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“We should probably find somewhere to sleep before you get wasted,” he finally says, wisely.
I wave my hand through the air dismissively. “We can sleep in my car, there’s room for both of us, no problem. I’m not driving anywhere else tonight.”
Then I finish my drink and ask for another. When it arrives, Hunter lays his hand over it before I can grab it.
“Look, I understand today was rough and I’m sorry for dragging you into it,” he says. “I’m an idiot. I thought you wanted to see Jax, and I thought he wanted to see you, but that’s exactly the kind of thinking that keeps me stuck with Trixie, so I should’ve known better. Reopening old wounds just leads to worse scars. Isn’t that a lyric from one of your songs?”
I stop trying to pry the tumbler from under his hand and lean against him, wrapping my arm around his waist. “It is. But it’s all a lie. I need to write some new songs.”
Then I release him and drink my whiskey before he can stop me again.
“They don’t seem to think so,” he says, meaning the crowd, most of whom are still looking at me as though I’m up on stage and about to break into song. I smile and raise my glass in a toast, which most of them return.
Except the bearded man with the hooded eyes leaning against the wall directly opposite the stage. I can’t see his eyes, but I still know he’s staring at me like we’re the only two people in the room. I couldn’t see him while I was on stage because he’s standing right under the bright light that was shining in my eyes, but I have the very sobering sensation that he spent the entire time I was singing glaring at me just like this. Immovably, penetratingly, like a madman. I get my share of those online.
He’s tall, and even wider than my father, and his unruly dark hair looks like he hasn’t combed it in a while. As for his beard, it could do with a trim and some moisture. He’s wearing black jeans and a black button-down shirt under his leather jacket and I’m sure his heart is just as dark as his clothes.
When everyone else is done toasting me, he slowly raises his glass at me, grinning to reveal a row of large, dark yellow teeth. The sight sends ice cold shivers down my spine while at the same time feeling like a punch to the gut.
But I’ve dealt with my share of weirdos.
Best thing is to ignore them and get as far away from them as possible.
I turn my back on him and the crowd, swallow the rest of my whiskey, pick up my guitar and lace my arm under Hunter’s.
“You’re right, I should get out of here before I get too drunk and start acting stupid.”
He’s still looking at the weird man because of course he’d notice my entire exchange with him.
“Who is that? Do you know him?”
I shake my head and don’t turn to look at the man again.
“Probably just some random guy who thinks I’m pretty,” I say. “Let’s go find a motel.”
The drinks were on the house, the bartender informs me as I try to pay, and I continue holding onto Hunter’s arm as we leave the bar, amid scattered applause and assurances from several guests that they’ll catch me at my next gig. I am very careful to only look at the weird man from the very corner of my eyes as I smile and thank everyone.
He probably is just a random weirdo, like I told Hunter. But none of the other such weirdos I’ve come across ever made me feel this unsettled and icky. Scared even.
Though that’s probably just because of all the stress of today and being so far from home.
5
Jax
Dinner last night was a quiet, tense affair with a lot of furtive glances my way from both the two Riders and the Renegades highest on the food chain in here. One of those—Snake—witnessed my exchange with Hunter in the visiting room yesterday, but he kept his face stone cold and unreadable between taking large bites of his steak last night, which he chewed very slowly while looking at me. I fully expected to get cornered soon after dinner.
“Something’s brewing,” my father said once we were locked up in the cell together, but I told him I don’t want to talk and he didn’t press me.
Night didn’t bring me sleep and breakfast didn’t bring the altercation that by dawn I was actually looking forward to. I spent the morning getting infused by the fumes of bleach, my mind drifting between thoughts of how, if I stay here any longer, I might never get to feel Harper’s soft skin on my hands, to how the laundry truck could be used to escape.
I don’t see it. Not without serious inside help. The truck is checked thoroughly when it rolls in, dogs and all. It’s checked again before it leaves. Clinging to the underside is out of the question. That gets checked first. Hiding in the back under the sheets would be idiotic. We’d be better off just trying to walk out the front door if that was our grand plan. At least that would take the stinking sheets out of the equation.
No, what you’d need is to either drive it out of here, which would entail overpowering the two men who drive it in, both of whom are armed, trained and ready for that type of attempt.
The laundry truck is not how we get out of here.
I explained all that to Gene while chain smoking in the courtyard, with the scorching sun beating down on the back of my neck, the hard plastic bench eating into my things, and my eyes trailing every movement the men who are still watching me very closely make. My father is talking to them now.
