Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
This is probably a bad idea.
I find a stool that is positioned in the middle of two empty seats and sit down. Marty Higgins, one of Clay’s bartenders, slides a fresh napkin in front of me. “What can I get you, Ben?”
“The strongest bourbon you can find. And make it a double.”
Marty quirks an eyebrow. “Tough day?”
“You have no idea.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t ask for any further explanation and gets to work on pouring a healthy dose of Woodford Reserve into a rocks glass and setting it in front of me. I lift the glass to my lips and take a long drink.
I stare down at the now half-empty glass and block out all the commotion behind me. The chatter. The music. It becomes white noise, and my mind becomes a blank canvas to paint with ponderings of repercussions.
Fuck, this could have been so bad. For me, for my career, but mostly for—
“Heard you got into a knife fight with three guys who were trying to kidnap Josie’s sister.”
I look up from my drink to find Clay standing in front of me, one elbow resting on the bar.
“Small-town news travels fast,” I comment. “Although, it doesn’t travel accurately.”
“What the hell happened?”
Isn’t that the question of the hour—one I’m still trying to figure out the answer to. A woman I have no personal interest in had a problem with a prick from the city who drives a black Audi, and I, somehow, found it a good idea to get involved.
You lost control.
“Norah Ellis’s ex is a motherfucker. Put his hands on her when she very clearly didn’t want them on her. I intervened with my fist.”
Clay raises one eyebrow before running a hand through his hair. “Damn, dude. You going to have legal ramifications from that?”
Any kind of legal bullshit is the last thing I need to be involved in. My sister alone would give me enough strife to last a lifetime, but the other things depending on me being let down would kill me. He knows that.
“There should’ve been. But the sheriff just called me a little bit ago to let me know Norah convinced the county prosecutor to drop criminal charges on the asshole if he gets the hell out of Red Bridge and doesn’t press charges against me. And he agreed because of a protection order for Norah. Though, I’m not entirely convinced it’s over because he doesn’t seem like the type to let shit go.”
If anything, he seems like the kind of dickhead who thinks the world revolves around him. Like more important than anyone or anything else. Even the law.
“How could you be charged with assault when you were trying to stop an already bad situation from getting ugly?”
“The first punch, I’d agree with you.” I purse my lips and shake my head. “But I punched him twice.”
“Sounds to me like he deserved it,” Clay comments and grabs the bottle of Woodford Reserve to pour himself a drink. “Cheers, brother.”
This doesn’t feel like a time for celebration, but I clink glasses with his and take another drink anyway.
“Plus, you can count your blessings because you got here after Eileen Martin left,” Clay updates with a knowing smile. “Though, something tells me you’re going to find yourself in the paper tomorrow. That little old lady was fucking amped.”
“Shit,” I mutter, and Clay reaches out to pat my shoulder with a hard hand.
“Don’t be such a downer, Ben. From what I can tell, you’re going to be painted as the hero of Red Bridge. The man who stopped a gang fight and a kidnapping with just his fist alone.”
My exasperation comes out in the form of a stilted laugh. “Great.”
Publicity and being painted as that fancy-ass woman’s hero—just what I need.
Norah
I stare out the window, my elbow resting on the door, and watch the brick buildings and streetlamps pass by as Josie drives us home from CAFFEINE in her SUV. Thomas’s dried blood has been scrubbed from the floor, along with the spilled coffee, and the now-rotten jugs of milk we forgot to put away before going to the police station have found a home in the dumpster behind the building.
Everything is as it was first thing this morning again—all except for my sanity.
Downtown Red Bridge is quiet, only the glimmer of the streetlights providing any action as we make our way through town. At this time of night, all the businesses are closed but one—a bar called The Country Club.
A neon sign boasts the name above the door, and a soft vibration of music floats from inside the place. The lights are on, and business is altogether hopping for a Tuesday night.
When I spot a familiar truck parked out front, I sit up straight in my seat.
“Pull over,” I tell Josie. “I want to go inside.”
But Josie isn’t listening. Her hands stay firmly on the wheel, and her eyes are focused back on the road.