Saving Landon Part 24

Angel

Summoning every drop of charisma that I could find, I smiled and plunked down the gla.s.ses at the four-top bar table for the graying, slovenly bikers. I rattled off the orders as I sloshed the drinks in front of them in turn, each of them smiling grotesquely.

"Four drafts: Bud, Bud, Miller Lite, and Abita. And four shots of Fireball, because why not," I added mirthlessly.

"Thanks, darlin'," the closest biker chuckled, lifting his shot and suddenly grabbing a nice handful of my a.s.s.

I flinched and drew back from him, preserving my pride and my job by not responding poorly to the hara.s.sment.

"Can I get you guys anything else?"

It was less a question, and more a growl.

"One other thing."

He dropped his menu on the ground, and looked at me expectantly.

"Step onto that."

I was used to this by now, and I suppressed a heavy sigh and a filthy look. Instead, I stepped meaningfully onto the discarded menu.

"We'll take one of you," he grinned.

"You can't have one of me."

"But darlin', you're on the menu!"

They broke into riotous laughter, as if this was the cleverest f.u.c.king joke ever.

It was pretty funny the first time someone did it to me. Months ago... People are less original than they think. I heard this one twice a week.

"Looks like we're fresh out," I responded, scooping the menu off the floor and strolling away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw their laughter die down, and they were looking at me with annoyance for not playing along.

To h.e.l.l with 'em.

To h.e.l.l with everything about this stupid G.o.dd.a.m.n job.

I hated working this ancient, decrepit dive bar. The money was just good enough to keep myself afloat, and bartending was fun enough, but not somewhere like this.

If it wasn't bikers, it was rednecks.

If it wasn't rednecks, it was thugs.

If it wasn't thugs...

A shiver went up my spine. I didn't like to think about that.

Old Greg owned this place, and he was a friendly enough guy. h.e.l.l, he'd been a G.o.dsend. A lifelong resident of this backwater little town, he was old enough to be my grandfather. His best patron was our sheriff someone who turned a blind eye when I was brought onboard to tend bar at sixteen.

At least that was no longer a problem. I'd turned eighteen pouring drinks.

When it was slow and I was cleaning gla.s.ses or wiping surfaces, I dreamed of exactly what you'd think a bright, young girl who dream about in a place like this: Getting the h.e.l.l out of Riverton.

That was the name of this place. The town, not the bar. Well, the bar too, technically.

Riverton Bar, in Riverton... On Riverton Avenue.

Remember when I said people aren't original?

That applies to the friendly ones, too.

Dropping the drink tray off at the stack, I pa.s.sed back around the counter and checked on my other patrons several working-cla.s.s stragglers, downing cheap beer specials, an older fellow nursing a whiskey neat, and a few older crones sipping heavy martinis.

Satisfied, I began taking stock of my liquors. I was gonna have to pop open a bottle of Crown soon, and we were still out of half our rum...

While I checked things off on my clipboard, I noticed someone approaching the bar. I didn't think much of it, and I continued my work for a moment. I was busy, and the shadow could see that.

Whoever it was, he could wait a minute.

Ticking a couple of more checks, I finally turned around to see the same biker from before the jester of the group.

Well, more like the leader, from the way the other bikers regarded him. He was leering at me for some reason, and I felt a pit deep in my stomach.

"You forgot something," he grumbled.

"Sorry," I answered, letting my tone demonstrate how unapologetic I really was. "My memory's a bit fuzzy. What was it?"

He sat an empty shot gla.s.s on the counter.

I glanced at it, then back up to him.

"I wasn't kidding. I really don't remember. What was it again?"

His eye twitched, but he backed off a little.

"Crown."

"Oh, right," I nodded, reaching for the liquor bottle. "Fireball shots for everyone, and another Crown for you." If he'd have been any less of a total creep, I would have snuck him a second one, just to make up for it.

It wasn't becoming for a bartender to have to scribble down the drink orders, but I'd been managing pretty well all night. On crazy nights, I took the excuse to do it, which made things run way less stressful for me.

Of course, it was on a simple shot for the most intimidating and questionable guy all night that I'd lose my train of focus.

"Here you go," I placed it back down on the counter for him.

"Thanks," he grumbled, walking away.

But he was still watching me out of the corner of his eye. I didn't like it.

I sighed inwardly, turning to my other patrons. They'd been trying to ignore the raucous bikers, but even they could sense the unsettling tension in the room that had developed around the group.

And there was the way they looked at me...

Maybe I'd get lucky and they'd lose interest before closing time. Risking a quick look, I caught the big biker staring, a crooked smile growing across his unshaven face.

I'd never been a very lucky girl...

3.

Trent

After ditching the s.h.i.tty after-party, it was a small matter to figure out where to go. I still felt like drinking, but if I'd stepped into any old bar here in the city I'd be recognized and ambushed for autographs and selfies.

f.u.c.k that s.h.i.t.

I needed something a little more discreet.

That's why I slipped out and hopped into one of the rentals that were made available for band use. It was nothing special, just a shiny little red jeep not really my style, but I didn't really care. After all, who the f.u.c.k was I trying to impress out here?

Hitting the road, I found my way to the Interstate and just started driving.

Once I got away from the light pollution, the night sky was beautiful. Crystal clear stars without a cloud in view. It was hard to find the time to appreciate the stars when you were on seemingly permanent tour.

Only two more weeks of this s.h.i.t.

Another little voice reminded me: for now.

That's life. Hard work plus luck begets success. A spot of good luck definitely sparks the fire, but the hard work? That's what keeps the blaze going strong. I knew d.a.m.n well I'd be back on tour soon enough.

After about thirty minutes cruising down the highway in the rental jeep, I decided to take a chance on the next exit. Out here, the tall, monolithic restaurant and gas station sides were all weeded out, and I was lucky to spot a Chevron station from the interstate.

This particular exit looked like it led to the middle of nowhere. The sign said "Riverton", but the endless, dark woods all around practically screamed "dilapidated little town."

Never heard of the place.

Sounded small. Quaint.

Just to my tastes.

But after cruising down the main road into town, I realized that I might have chosen a place a little too small. There wasn't a lot to this little backwoods town. h.e.l.l, I hesitate to even call it a town.

True to its namesake, it was situated on a riverbank. The spot was primarily residential, with a ton of ramshackle houses and borderline huts. Not a whole lot of businesses. You had your hardware stores, combination gas station slash small grocer, and a few tiny, ancient restaurants. This was one of those little commuter towns where everybody drives forty-five minutes to work in the city.

If this place wasn't the sticks, nothing was.

I'd just about given up on finding this place when I spotted a derelict old bar by the side.

Riverton Bar...

"Alright," I muttered to myself, flicking on my blinker and slowing down. "So long as they don't actually p.i.s.s in the stills, this should be fine..."

Something about the place looked appealing despite its shoddy state. Maybe it was just that it was so different from anywhere I'd been since hitting it big. These days my life was full of big city bars and clubs, and the occasional lavish hotel room after-party.

But that was only really part of it.

It just looked like how I felt inside.

Filthy.

Broken-down.

Borderline functional.

Committed to the cause, I pulled up beside a battered collection of old trucks and crumpled, ancient sedans.

Hopping out of the jeep, I became aware of how clean and pristine the rental looked, especially beside these dirty, sputtering rust-buckets...

And, glancing down at myself, I realized that I was definitely going to stick out like a sore f.u.c.king thumb in these parts. I hadn't even bothered to change from my stage clothes.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside, walking into redneck central dressed like a f.u.c.king rockstar.

Which, let's be honest.

I totally f.u.c.king was.

With a glance, I surmised the atmosphere. Not too many people here, maybe a dozen at most, but the ones that were painted a pretty vivid picture for me.

A group of gnarled old bikers.