Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 27032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
But it was perfect for them. Cheap, previously frozen wings, greasy pizzas, twelve different taps, no vegetables, no customer service, and no pretensions.
Day waited for God to get out of his truck, watching him carefully while his partner scanned the lot as if mentally noting potential dangers and all exits.
Day smirked, pulled open the bar’s door, and nodded for God to go first.
Inside, the bar was dim but warm and welcoming. The scent of well-used frying oil and searing meat made his stomach growl. There were low murmurs of conversation, sports games blaring on four different televisions, the hard clacking of pool balls, and classic rock playing from the speakers mounted in the corners.
It was his kind of environment.
He and God settled in one of the booths around the bar and in front of the television playing the University of Georgia game.
One of the bartenders quickly approached them with a frown and slouched posture.
“Y’all ordering food tonight? We’re outta mozzarella sticks and onion rings.”
She didn’t greet them or provide a smile that said she was glad they’d graced the establishment. Her annoyed demeanor seemed to shout, I’m not happy to have to work here this late at night, so don’t expect a cheery attitude.
“Yeah,” Day muttered.
She slid two single-page menus to the center of the table and removed her small pad and pen from her apron.
“I can get y’all started with some drinks,” she said around popping her gum.
“I’ll have the Belgian White.”
God glanced around her at the various taps and rumbled, “Let me get that Deschutes Black…a pint.”
Day waited until she hurried away before pushing a menu toward God and taking the other for himself.
He’d just narrowed his decision to the nachos and the parmesan garlic wings when God set his menu back down.
“Guess I’ll have the usual.”
Day smiled. “And what’s the usual for you, God?”
His partner stared for a second, then answered, “Fire hot wings, fries, and jalapeño poppers. Any place that has poppers, I get ’em.”
Interesting.
The waitress returned with their drinks, and the sight of the sudsy brew in the frozen mug made his mouth water. There was nothing like a good tap beer after a long week.
“What’ll it be, fellas?”
After they ordered, God kept his eyes on the televisions, and Day sat back and enjoyed the unrefined energy of the bar.
He and God didn’t talk about anything personal. The conversation was limited to sports stats and shit-talking about guys at the station they didn’t like. And it stayed that way as they ate their dinner.
It wasn’t until they were on their second shot of whisky and third beer that Day confessed, “If I’d gone home right after the shift, I’d probably have made some quick pasta meal. I’m not big on fast food or paying for overpriced takeout that usually ends up tasting like shit.” Day tossed some french fries in his mouth. “I always have a six-pack of imported in the fridge, and I have a pretty good jazz collection—Miles, Armstrong, Coltrane, I got some rare editions too. That’s usually how I end my nights.”
God hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t ask any follow-up questions as Day had hoped.
“You like jazz?”
“Nope.” God kept his eyes on the game.
“Rock?”
“Nope.”
“Country?”
“Nope.”
Day shook his head. “Bluegrass?”
God scowled. “No, Day.”
“What the fuck, God? Do you drive down the street pumping folktronica, electropop, avant-garde? I mean, what…?”
God lowered his gaze and stared.
“If you weren’t here, what would you be doing?”
“Sleeping,” God said, and that’s all he said.
Day rolled his eyes. “So that’s all you do…eat, sleep, shit, and fight crime?”
God shrugged. “Nailed it.”
Day was getting pissed. He didn’t want to trust his life to a complete stranger.
God cocked his head, those green eyes penetrating and judging.
“You know me, Day. I got no secrets. I have no life outside the one you’re already in.”
Day blinked. That almost sounded as if God was saying Day was his world.
I can’t be.
“What you’d do in the military?”
God’s expression hardened, giving him a glare that yelled off-limits.
“Shit, man,” Day snarled. He might as well pay his tab and leave. He was butting his head against a brick-fucking-wall anyway. “If you didn’t wanna go out, then you should’ve just fuckin’ said so.”
God aggressively downed the last of his beer, then sat up higher in the booth and leaned toward Day as if he was about to tell him a huge secret, and Day was all ears.
“I don’t like small talk or bullshitting, Day. If you really wanna know what I do…nothing. I don’t do anything when I go home. I grab whatever takeout I feel like eating that night—whoever doesn’t have a long wait time—I eat, might do some push-ups, sit-ups, or free weights, shower, and then I go the fuck to sleep. I don’t cook, I don’t jam out, I don’t have hobbies. And I sure as fuck don’t hang out with people. If you want me to be clearer…I have no friends.” God glared hard. “None.”