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Connell’s jaw ticked and face twisted in disgust.
“We also know lessons can stick with a man for a lifetime.” Sydney’s hand once again slipped around Mike’s, gently holding his fingers as if she feared gripping him too tightly. “And I’m a thorough teacher, even when I’m on leave.”
“How much space?”
“We have a few items, nothing big.”
“Creek’s in Montana, right?”
“Got the coordinates.”
“You’ll need them,” he said. “We can’t pull off, but we will be passing close.”
“You have room?” he asked and the man motioned toward the door with a quick nod of his head.
“We have a sleeper cab,” he said as they made their way out of the building and walked toward the diesel pumps. “I’m with Buchanan, you know how he is.”
“Yeah,” Mike replied. “Doesn’t mean he won’t answer my call.”
“True, what’s the alternative? Something tells me you two haven’t been hanging around truck stops looking for ghosts to take you for a ride.”
“No, I’ve got my truck, minus my plates and the GPS.”
“You remember how to double clutch?” the man joked since they both knew the truth. “The timer is almost out on this stop.”
“Then I guess I better be charming.”
“Be truthful,” he said. “No code, no bullshit.”
* * *
It was a slow night at the Roadhouse when Chief wandered up to the bar. The man was earning his keep, but had been claimed before he even received a prospect patch. Doc’s man had become the Swiss Army knife around the place since he’d shown up. Working on reserve with Hollywood, the county sheriff, helping out with the men flipping houses and now petitioning the town to set up a volunteer fire station. There was a building, now in major decline that had been the fire station back when Turnabout Creek had more people. But beyond allowing the club to fix it up and offering a pittance it would be up to Chief to raise money for the basics.
“What can I get you?” she asked the man, his brown eyes tired as he flipped his baseball cap backward and let out a little sigh. “Something tells me tequila.”
“That would be nice,” he said. “But you know how the song goes, tequila makes my clothes fall off.”
“Tell me about it,” Porsche joked, locking her thumbs around the straps of her bra and running them up and down since she was only wearing a bra and a short skirt. “Beer then?”
“Might as well,” he said. “Then I gotta head back to the Ol’ Lady.”
“You back from that run to Nevada?”
He kept his mouth shut on that one. There were many things allowed to be discussed, the gun running men did was more of a side hustle no one discussed. Especially since old Wendell ‘Chief’ Washington had spent most of his life on the straight and very narrow path of a goodie-to-shoes.
“Why are you drowning your sorrows in stale beer?” she said, making sure to give a good head to the chilled mug before setting in front of him.
“I’m practically married to a therapist.”
“Yeah, but who really talks to them,” she replied. “I bet I’ve learned deeper secrets in the back rooms than she’ll ever learn from her chair.”
“Maybe she should serve drinks,” he said, taking a sip then fishing a few pretzels out of the bowl next to him. “I grew up in a shit small town and have been a part of more fundraisers than most.”
“But you grew up there and know the culture.”
“Exactly. Outside of this being a hard working community there’s only one church, not seven. The school is forty-five minutes away and half the businesses downtown are the club’s.”
“True, but this town is growing and not just from all the babies being popped out like Pez dispensers around the club. And there are actually five churches, the smaller ones aren’t exactly packing them in, but a few loyalists remain.”
