Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“Yeah…you’re right.” The light turned green, and she was grateful because it meant his attention was off her and she could wipe her sweaty palms on her pants.
They were truly in the middle of nowhere, she realized, looking around as they pulled into a tiny gas station with one pump. It wasn’t a big city, but still, anything could happen. Was he right? Did people just randomly attack in places like this? Was everything Steve and Gloria said right, after all? Ren imagined someone approaching Fitz right now and him pulling out a combination of karate kicks and punches, taking down the attacker. Maybe Ren would have to jump out of the car, and they’d have to take on the attacker together like a real team.
A knock on the window startled her, and she looked to see Fitz right there, so close on the other side. She rolled it down, letting a blast of spring air fill the car.
“You hungry?” he asked with a sideways grin.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of the doughnut she barely touched. “Starving.”
“Great.” He stepped to the side, revealing a weatherworn wooden building about a quarter mile down the empty road. A sign out front read THE SCREAMING EAGLE SALOON, and rows of motorcycles filled the dusty parking lot. “Bet they’ve got great barbecue, don’t you think?”
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.”