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The grin on the other man’s face was wide enough to reveal silver fillings on his molars. “Cash fuckin’ Rylance. Couldn’t believe it when you walked in. Just like fuckin’ old times.”
“Tyrone. Been a while.” He slumped back on his stool and reached for his beer, hand unsteady after the adrenaline rush.
“Fuckin’ right.” Tyrone Jameson was a short squat man with dark hair, broad features, and a quick temper. They’d gone to high school together—when either of them bothered to go.
He hitched up onto the stool beside Cash, a dark glass bottle clenched in his fist. Always bulky, he’d gained a lot of weight over the years and his ass drooped over the edges. “How long you been out?” he asked in the casual tone of a man to whom jail was a simple fact of life.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Twelve years.” The weight of bad memories rooted Cash to the barstool.
“No shit. Time sure flies, huh?” Tyrone took a swig of his beer. “You still with Linda?”
A shiver of apprehension raced down his spine. He had no idea if Tyrone knew about Elle, but this was exactly what Linda had always worried about—his past tainting their daughter’s future. “No.”
Tyrone shrugged. “Way it goes, right?” and launched into a bitter recital of his most recent break up.
He let the words flow over him, grunting noncommittally, not really paying any attention, his mind swamped by unwelcome thoughts.
How odd that this grimy depressing place had been his refuge from the first time he’d snuck in at fifteen to that final disastrous night. The dim lighting did nothing to hide its beaten appearance and the desperation of forlorn forgotten souls permeated the atmosphere. In the booth in the far corner, where he’d hung out with Tyrone and the others in his unofficial gang, a single man sat, twisting a tumbler in his hand, staring at the table top as if it held the answers to the universe. At another table, a man and woman argued with quiet ferocity, angry words camouflaged by the pounding music but unmistakable all the same.
He hated this place. Had hated it even then, just hadn’t realized it. It represented everything terrible in his past, and he had to get out. Now.
He thunked his half-full bottle onto the bar. “I gotta go.”
Tyrone blinked and then shrugged, expression flat. “Yeah, sure. See you around.”
Cash hoped not. He really, really hoped not.
While he’d been inside, the sun had set. Dusk did its best to hide the garbage in the gutters, the grass poking up through the pavement, but couldn’t disguise the scent of urine emanating from the narrow walkway beside the building.
Two young men stood next to his bike. One gripped the handlebars and swung a leg over the seat.
“Hey!” Cash lengthened his stride. “Get the hell off my bike!”
The men looked his way with identical sneers. “I’m not hurting it none,” the sitting one said. “Relax, old man.”
This was the tipping point on an already shitty day. Taut fiery emotions dredged up by revisiting the site of his biggest mistake, talking with an old friend, recalling the failures of his life, made the hair on his arms stand up and his nostrils flare. The familiar inclination to react first and deal with the consequences later swept over him. Time stood still as he battled to find the man he’d become, the man Penta believed in.
He clenched his fists and struggled to keep his voice to a growl, not a roar. “You don’t touch a man’s bike without asking first.”
“You wasn’t here to ask.” The second young man touched the gleaming chrome fender with a reverent fingertip. “She’s a beaut.”
Cash’s bunched muscles loosened a fraction at this sign of respect. “Yeah, she is. But this is not cool.” He pointed a finger at the seated man. “Get off.”
He took his time about it to show it was his decision, wasn’t doing it because he’d been told. “We wasn’t gonna steal it.”
“Don’t care. Take my advice. Don’t touch a bike that’s not your own ever again. The next guy might beat the crap out of you before you have a chance to explain.”
“He could try.” The reply was automatic, with no real heat behind it. He nudged his buddy with an elbow. “Beer’s waiting.” As one, they turned and headed into the bar.
Cash stood for another minute, letting his pulse settle. Then he climbed onto his bike and headed home, ready to put the past behind him for good.
PENTA LAY PROPPED UP on the pillows at the head of her bed and toyed with her phone. She desperately wanted to talk to someone about Felix’s bombshell.
She could call Helen. The Silverberry matriarch would be sympathetic.
She could call her father. He might not be as understanding, but would be honest.
