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“Your funeral, man,” she quotes Alver.
See?
That’s some funny shit, I think as I laugh once more.
Chapter 6
Zoey
You ever watch one of those two AM movies where some out-of-towner walks into the local watering hole, there’s a record scratch, and all eyes turn to the interloper with suspicion?
That’s literally what happens when I walk into the beer barn.
Yes, lower case bs because this place doesn’t actually have anything formal like a name or sign. It’s just literally a barn in the middle of a field where you can get a beer, hence the beer barn. I don’t even know whose land this is, just that the bartender’s name is Bubba.
That’s probably not his real name either, but it’s what we all know him by, so it works. And also, that whole record scratch and eyes on the newbie thing? That’d be me. Except I’m not new, by any stretch.
But I am the local legend. Unfortunately, not in a good way.
“Hey, Zoey. Somebody call you? Might be a wee bit pree-mah-chure.” Bubba’s thick fingers are held a scant inch apart, and the word has three syllables, the way it should, but it’s longer than it should be by at least a solid two seconds. “Silas is still breathing.”
Bubba points to an old guy at the end of the bar who’s eyeballing me through squinted, glassy slits like I’m the Angel of Death come to take him away. “But if you hang out, you might get lucky.”
Beside me, Blake stiffens. Not in his pants, though to be honest, I can’t tell since I’m not looking at his crotch. But he’s not used to this, and it seems like he’s about to come to my defense again, the way he did about Alver. It’s kinda sweet, in a white knight sort of way. But not needed. I’m no damsel, and it takes a lot more than Bubba being a smartass to distress me.
I smile like Bubba’s being funny and his greeting isn’t the exact reason I hate coming in here. Maybe that’s where Jacob gets that particular coping mechanism from?
I point at my eyes with V-ed fingers and then to Silas, communicating that I’m watching him. “Should I save you a drawer?”
Silas jerks, spilling his beer over his hand and on the bar, making everyone bust out in laughter at his expense. “That shit ain’t funny, Zoey Walker.”
I laugh lightly. “It kinda was.” Silas wiggles on his barstool like ants are marching their way up and down his spine and into his pants. “Someone walking over your grave, Silas House?”
I don’t know why people call me by my full name sometimes—distance, I suppose—but I like to do it back. They take it as though I’m double-checking my list like Santa and marking them off. The question is . . . am I marking them off as okay or as soon to appear in my morgue?
Everyone seems to think I know. Like I’m some walking, talking Magic Eight Ball that can do a somersault and tell them signs point to yes or better not tell you now.
I don’t have any more insight than they do, but I gave up on convincing people of that long ago and settled into my role in this small, tight-knit community out here in Williamson County. I’m the outsider, no matter that I mostly grew up here, and the unwanted, no matter that I do what no one else wants to.
“Two beers, please, Bubba,” I tell the man who’s scooted way down the bar as far away from me as possible. He nods his head toward Silas, eyes questioning. I sigh, knowing the peace it’ll bring is worth a lot more than two bucks. “Fine. Three.”
Even though I’m doing something nice to make up for the half-glass of beer Silas spilled, which wasn’t even my fault, he balks. “Is that a trick? Or some sort of apology before the fact?”
I give Silas my most psychic medium stare, vacantly looking through him rather than at him, and make my voice flat and otherworldly. “Silas House, you need to drink your beer and let someone else drive you home. Do this and you’ll live to see another sunrise.”
The whole room has gone dead silent, and yes, that’s sarcasm. They’re definitely quiet as church mice, but if I had to guess, the average heart rate of the room is somewhere around that shock you get when you startle awake in the middle of the night from a bad dream and think there’s a demon standing in the corner of the room, so no one’s dead. Yet.
“Yes, ma’am. Will do,” Silas answers before chugging the fresh beer Bubba sets in front of him. He’s still swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand when he asks, “Who can give me a lift?”
On any usual weekday night at shortly after six, he’d have zero takers. These people just got off work and are looking for a night of relaxation and stress relief from a day of hard labor.
