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He stood back, a critical eye on the cupboards. If he remembered correctly, it was the only thing he and Mrs. Lee had agreed on. The crusty old guidance counselor had tried everything in her power to get him to enroll in a local community college, but Wyatt had resisted. At that point in his life, all he thought about was leaving Crystal Lake. Coupled with the fact fast cars and racing took up most of his time, it was an easy decision.
Thinking back made him wonder, though. Where would he be if Mrs. Lee had won?
He glanced at the clock and shook the memories away. If he didn’t get his butt in gear, he’d be late, and hell if he’d give Jarret a reason to ride his ass. Plus, he’d worked up an appetite and was hungry as hell. Chicken and beer were on the menu, and it had been way too long since he’d chowed down on greasy wings.
His cell pinged just as he got out of the shower, and, with a smile, he grabbed it off the table beside his bed. It wasn’t the green-eyed brunette he’d been hoping for, and his smile slowly faded.
He stared at the name. Rob Tracy. The team manager and boss. He’d been calling steadily for the last few days now. And though Wyatt knew he needed to deal with him, he decided to do it later. All it took was that number to light up and deflate the good mood he’d been enjoying since he’d crawled into bed with Regan. With a scowl, he tossed the phone.
At exactly seven o’clock, Wyatt strode into the Coach House, automatically glancing to his left. But Sal wasn’t there. Instead, a mountain of a man with a full-on Grizzly Adams beard kept the customers happy. Ironically, he was known as Tiny. He was a good guy, but there wasn’t a regular who didn’t miss Salvatore. The old man used to dish out advice as quickly as he’d pour a draft. Most of the time, you didn’t want to hear his opinion, on account of most of the time he was right. Most guys didn’t like having that particular fact pointed out.
It was sad he was gone, but Nash Booker was doing a fine job keeping things up to Sal’s standards.
The Coach House was full, largely due to the half-price wings and the fact that there wasn’t anywhere else in town that catered to pretty much everyone. Townies. Seasonals. New bloods. Moneyed folk and not. It was the kind of place that smelled of stale beer and grease. The kind of place that had dark corners and bathrooms that hadn’t been updated since the early seventies. It was the kind of place Wyatt could walk into and no one gave him a second glance. They didn’t care that he was NASCAR or that he owned a fancy house in Florida. No one could give a goddamn that he had more money from racing and endorsements than he needed or knew what to do with.
It didn’t matter because he was born and bred in Crystal Lake, and on any given day of the week, he could walk into this place and run into an old friend.
None of the new establishments that had sprung up downtown or across the lake came close. Coming here felt like coming home. And it was that ease that Wyatt enjoyed.
He spied Booker behind the bar, four bottles of whiskey in his hands and a large bag of peanuts clenched between his teeth. He nodded at Wyatt and made a gesture with his head that had Wyatt
moving to one of the tall tables near the stage. Jarret and Sean were there, a jug of beer in the middle of the table, along with three large baskets of wings. The boys were tucked in but good and barely grunted as Wyatt slid onto a stool and poured himself a beer.
“You guys look like a couple of meatheads,” he said with a chuckle, reaching for a plate.
“You’re late,” Sean mumbled, swiping at the sauce on the corner of his mouth. He missed but didn’t seem to care. Instead, he grabbed another wing.
“I was busy.”
“Doing what?” Sean asked with a crooked grin before tearing into his wing. “Seriously, Blackwell. What the hell do you do, holed up in that cabin? Why the hell are you here anyway? Christ, if I were you, I’d be living it up somewhere warm, knee-deep in pussy and booze.”
Wyatt reached for a wing. “That I don’t doubt.”
“Lots of pussy.” Sean grinned.
Jarret reached for a napkin and made a face. “And that’s why you’re still single, McAdams. You’re a pig.”
“Yeah?” Sean chewed on a bone before pointing it at Jarret. “What’s your excuse?”
Jarret topped up his draft and filled a mug for Wyatt. “My excuse lives on the West Coast.”
That got Wyatt’s attention. “Carly?”
Jarret shrugged, but the lopsided grin on his face told a story Wyatt wanted to hear. “You guys get together when she was here?” Wyatt asked.
“We might have hung out.”
“Hung out?” Sean sat back in his chair. “Who gives a shit if you hung out. Did you bang her? That’s the question my friend.”
Jarret turned to his pal. “Again. The pig thing. You need to grow up.”
Sean didn’t get the sarcasm. “So, you banged her but you don’t want to talk about it.” He looked at Wyatt, eyebrows raised comically. “I’d say that means something.”
“Yeah,” Jarret mumbled. “It means I’m not a dumbass twenty-year-old eager to share every detail about the girl I’m with. You might get there one day.”
Wyatt chuckled. “If he’s lucky.”
Sean shook his head and carried on with his wings. But Wyatt sat back and sipped his beer thoughtfully. “So, this thing with Carly is more than just a random hookup.”
