Bone Dust (ROCK HILLS #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

I an

The bar reeks of old smoke, the smell lingering from a time long ago when the promise of wealth lured men away from their homes and loved ones. The scent has penetrated the ancient hardwood, invading every splinter to mix with the aromas of desperation, hopes, and dreams. Dings and scratches mar the unpolished planks and, given the history of the area, old spurs and boot heels seem the most likely culprits for the divots. This building dates back to the 1800’s and, as my gaze wanders the room, I take it all in. I can only imagine the goings on here during the gold rush days.

Though this area of the country held the most famous promise of fortune buried within the rocky landscape, it wasn’t the first place in the United States that suggested riches to men seeking a better life. Library shelves now hold dusty books that chronicle tales of those prospectors, some stories taller than the imagination. A few men were lucky, but most lost everything including the families they left behind.

As I cross the room and head toward the bar, my gaze drops to the floor. I’m certain some of the dark and blotchy masses beneath the soles of my boots are bloodstains. A sad remnant of a man’s life now permanently etched in validation of his quest. That’s what happens when money becomes your god. You find yourself at crossroads that kill friendships and expose a man’s rotten core. I feel sorry for the bastards who found themselves on the bullet end of another man’s gun.

Love of money is the root of all evil.

Words my momma said drift through my mind. She recited them whenever my daddy left us to travel for work. His job required him to be away more than he was home. Once he was gone Momma played with my emotions, telling me he was absent because he only cared about his money and everything it brought him, while in the next breath, she said he worked so hard because he loved us above everything.

My strongest recollections are of Daddy walking out the door while Momma clung to him. I hid in a corner as she’d plead with him not to leave her, but he always did. Once he left, Momma would sob until she had no more tears, making herself sick. Then, spent and defeated, she’d take my hand and lead me to what she called our ‘secret place’. In truth, it was her huge, four-poster bed. She’d put the covers over each one of those posts, constructing a hideaway fortress where she said we’d be safe. The problem, I realized later in life, was really in my mother’s imagination and her solution was always a fine whiskey mixed with rock candy at the bottom of her pretty teacups.

The scene consumes my thoughts and I think about how like my father I’d become. How the love of money, and the vices it bought, nearly killed me. I was young when Momma died, but her influence will forever be the words she tattooed on my heart, and they are as real a legacy as the scars my daddy’s belt left on my body.

I shake off the memories and, instead, concentrate on the woman performing on the stage. Beneath a lone spotlight, she’s perched on a high back barstool, her legs crossed as she plays the weathered wood guitar resting in her lap. A blue and white checked cushion peeks out from beneath her rear end, and a lone microphone mounted on a stand is a breath away from her lips.

An empty seat at the end of the bar beckons me and I lower myself onto it to take everything in. Emblazoned on the wall behind the singer is a logo that I can’t quite make out. The bright lights spilling against her distort the image in the shadow her body casts, and yet, that same white light illuminates her. With her head bowed, it showcases slivers of snowy highlights within a curtain of thick blonde hair. The strands fall over her shoulders, cascading like a waterfall, and then disappear as they puddle somewhere on her lap behind the guitar.

“How long’s she been playing here?” I pitch the question to the busty strawberry-blonde barmaid, keeping my voice low enough so as not to disturb the patrons at the tables not far from where I’m sitting. She draws closer and I can’t help but notice how her ribbed tank top clings to her massive tits.

The size of her bust corrupts the image on the front of her shirt. I make no secret of the fact I’m curious as I stare, which she notes with a sly smile. I can tell she likes the attention. Her emerald-green eyes follow my line of sight. As she looks down, she plucks the bottom of the design with red, dagger-shaped fingernails, and pulls the material away from her skin. Now that I can see it better, I recognize it as the same logo that’s on the stage wall; a cigar-smoking bulldog wearing a spiked collar and Aviator sunglasses.

“It’s a badass dog, isn’t it?” she asks, with a hiked brow and a cheeky smile.

“Sure is.”

The smirk that slithers across my lips is because the dog’s sunglasses bulge big and round right over the woman’s perky nipples. The shirt’s tight enough to accentuate her curves and capture the attention of any man in her vicinity. I’m no different. My cock stirs so I divert my attention by glancing over her shoulder to see the wait staff working the floor. All the women are wearing the same top as the barmaid. It’s like I’m at the dog version of Hooters. My smile raises half an inch higher. My friend Sam Weston is a wise ass and a smart businessman. He’s marketing his Mad Dogs Run brand brilliantly.

“So, about the singer …” I jut my chin toward the stage.

“Her name’s Savannah Grace,” she answers.

“She play every night?”

“Just a few nights a week.”

The woman leans against the bar top, supporting her ample chest with petite forearms that practically disappear beneath all that boobage. Her stance offers a little peep show and I’m able to see more than a glimpse of cleavage. I’m not new to this game but I haven’t played it in a while. When our band, Boundless Hearts, performed, more than enough females flashed their tits from the audience hoping to get a backstage pass, and a chance to meet the band’s members.

The woman steals a quick glance between me and the stage, and a knowing, shit-eating grin creeps into her gloss-covered lips.

“You like her.” With an eyebrow quirk, she speaks as if she can read my mind.

“Do you?” I toss back.

She straightens up. “Savannah Grace’s been here for a few months now, and there isn’t anyone who doesn’t like her, including me.”

“And why is that?” I push.

“Because Savannah is good, and she packs in the place. A packed house means happy customers. Happy customers tip bigger. All of us love that,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “Besides, Savannah’s good people.” Distracted by more customers approaching the bar, she tips her head. “What can I get for you?”

“Coke. The bigger the better with lots of ice.”

“You got it.”

She turns away and I see the back of her is as shapely as the front. Her tight ass sways like a back porch swing in a breeze. I shake my head and chuckle under my breath. She’s funny, sweet, and a blatant flirt. Perfect barmaid.

I shift my view to the stage. Savannah Grace, huh? It hits me that I don’t recall Sam saying the singer’s name or, for that matter, ever mentioning if it was a girl or a guy. All he said was he wanted me to come to his bar and hear his favorite performer. As I listen to the song, I can see why he likes her so much but am clueless as to why he wants my opinion.

Since I disappeared from the music industry, I’m not sure my thoughts are worth much these days, but she’s good. The song she sings is slow and easy and it compliments her tone well. There’s a seductive quality to her voice. It’s breathy and kind of whispery on this song. She reminds me of Diana Krall or Melody Gardot or even Clare Bowen. The audience is captured. They’re quiet; almost reverent. They probably have no idea how much they’re into her, but I see it, and I get it. It’s all about connecting with those who pay your bills. I know this well from my days with Boundless Hearts.

As lead singer of the hottest band around, and in typical rockstar fashion, I was as lewd on the stage as I could be without getting arrested. This woman attracts an audience much different than the ones we played to. I got away with almost anything then. Women loved when I shoved my crotch in their faces. I was as vulgar as sin and this woman is the total opposite. She sits so pretty and croons so sweetly. She delivers the melody as if she’s giving them a beautifully wrapped gift.

Quietly, I observe the body language of the audience. It speaks volumes. Some people are leaning in toward the stage, while others are so relaxed, they recline easily in their chairs with legs stretched out comfortably in front of them. Whether Savannah Grace realizes it or not, she’s working them well, and that means money in the bank for Sam.

“You want to start a tab?” The barmaid suspends my drink in mid-air as she flips a coaster down on the bar. I reach into my front pocket and toss a twenty-dollar bill at her.

“I don’t need a tab. Keep the change.”

She eyes the bill, then retrieves it. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” I answer. What’s your name?”

The flirty smile is back, and it lights up her eyes. “Jeri.”

“Short for Geraldine?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head. “Jerilyn—but only my mother and grandmother call me that. What about you?”

“Ian.” I stretch out my arm and extend my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Ian.” Jeri takes it and gives a featherlight shake. “Is this your first time at Mad Dogs? I don’t remember seeing you here before.”

I nod. “Yep. I’m supposed to meet Sam.”

Jeri glances at the clock on the wall. “He should be here anytime now. Let me know if you need anything.” She pauses, leans in, and bats her long, fake lashes at me like they’re butterfly wings. “And I won’t say anything to anyone that I recognize who you are . ”

My eyes widen slightly as I search her face. Her expression is playful, as if she enjoys having this little secret between us. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

She gives a quick nod as she moves away from me toward the other customers, and I set my attention elsewhere.

The air is thick, causing a quick melt of the frosted mug. A circle of sweat beads roll to the bottom, and as I lift the glass, it sticks to the cardboard coaster. Almost instantly the coaster falls and rattles against the bar top. I pick it up, hold it, and inspect it. Again, Mad Dogs .

I couldn’t read the writing on Jeri’s shirt but can clearly see the bar’s tagline on this piece. In a semi-circle above the dog’s head are the words: Where the music kicks ass and Mad Dogs Run .

A smile plays on my lips. This bulldog is Sam; tough, cigar-smoking, and sunglass-wearing.

I glance at the clock on the wall then reach into my back pocket. When I pull out my cell phone, I check the screen. No missed calls. Where the hell is he?

“You all are familiar with this next song.” Savannah’s voice diverts my attention. “When I begin, I dare you not to think about puppies.” She gives a little laugh and a wink.

Puppies?

I’m perplexed and my brows pull together but as soon as she strums the first few chords, I grin. There isn’t anyone who hasn’t heard Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel”. The song is played ad nauseam, but the most popular use has been for a public service commercial as an appeal to animal lovers. As pitifully mistreated dogs and cats pull at heartstrings with their sad, silver-dollar-sized eyes, it plays in the background—and it hits the mark for the charity.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” The deep, coffee-rich baritone hits my ear just as a heavy-handed slap connects with my back. “How you doing, Amigo?”

I lean back. “Where the fuck have you been?”

His eyes snap wide as he pulls back. “Who are you, my mother?” Sam scoffs, then smiles. I draw my spine against the wooden chair back as he leans into me. “So, what do you think? Getting your fill of our Savannah Grace?”

“I am. She’s pretty good.” I nod.

“Damn straight, she’s good. She wouldn’t be singing’ at my bar if she weren’t.” He looks over my shoulder. “I see Jerilyn took care of you. Good.”

My brow pinches. “She told me only her mother and grandmother call her Jerilyn.”

“Do I look like a woman?” He issues a deadpan stare. “By the way, I got to ask; you alright being here? Because, if you aren’t comfortable, get on home.”

As my AA/NA sponsor, Sam’s right to be concerned. No sane, recovering, alcoholic, addict would hang out in a bar but then, I lost my sanity long ago. “I’m good.”

My assurance pleases him, and he bobs his head. “Good to hear. I’d never be one to ask a man to put himself in a place where he’d be tempted beyond his limits, and you’d never lead me to believe you could stay here if you couldn’t.”

“No worries, my friend. I haven’t had as much as a sip since the night I OD’d.”

“Well then, I’m satisfied. It’s been a couple of years for you. I’m sure a near-death experience has made you evaluate how drinking and drugs affected you, but you never know what might trigger a person, and I wouldn’t want to chance someone’s sobriety for the sake of being in my bar.” Confidently, he nods.

“Yeah, though that night scared the shit out of me, I’ve worked too long and too hard to get to where I am with my life. I’m bull-headed, but I’m not a fool.”

“Everybody’s different, Ian. I’m the same as you. I haven’t had a drink in over fifteen years, and I’m in this bar nearly every night.” He clamps his hand on my shoulder and the move reassures me that I always have someone in my corner if I feel I’m going to fall off the wagon. I have no doubt that, if I need him, Sam is there for me.

He looks toward a doorway at the other end of the bar. “I’ve got to check some things in the kitchen. Keep listening to Savi, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Savi, huh? He calls Jeri by her given name, and Savannah by a nickname. The man’s full of contradictions.

I watch him go. Once he disappears behind the swinging door, I tune back in to Savannah. Somehow, she looks familiar, but I’m thinking it’s a coincidence. Looking at her I see a glimpse of my Momma. Her name was Susannah, and her hair was nearly the same length and color.

Momma didn’t play an instrument, but she had a soft, lyrical voice, and was a gifted storyteller. She’d regale all kinds of tales, complete with dramatic gestures and voice inflections. She told me stories of the devils who chased her and the angels who saved her. As we hid beneath blankets of makeshift angel wings, she said the canopy “kept the devils away”. Every day she reminded me that “we’re all sinners” and the enemy was “a lion seeking to devour us”. She scared the bejesus out of me with her talk but told me not to be afraid. She said we were protected by invisible warriors; angels carrying swords made of lightning bolts. Unfortunately for both of us, the demons found momma. Years later, they found me.

Applause cuts through my ancient memories with a rusty blade.

“Y’all are great. Thank you so much.” Savannah’s smile is so wide that I can almost feel her joy. She flips her hair over her shoulder, revealing a slender, swan-like neck. Her movements are graceful, dainty, and sweet. She grips the guitar neck, clutching it in a soft embrace, and as she sings Aerosmith’s “Crazy”, the knot between my shoulders unravels. I drift into a relaxed state along with the captivated crowd. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out to hear live music. Not only do I like Savannah’s voice, but she’s also easy on the eyes.

I roll my shoulders as a wave of images carries me. When I first sang this song with the band, we were debuting the group by playing at our high school dance. Eventually, we took the music world by storm, but I still recall the time when we were just kids and not rockstars.

“I go crazy, crazy, crazy for you baby …”

She’s good. Really good. Even Steven Tyler would approve.

When Savannah turns her head in my direction, I feel a pinch in my chest and a tightening at my zipper, and I’ll not offer one bit of repentance for my depraved thoughts. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a woman with a more ethereal quality. Flawless.

“Like an angel, baby …”

Momma’s words once again filter through my thoughts and I shake off a chill from the grave. This much I know for sure; no matter how pretty or sweet I find Savannah Grace to be, she’d do well to keep her distance from me because, while she may be an angel in human form, I’m as damn close to a devil as she’ll ever see.