Here we go.
The Hurly brothers stood in the entrance like they owned the place. One had a gut, the other a shaved head and several tats on his face and neck.
Instead of sitting at a table, they made their way toward the bar. Fortunately, a seat next to Brit was open.
Beneath his shades, Rebel narrowed his gaze.
Fresh meat always attracts the regulars.
The heavyset one said something to Brit. She eyed the empty bar stool next to her then gestured for him to take it.
Bait set.
He lowered himself onto it.
Bait taken.
Instead of sitting beside his brother, the skinhead stood behind him and Brit.
The server returned, blocking Rebel’s view.
Dammit.
Rebel moved the chair, his attention laser-focused on Brit.
As if she had nothing but time, the waitress set down a napkin, then the bottle. She was talking nonstop, but Rebel had tuned her out.
“So, that’s why I’ve been here for twenty-five years,” said the server. “What’s your story?”
“I keep a low profile.”
“My kinda man.”
When he didn’t respond, she moved on to another table.
Rebel tossed back a swig. Across the room, a couple played billiards around the rickety-old pool table while four people were entertaining themselves with a game of darts.
Two stools at the bar opened. The skinhead sat next to his brother, but moved his seat to better see Brit. Her beauty hadcaught their eye, her compelling story would lure them in. Of that he was certain.
A woman loomed into view, pointed to the vacant chair across from him. “Is this taken?”
“You need an extra chair, take it.”
She eased down.
Not what he had in mind.
“Are you alone?” she asked.
She’d just parked her ass there, so clearly, he wasn’t.
“My old lady’s meetin’ me.”
“I’ll hang until she gets here. I love meeting new people.”
Rebel leaned over. “I’m wanted in three states, so you might not wanna?—”
She jumped out of that chair so fast, he almost laughed.
