag slowly up to Fitz’s face.
“Did I say ‘root’? I meant ‘beers,’” Fitz said, grinning. “Regular, American, manly beers.”
With a hint of a nod, the man reached into a fridge behind the counter and popped the top off two cold ones. “Eight bucks.”
Reaching for his wallet, Fitz said, “Can I ask a favor?”
Another heavy-browed stare.
“When that blond girl comes back from the bathroom, could you pretend to be a little scary?” Fitz said as he set a ten down on the bar.
The bartender blinked, impassive.
“It goes against type, I know,” Fitz added.
More silence.
“Fine.” With a sigh, Fitz reached into his wallet and pulled out another ten. “How’s that?” The man grunted, taking the money and crumpling it in his fist. “And a couple menus, please.”
Reaching below, the man grabbed a pair of laminated menus and slammed them down so hard a few bottles shook on the bar, the music screeched to a stop, and everyone looked over again.
Into the yawning silence, Fitz’s “Thanks!” seemed to reverberate. Quickly scanning the menu, Fitz guessed it would be smart to keep things simple. More to the point, he would not be having the ni?oise salad.
A minute later, Ren returned, looking shell-shocked as she slipped onto the stool beside him, her cheeks flushed a bright pink.
Giddily, Fitz leaned in to get a better look. “You okay there, Sunshine?”
“Yeah.” She blinked rapidly, composing herself. “I’m good.”
“I must admit, that wasn’t very convincing.”
“It’s nothing.” Absently picking up her bottle, she took a sip of the beer in front of her, grimaced, and then took another sip. When she spoke again, her tone was a little too casual. “There were some photos of naked men on the wall in the bathroom.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I mean, more like wallpaper. As in the whole room was wallpapered with photos of naked men.”
Fitz coughed a laugh into his fist, managing, “Yeah, that’s pretty standard for a restaurant restroom.”
“And then someone opened the men’s room as I came out, and first, the smell coming from inside was awful, but also, there were photos of naked women in there.”
Fitz pretended to get off his stool. “Now this I’ve got to see.”
“Don’t leave me.” Ren jerked him back by his collar, gripping his shirt even after he’d settled again. “I’ve never seen a naked man before.” She had a thousand-yard stare. “I mean, I’ve studied anatomy textbooks, and of course we see all kinds of things with barnyard animals, but…” She swallowed and took another long sip. “I saw David Sparrow changing at the state fair after he spent the whole day in the dunk tank, but not…he did not look like that.”
“Listen, Sunshine, it’s a bathroom in a bar, just like every other bar bathroom in the world. If it’s too much for you, you really should reconsider this trip.”
The bartender materialized again, leaning two meaty fists on the counter in front of them. The wood groaned in protest. “What do you want?” he growled.
“Apologies, barkeep,” Fitz said, wincing. “My friend here hasn’t had a chance to peek at the menu. Maybe another couple of minutes.”
He leaned in menacingly. “Should I give you a little bell that you can ring when you’re ready?”
“Oh,” Ren said, smiling sweetly at him, “that would be amazing. Thank you!”
Something softened in his gaze before he flickered it back to Fitz and looked homicidal again.
“You know what,” Fitz cut in, hoping the man was just a better actor than ten dollars in a run-down biker bar in Middle of Nowhere, Montana, warranted. “We’ll have two of your Char-Spangled Burgers.”
The man peeled their menus off the bar with an audible squelch and pushed through the swinging doors to the kitchen in the back.
“Lovely place,” Fitz said, inhaling deeply and looking around. “I always figured if I was going to open a saloon, I’d go with peanuts in bowls and let the peanut shells litter the ground, but the sawdust and bullet casings are a nice touch.”
Ren stared at her beer before lifting it and finishing it in a series of long gulps.
“Easy there, Sweden.”
She let out a satisfied “Ahhhh” and set the bottle down. “I’ve never had one of these before, but it’s pretty good.”
“You’ve never had beer?” Fitz bumped her shoulder. “I figured that was a staple on the homestead.”
“I’ve had alcohol,” she clarified, looking at the label. “Just not a Coors.”
“No kidding? Y’all make moonshine on that farm?”
“We have some neighbors who make moonshine—I’ve had it….” She looked at him and grimaced comically. “I prefer our wines and ciders.”
“You’re telling me you get to live on a big piece of land with wild cats, don’t have to speak to anyone if you don’t want to, and you make your own booze?” He tilted his bottle to his lips, speaking against it. “Homesteading is sounding better by the minute.”
They looked over at a crash of glass to the right, where a fight was breaking out near the jukebox. The crowd backed up to give the fighters space, jostling Fitz and Ren against the bar. On instinct, Fitz put an arm around her shoulders, shielding her. The furor reached a crescendo, and they looked at each other and then to the kitchen doors when they swung open and a leathered woman in a greasy apron stepped through, held up a shotgun, and fired it twice into the ceiling. Ren and Fitz slapped their hands over their ears, hunching for the impact of the ceiling raining down, but other than a spray of dust, it seemed to remain intact.
“Knock it off!” the woman yelled, and returned, Fitz hoped, to making their lunch.
“Is this normal?” Ren whispered.
Slowly, he lowered his hands. Trying to hide his own panic, he muttered, “Define normal.”
“Shotguns at every meal?”
“Maybe not every meal.”
Their bartender friend appeared from the kitchen with two plates he dropped down with a clatter in front of them. “Twenty-two bucks,” he said, and waited.
Fitz reached back for his wallet and—
His fingers scrambled over his back pocket. “Where—?” Panic clutched him. “Where’s my wallet?”
He looked to Ren, who was performing a similar scouring of her pockets and backpack. “Fitz, my money is gone!”
“Mine, too. I think someone took it.”
Ren yelped, clapping a palm over her mouth. “Are you telling me we’ve been robbed?”
“This is life out in the real world!” he cried, sending a hand into his hair. He’d have to call his bank, the credit card company, his father—God, no, this was the worst—
The bartender rapped two knuckles on the bar. “And are you telling me you can’t pay?”
Gulping, Fitz stared at him. The man could easily crush Fitz’s windpipe with the gentle pinch of a thumb and forefinger. “Sir, I believe someone took our wallets.”
The bartender laughed at this and lifted his chin, indicating the rowdy mob behind them. “Why don’t you go ask ’em to fess up?”
“I—” Fitz began, but realized the man wasn’t looking at Fitz anymore. Fitz followed the man’s attention up, up, up to where Ren had climbed onto the bar.
“What the—” Fitz scrambled to hold her legs so she wouldn’t fall and take a header onto the disgusting floor. “Sweden! What are you doing?”
Ren ignored him and clapped lightly. “Everyone? Can I get your attention, please?”
No one reacted, not even a glance.
God, this was mortifying.
“Ren,” Fitz whispered, gently cupping her ankles. He tried cajoling. “Come on, Sunshine. Get down.”
A piercing whistle cut through the room, and Ren slipped her index finger and pinkie from her mouth. “I said,” she repeated, louder now, no-nonsense, “can I get your attention?”
Voices faded out, and the only sound in the room was that of fifty menacing bodies turning to face them. Someone cleared their throat. Knuckles cracked.
Fitz laughed jovially. “Oh boy! This one, am I right? She’s a lightweight. Please, friends, go back to your meals and beers and darts and fisticuffs.”
But when he slid his hands higher to the back of her calves, urging her forward, the muscles tensed under his hands. She was strong, and she wasn’t budging.
“It seems that our wallets have disappeared,” Ren told the room.
A man with an eye patch, a hook for a hand, and twin tattoos on each of his bare biceps reading BORN TO RIDE and BORN TO DIE stepped forward. “Are you suggesting one of us took ’em?”
“No, of course not,” she said with an innocent smile. “But maybe somebody was traveling just like we are and found themselves in a tough situation. Maybe someone made a bad decision.” Ren shrugged, sincere. “I’ve been there. I’ve stolen before.”
“Stealing Lip Smackers and nail polish at the drugstore don’t count, hon,” a husky female voice yelled from the back of the room.
“Actually, I stole from honest, hardworking people like yourselves. I was thirteen and wanted new paints for Christmas.”
Groaning, Fitz mumbled, “Here we go.”
The roomful of hit men seemed undecided about whether to bury them alive or eat them for dinner, but she did have their attention.
“I begged Gloria—that’s my mother. I did my chores, I did extra chores, I did all my studies, and wrote Santa about a dozen letters.” Fitz didn’t know how, but Ren’s smile appeared, and it was like watching her hand a lollipop to everyone in the room. “But Christmas morning I woke up, and there weren’t any paints for me under the tree. Gloria said I didn’t need them.”
“Gloria sounds like a dick!” someone yelled.
“I mean, you might be right,” Ren said, “but that doesn’t excuse what I did.” She paused. “I went into town the next day and stole some paints from the five-and-dime. Gloria saw me painting that night and knew what I’d done. She made me go back and tell the owners.”
“Kill the narc!” another voice yelled.
“No, come on, we all know she was right,” Ren said, looking out over the room. “I shouldn’t have taken them. Jesse and Tammy are just trying to make a living, same as everyone else out there. I told them what I did, and Jesse let me work stocking shelves for a few hours a day for a week or two to work off the cost of the paints. And when I was done, he even gave me a new set of brushes. My point is that we all make mistakes, but if we’re lucky someone gives us the chance to make it right.”
Fitz truly, deeply wanted the floor to open up and swallow them both.
“Ren,” he whispered. “Cool story. Let’s go.” But she wasn’t done.
“I don’t have much to my name.” Shaking him off, she pulled her belongings from her backpack—some clothes, some paints, a few brushes, a notebook, and a scarf—and bent to set them on the bar. “So I’m gonna send this empty bag around the room,” she said, “and maybe someone will put our wallets back in here. And since I’ve interrupted all your conversations, I’ll tell you a few jokes while you pass it around.”
Oh, good God.
Bending, Ren handed the bag to the man closest to Fitz, who laughed and passed it along without putting anything inside it. This was a nightmare.
“Why did the pig dump her boyfriend?” Ren asked, and got absolutely zero reaction whatsoever. Somewhere behind them, Fitz heard a gun cock. “Because he was a real boar. Get it? Boar? It’s a type of pig!” She laughed at her own joke.
“Sweden,” Fitz urged, feeling nauseated. “Let’s go.”
“Okay, here’s one: What do you call a sleeping bull?”
He was about to lift her bodily off the bar and carry her out to the parking lot when she pointed to the crowd. “Do we have a guess?”
A towering man in a Budweiser hat and with a nose that had probably been broken a dozen times guessed, “A bulldozer?”
“Yes!” Ren crowed, and a few people in the crowd actually laughed. “Okay,” she said, brushing some strands of hair out of her face, “let me try something a little harder. You’re too smart for me. What did the ocean say to the beach?” Around them, people murmured, trying to guess without calling anything out. “Nothing, silly,” she said, laughing. “It just waved.”
There was a collective groan throughout the room, but it was carried on laughter. In the back, someone let out a loud whistle. “Keep it going, kid!”
When Fitz looked back up at her, Ren was backlit from the bar lights, and for a breathless pulse, she looked like a figment from a dream he once had. “I asked my dog what two minus two is. Do you know what he said?” She planted her fists on her hips. “Absolutely nothing!”
More people cheered now, and a woman in the back yelled, “These are terrible! Do more!”
“Why can’t a nose be twelve inches long?” Ren said, and a chorus of bawdy catcalls rose from around the bar. “No, not that, you rascals! A nose can’t be twelve inches long because then it would be a foot!” She took a couple steps down the bar. “That car seems nice—”
And a voice to the side called out, “But the muffler is exhausted!”
The whole bar was laughing now, even the bartender.
“What did the Zero say to the Eight?” she asked, just as the bag made its way back to her feet. “Nice belt!” She glanced down at Fitz when he squeezed her calves. “Knock knock!”
The entire bar yelled, “Who’s there!”
“Tank.”
“TANK WHO?” the room shouted in unison.
“You’re welcome.” Ren did a little curtsy to their roaring applause, losing her balance and managing to fall directly into Fitz’s arms.
She stared up at him, wide green eyes shining. “Well, look at that. There’s something in my bag.”
“Bet there’s some great trash in there,” Fitz said, but as he put her down, he couldn’t help but let her go slowly, keeping her close even as her feet touched the floor. Hunger flashed warm inside his chest, and he pulled her a little closer, feeling her go soft against him. “That was really something.”
“Not bad, huh?” She lingered, arms draped around his neck.
“Correct. It was terrible.” He reached up, drawing a long strand of hair away from her flushed cheek, and, with his other hand against her delicate shoulder blade, Fitz could feel her wildly beating heart. What a surprising thing you are, he thought.
“You laughed,” she said, grinning up at him. He felt her fingertips toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I saw you.”
He stared down at her, soaking her in as it seemed every synapse in his brain rewired. She was such a paradox: delicate but unbreakable; modest but intrepid; innocent but electrifying. Fitz found his eyes dipping to her full, pink lips and back up to those assured, sparkling eyes. He’d wanted to touch many women in his life. But he’d never so badly wanted to deserve one before.
“Kiss her!” someone yelled, breaking the spell.
Startling, Ren stepped back and pushed loose strands of hair out of her eyes. “We should go.”
“Yeah,” Fitz said, bending to take one bite of his burger, “let’s get out of here while they still like us.”
While Ren ate as much of her burger as she could, the bartender gave Fitz what he desperately hoped was a smile. “On the house,” the man growled.
Then they moved through the crowd, being patted and hugged and fist-bumped until they reached the door where they burst outside, squinting at the brilliant daylight. Fitz let them into the car, where they collapsed, stunned.
“What the hell just happened?” he asked her.
Ren dug into her bag and pressed a hand over her mouth. One by one, she pulled items out: a watch, a wad of assorted crumpled bills, their wallets with everything still inside, a Subway gift card, a roll of quarters, some sunglasses, a pack of gum, a business card for a motorcycle shop, a whole bunch of loose change, a burner phone, and a fat wad of twenties secured with a rubber band.
Fitz took the twenties, unbinding the roll, and counted out nearly a thousand dollars. “This money is definitely not clean,” he murmured.
Ren slid the sunglasses on, looked over at him, and grinned. “Looks like pizza’s on me tonight.”