Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 112850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
“This can’t be right. I’ll call Tommy,” I said.
“I have to work entirely too hard to get anyone’s clothes off,” Wyatt added, sounding forlorn, lost. The dejection was real.
“Yeah. That’s one thing I can’t say. There isn’t a shortage of tail in the movie business,” I explained, doing my best to hold in laughter as I poured salt in the open wound of Wyatt’s life.
“Huh,” Scout murmured.
He was the one that I regretted bragging in front of the most. Scout could be banging it every night for all I knew. He excelled in the military, spending most of his time around the world in covert operations in the whatever country was the hotbed at the moment.
“I haven’t seen new tail since we started high school,” Wyatt muttered.
The depth of sad emotion Wyatt used broke all the tension. I rolled to a stop again, both me and Scout glanced back at Wyatt who dropped down in the seat to pout openly.
“That’s because you never leave that town we grew up in,” Scout said.
“And when I do, it’s to come here. To the fuckin’ wilderness with a bunch of fuckin’ dudes I’d never fuck if my life depended on it.” Wyatt straightened in the back seat, pushing his brim down low over his forehead, tucking his arms tightly across his chest. Not much quieted the overly animated Wyatt Willis. Scout reached over to knock me in the arm. Clearly nonplused by Wyatt’s confession or mood.
“The map says we’re four hundred feet from the store,” Scout instructed.
I still didn’t see it, but guessed they’d find out soon enough.
=♥=
Mace
Bells. I swore I heard them in my sleep.
Every door in the saloon had a set of them, and each time they clanked together set my shoulders tighter with tension.
My daily hell, and I was currently living in hell on earth.
Right then, I made the decision to remove all the bells during operating hours, screw everyone else who believed they should stay in place. Surely, with as handyman as I’d become, I could install some sort of doorbell or buzzer, especially in the back entrance to alert the bar of deliveries or customers.
I’d call Bobby at the hardware store and have him pull whatever parts I needed.
My mood lifted at the same moment my arm did, swiping a bead of sweat from my temple with the shirt sleeve of my T-shirt.
Technically, my family operated two businesses in this one establishment. Keeping the bar running as a profitable business while complying with the Texas Historical Commission’s rules on what could and couldn’t happen with the property was a trick. In the front, we served meals and alcohol. In the rear of the building, we had an operational liquor store.
The truth of the story was that the invisible division between the front and the back happened during the Prohibition era of the 1920s. An imaginary line had separated the two companies with the hope of retaining the actual bar that then served tea and supper if the other was ever found out by the wrong people. Since all the residents of this community, including law enforcement, knew the secret, apparently they were never in any real danger.
That was then and this was now. We had a historical commission to contend with, and they didn’t allow changes within or to the structure. That’s why a refrigerator/freezer the size of Texas itself sat fifteen feet from the back door. Which was fine enough, except the tremendous heat of July in Texas started early in the day. I reached for the wet hand towel draped over one shoulder and removed my sunglasses to scrub the cloth over my sweaty face. Normally, I let the sweat happen, supposedly cleaning out all the toxins from the greasy foods and beer I consumed.
An ice-cold Corona was in my near future.
This morning, I actively sought air conditioning, glad the weekend revelry was coming to an end. I needed sleep and maybe a day off. Like that ever happened. Still, it was nice to dream.
I had grown up in this bar, working in some capacity or another since I was able to walk. The dreams of a life outside of this bar faded many years ago. My grandfather had died, my parents were aging, and now, my sister and I ran the place. That was a challenge in itself. Lori was just so damned hard to get along with. Ready to spit fire at any given moment.
As I went from helping a customer load alcohol into the back of a pickup truck, I reached down to the battered, broken pavement, grabbing an empty beer can and tossing it in a wide mouth, old barrel trash can.
Swoosh, cleared. Nothing but net. Professional basketball. My childhood dream, only replaced by the rodeo after I reached an age of understanding.