Chapter 16 #4
Taylor leans back, expression unreadable. “Then I guess you should do your own fieldwork.”
Grant smiles. “We are.”
One of the men behind him snorts. “You call what you’re doing fieldwork? Looks more like arts and crafts with all that plaster.”
Maya’s eyes go flat, understanding that they’ve been watching us.
Jax sets his glass down carefully, leaning his elbows against the table.
The man with the camera bag looks at him. “You got something to say?”
“Usually.”
“Jax,” Miles says. Quiet. Commanding.
Jax’s mouth closes, but his eyes stay bright with anger.
“Relax, man. We’re all friends here,” Grant says.
“No,” Taylor says. “We’re not.”
Grant’s smile falters for a second, then a shit-eating grin spreads across his face. “We could be more than friends, girl.”
“In your dreams, asshat.”
Grant takes a look at us. A table full of women, a film-school dropout, and Miles Adler with his maps and his restraint and his refusal to turn this search into a pissing contest.
Grant leans in. “We’re closer than you think. We’re going to get real footage. Real proof. And when we do,” Grant continues, “nobody’s laughing anymore.”
Miles’s face doesn’t change. “At what cost?”
Grant’s smile disappears.
“Whatever it takes,” he says.
Clearly. This crew is willing to slash tires, trash protected land, and threaten people.
This isn’t just a search. It’s a race. And I’m not sure the other team cares who gets hurt at the finish line.
The door opens again. Cold night air rushes in. Everyone turns.
For one wild second, I expect another man from Grant’s crew. Someone bigger. Meaner. Worse.
Instead, a guy steps into the bar wearing a dusty jean jacket, carrying a duffel bag, and looking like he’s paying for some recent bad decisions.
He pulls off a ballcap and dark, messy hair tumbles across his forehead. He pushes it back with one hand, and you can see his face is drawn with exhaustion. He scans the room once, spots our table, and lifts one hand.
“Hey,” he says.
Miles blinks.
Taylor’s mouth falls open before she bites her lip.
Maya whispers, “No way.”
Jax grins. “Oh, this just got fucking awesome.”
The man walks toward us, ignoring Grant’s crew entirely, and picks up Miles’s beer to take a long swig.
Miles stares at him. “Owen? What are you doing here?”
Owen gives him a tired smile.
“So,” he says. “Fun update.”
No one moves.
“I got fired.”
Silence.
Then Jax lifts his drink. “I have never been happier to be in a bar.”
Owen looks around the table, then at Grant, then back at Miles.
Standing next to Miles, the family resemblance is obvious: dark hair, broad shoulders, the same impossible height. I piece together quickly that this is the brother who's been working at Area 51. Or was working there, at least.
Grant’s smile slips. Interesting. It seems whatever chaotic energy Owen walked in with is recognizable.
One of Grant’s guys shifts his weight. The scar-eyebrow one mutters, “Who the hell is this?”
Owen doesn’t even look at him.
He drops his duffel beside the booth with a heavy thud and shrugs out of his jacket like this interruption offends him.
“What are you assholes doing here?” he repeats, gaze flicking lazily across Grant’s crew. “Wait, let me guess.” His eyes land on Grant. “You smelled attention.”
Jax covers his laugh with a cough.
“Oh, I love him already,” I mutter, and I feel Miles flinch beside me.
Grant straightens a little, jaw tightening.
“You got a problem, big Adler?”
Owen looks at him properly. Slowly. Top to bottom. Like he’s assessing structural integrity and finding cracks.
“Several,” he says. “Mostly with men who mistake volume for competence.”
Taylor presses her lips together hard enough to stop a smile.
“Owen,” Miles says, calm. Owen glances over. Miles tips his beer slightly toward Grant. “Grant was just leaving.”
The temperature at the table shifts. Something about the way he says it with flat certainty.
God, it’s hot. Something low and fiery unfurls in my stomach.
Ego sparks behind Grant’s eyes. But also calculation. Because the odds look different now that Owen is here. For half a second, I wonder if Grant will take his chances and swing.
Instead, he laughs once, then jerks his head toward the door.
“Let’s go,” he says to his crew. He pauses at the door and looks back once. Glancing at Miles, then me.
His gaze lingers too long.
“Watch your back out there,” he says.
The door slams shut behind them.
Silence hangs for exactly three seconds, then Jax exhales.
“Okay,” he says. “That was very hot and I need everyone to know I support violence now.”
Maya throws a peanut at him.
Taylor rubs a hand down her face.
Miles looks at Owen.
Owen looks at Miles. Then cocks his head.
“You seem different.”
Miles blinks. “What?”
“I said,” Owen replies, sliding into the booth like he owns it, “if those footprints you found are accurately identified as Bigfoot’s—” he lowers his voice—“you’re looking in the wrong place tomorrow.”
Owen points toward the map folded beside Taylor’s glass.
“You need to be near Wolf Crossing and the Little Colorado River. There’s a swampy area… where things disappear.”