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I blink a couple of times. “Excuse me?”
“Remember that day you saw me leaving the building and you asked where I was going and I didn’t respond?”
I nod.
“Well, I’m going to show you. C’mon.”
The urge to argue is there, but Chase is dangling the carrot of letting me in and showing me a side of himself I’m guessing not a lot of people know about. It’s too tempting to ignore.
I trudge off to my room with a “Fine” and change into a pair of jeans and a fitted black long-sleeve shirt that hugs me in the perfect way. Then I throw my messy curls up into a ponytail, brush my teeth, and put on some mascara.
When I return, Chase is waiting at the door, scrolling through his phone. His eyes look up though his head doesn’t move. “Ready?”
I nod, even though I have no idea where we’re going. But he’s wearing jeans and an olive-green Henley, so I figure my outfit fits.
He leads me out of the condo building and we walk down the street in the opposite direction of the restaurant I ate at the other night with my brother. We’re quiet on our walk. Chase keeps his chin tilted down, but I notice a few people doing double takes as we pass. Chase doesn’t alter his stride. Even if he is trying to keep a low profile, he’s a big guy. He’s hard to miss.
After less than a ten-minute walk, he stops in front of a dive bar with a weathered sign over the door that says The Crooked Nail.
“This is where we’re going?” I ask, trying to peek through the windows. They’re dark and dingy, so it’s hard to see inside.
He turns to look at me. “Yup.”
Chase holds the door open for me. When we go inside, I’m immediately hit with the smell of stale beer. Though no one is smoking in there now, it has the distinct scent of people smoking in there for many years.
The floor is a beaten and battered wide-plank wood, and a pair of pool tables and darts are at the very back of the room. Circular four-seater tables dot the floor, and to our right is an L-shaped bar with a brass rail. On the walls are beer and alcohol ads from yesteryear, faded with the patina of time and the odd neon sign for different brands of beer and local teams.
It’s clearly the type of establishment where regulars hang out. Everyone in the place—a grand total of maybe seven people—turns in unison to look at where we stand in the doorway.
“Chase, how’s it goin’, man?” the old guy behind the bar with a four-inch gray-and-white beard calls.
“Hey, Randy.” Chase raises his hand in greeting and walks over, so I follow him. “I’ll have my usual.” He leans on the bar, looking more at home here than I’ve seen him look thus far in any environment, and looks at me. “What do you want to drink?”
“Um…” I glance at all the bottles lined up like bowling pins behind the bar and my gaze snags on the label with a pirate. “I’ll have a rum and Coke, please.” I don’t bother asking whether or not I can get a glass of wine. It’s very clear this is a no-wine establishment.
“Comin’ right up,” Randy says.
As he works on our drinks, Chase turns his attention to a man who looks to be in his midfifties, halfway down the bar to his right. “How’s things, Phil?”
The man looks at him and shakes his head. “I’m trying, I’m trying. Just easier said than done.”
“Don’t forget, I can give you some tips if you need them. Just holler.”
He nods in a way that makes me think Chase has made this offer—whatever it’s about—before. “Will do.”
“Here ya are.” Randy slides my drink and Chase’s beer over to us.
“Just add it to my tab,” Chase says, picking up his beer and nodding in thanks. Then he leans in over the counter and Randy does the same. “Add whatever Phil owes to my tab too, okay?”
Randy nods and claps him on the shoulder for a beat before straightening. “Enjoy. Let me know if you need another round.”
Chase nods and leads me to a table closer to the back, near the pool tables. Once we’re seated, he says to me, “Phil was diagnosed with diabetes a couple of months ago and is supposed to be getting his diet and exercise together. I’ve offered to give him some eating or exercise tips, but he’s not interested.”
“I guess you can only lead the horse to water.” I bring my glass to my lips and take a sip, making a face when I swallow.
“You don’t like it?” There’s a crease between Chase’s eyebrows.
“No, it’s fine, it’s just strong. I don’t drink hard liquor a lot. I’m a bit of a lightweight.”
