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Prologue
LORE MERCER
Standing behind the worn oak bar, my fingers trace the grooves of years gone by as the soft hum of the evening crowd surrounds me. The dimly lit room is bathed in the warm amber glow from the chandeliers which hang around the room. They cast a soft, nostalgic light over the polished counter. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses fills the air, mingling with the heavy notes of the rock band playing in the back of the bar.
God, I love this place.
It’s mine and has been for the past five years.
It’s my sanctuary, my second home.
The walls are lined with photographs of the ones I love. Some are in celebration, others, like the one of my son and me on his last birthday, bring me joy every time I gaze upon it. Next to it is a picture of Sam Elliott, the actor, who came in one night for a drink.
Although I’ve owned this bar for five years, I’ve worked in and around them my whole life. Looking around the room, I take in every detail as I wipe a glass with a towel.
The shrill ring of the old rotary telephone breaks through the comforting noise. Dean, one of my bartenders, walks toward it, but I wave at him, and he goes back to serving his customers.
Slinging the towel over one shoulder, I answer the telephone, “Hello, Rock Anthem Ale House, this is Lore.”
The voice on the other end asks, “Hello, my name is Agatha Twist. I’m looking for a Lore Mercer.”
“Speaking.” I roll my eyes and stare up at the ceiling, thinking she’s going to try to sell me something.
“Ms. Mercer, I work at the Baptist Hospital in Pearl County. Ma’am, you’re down as the emergency contact for a Tobias Dupont.”
My pulse quickens, and my mind races as I imagine the worst. “I’m his mother.”
“Ma’am, there’s been an accident.”
“What happened?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“Ma’am, he’s been shot.”
A lump forms in my throat as I clutch the telephone tighter. “How bad?”
“The doctor can tell you more, but, ma’am, I’d hurry to get here.”
My legs weaken, and I lean against the bar for support. The room around me blurs, the laughter and clinking glasses now a distant symphony. With a shaking hand, I set the telephone back on its cradle. Taking a deep breath, I collect myself. This is not the place to lose control. The patrons nearest to me at the bar send concerned glances my way. I plaster a fake smile on my face and walk to Dean. He’s worked for me for three years and is more than capable of looking after the bar.
“Dean, time to take a break. Walk with me.”
I signal for two of the servers to come to the bar.
“What’s up, boss?” asks one.
“Dean and I are taking a break. We’ll be back in ten.” Leaning closer to both of them and lowering my voice, I say, “Don’t fuck up.”
Dean and I head for my office at the back of the building. I walk in and sit on my desk. Dean locks the door and walks to me, a smirk on his face. His hands land on my hips, and he kisses me.
“I didn’t bring you in here for that.”
He licks his lips. “I can be quick.” Dean kisses my neck as he massages one of my breasts.
Putting a hand on his chest, I push him away. “I need to leave town, and I need you to take care of the place while I’m gone.”
The smirk disappears. “Trouble?”
“My son.” I swallow hard and shake my head to keep myself together. “He’s been shot.”
