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Except I got a lot more than that, didn’t I?
Chapter 3
Saturday, June 20, 1992
By the time he’d drunk his third glass of the cheapest whiskey available, Butch knew he wouldn’t be driving back to Salvation that night. Not unless hewantedhis ass thrown in jail for DUI. He’d sleep in the truck he’d borrowed, if necessary, because he knew he couldn’t afford a hotel room.
Yeah no. The boss didn’t pay himthatmuch.
As for not being at the ranch first thing in the morning, Sunday was generally a quiet day and his absence wouldn’t be noticed, provided he didn’t get backtoolate.
The bar was full, because hey, it was Saturday night after all, but the music wasn’t overwhelming, thank God. Not that Butch intended on having a conversation with anyone.
The voice inside his head was doing plenty of talking.
You knew it couldn’t last, right?
How long did you think you could get away with fucking the boss’s daughter?
You’re lucky it lastedthislong.
You’re lucky she didn’t get pregnant.
You’re lucky old man Thorston hasn’t strung you up by your balls.
That goddamn voice sounded way more sober than Butch felt. And the one thing itwasn’tsaying?
You just lost the love of your life.
Diana was never that, and they both knew it. She might have made noises about marrying him, but that was all they were—noises with no substance, nothing but the flapping of her lips. The bare bones of their situation was this: she’d used him, he’d used her, and knowing that was all it had been between them made him feel like a total bastard.
I’m not a nice guy.
Except that notion had been driven home back in 1988. There was a reminder etched into his skin, lest he forget. And on those rare occasions since when he thought he was on the road to becoming a better person, along would come another reminder.
I amsonot a nice guy.
There were other times too, when that inner voice got a little darker, a little too close to the truth. Times when it whispered therealreason he’d given Scott Nelson—and others before him—such a hard time.
And before it gottoomurky inside his head, another voice would respond, one he was more prepared to listen to.
Nope. Not gonna go there.
“Looks as though you’re carrying a heavy burden there, dude.”
Okay, that was freakin’ weird.
He glanced to his right. The guy perched on the next bar stool was staring at him. Butch didn’t know him from Adam. He was older than Butch, no more than a decade, he estimated, with a strong jawline, closely cropped, dark brown hair, and brown eyes. His plain black T-shirt was stretched tight across his broad chest, and his shoulders and upper arms were well-defined with that almost sculpted look.
Someone spends a lot of time working out.
Butch didn’t need a gym. Salvation provided all the physical activity he’d ever want.
“You talkin’ to me?” He did his best to keep his voice even.
The guy nodded. “Been watching you for maybe a half hour. You got the look of someone who’s trying to drown his sorrows.” His eyes twinkled. “Youalsodon’t look old enough to be downing that whiskey, but I guess the bartender knows his business.”
“Not that it’s any ofyourbusiness, but I’m twenty-two.” He gestured to the bartender. “He’s seen my ID. Do you wanna see it too?” Butch quipped.
