Page 10

By the time we got to town, the wind had turned mean.

Blackwood wasn’t just one road, but it might as well have been tonight. The streets were empty and the storefronts dark, the storm keeping everyone inside. Only the parking lot at The Hollow told the truth. This town didn’t sleep through storms—it gathered under neon and whiskey, packed in tight like church on a Sunday.

I pulled into my usual spot in front of the bar, half on the curb, half in the road, and exactly where Babs told me not to park every time.

That never stopped me, though.

Ryder slammed his door at the same time I did, and we strolled toward the entrance. My eyes wandered down the street briefly, skimming over the oversized steer statue before returning to the building in front of us. The wind whipped around us, carrying the familiar mix that always clung to The Hollow after eight p.m., a blend of scorched grease, spilled beer, and the nighttime bravado that fell apart with the sun.

Thankfully, it wasn’t carrying that smell tonight. My basement was already full.

Ryder fell into step beside me, tugging his hat lower against the wind. “Nothing like the sweet perfume of grease and regret to let you know you’re home,” he muttered.

I snorted, pushing my hands into my pockets. “Careful. Talk like that, and Babs’ll spit in your beer before you take the first sip.”

He grinned, and I couldn’t help the twitch of mine in return. The Hollow had been ours for years, full of fights, booze, women, and the kinds of stories we’d carry for the rest of our lives.

The air inside was thick with whiskey fumes. Strings of half-lit Christmas lights sagged across the ceiling, their glow casting everything in the faint, seedy warmth of a dive bar that knew exactly what it was. The walls were a patchwork of beer signs, old rodeo posters, and handwritten IOUs Babs kept tacked up for the drama of it.

A mounted longhorn skull hung crooked above the jukebox, and the floor creaked with every step. The bar itself was heavy wood, scarred and stained from years of abuse. One leg was shorter than the rest, so it tilted slightly. Just enough that your drink always slid toward the edge if you weren’t paying attention.

There were only twelve stools at the bar, and every single one had a story.

Old Harvey was parked on his usual corner stool. Gray beard to his chest, a Vietnam vet cap permanently fixed to his head, and a smile full of nicotine-stained teeth. Harvey had been drunk for years, and somehow he still remembered everyone’s birthday.

“Storm’s coming, boys,” he slurred as we walked in, raising his glass toward us. “Feel it in my knees. Or maybe that’s my arthritis. Who’s to say?”

“Appreciate the update, Harvey,” Ryder drawled, tipping his hat. “Nobody else saw the lightning flashing in the distance but you.”

I snorted, but Harvey didn’t seem to notice.

“Tell your mama I said hi,” he called to no one in particular. I had a brief flash of my mother’s face as Harvey took a sip and stared contentedly into the distance like he was watching a war only he could see.

In the back corner, a game of darts was unfolding with the quiet intensity of a prison standoff. Two broad-shouldered guys from the mill squared off against Daisy, the night vet tech, who still wore scrubs speckled with something that might’ve been blood or ketchup. She lined up her throw with one hand and cradled a whiskey in the other, looking like she’d neutered something larger than both men earlier that evening and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

I wouldn’t bet against her.

At a back table, two of the older ranchers, Earl and Dale, were deep in some kind of argument that involved aggressive whispering. Earl used to ride bulls and now had knees made of metal. Dale was a conspiracy theorist who once claimed the mayor was reptilian. Babs let him stay because he made her favorite jerky.

And at the bar, Babs, as usual, looked like she’d wrestled Death on her way in here and walked away with his wallet.

She was in her mid-fifties, or maybe older…not that anyone had the guts to ask. She had tanned skin covered in a constellation of faded tattoos. Her denim vest was from some outlaw motorcycle club that didn’t exist anymore. Probably because Babs had dismantled it herself.

Her gaze cut across the room, landing on us, and she scowled. “What did I do to deserve the two of you darkening my doorway tonight?”

Ryder tipped his hat, all false sweetness. “Missed us, Babs?”

“Like a rash,” she shot back.

Her eyeliner was smudged in a way that gave her sharp eyes an even fiercer edge when they pinned you down. Her graying brown hair was twisted into its usual bun, tonight stabbed through with a screwdriver. Last week, it had been a cigar. Once before, a steak knife, and thinking of that night was the easiest way I knew to flatten an erection.

And she ruled The Hollow like it was her kingdom.

Ryder and I slid into an empty booth along the far wall, the vinyl groaning under our weight. I leaned back and stretched out, keeping my gaze on the door.

And that’s when the piano started.

Chuck was hunched over a dusty keyboard in the corner, hammering out slow, off-key minor chords like he was auditioning to score his own funeral. No one had hired him, and no one had suggested he should. He just dragged in that busted Yamaha on random nights, sat down, and played like the world was ending in black-and-white and he was the only one who’d gotten the memo.