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Violet texted Ty. Her phone dinged. She snickered. “He said be careful. Steer clear of the Wild Turkey and don’t get handsy with any middle-aged women.”
“You did do a number today at the diner.”
“No,” she held up the phone for him to see the text, “that warning was for you.”
John read it and laughed. “Tell him I’ll try to be a gentleman.”
“Will we be able to get a vehicle up to the head of the holler?” she asked.
John opened the car for her. “He said it’s a tight squeeze and with all the rain it might be muddy. I say let’s take our chances.”
Violet slid into the seat. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”
John eased out of the driveway and turned left. “I have ponchos and flares.”
“Wow. You go all out on a first date.”
Saturday, October 21
8:22 p.m.
Ruby sat on a hard barstool and batted cigarette smoke from her burning eyes. She didn’t hang out at the Swallow much these days, not since Lula was born, since she and Whiskey had complicated things by having her. He wasn’t inattentive when he was around his daughter, he was simply absent most of the time.
Two hours ago, he’d summoned her, and when Whiskey called, you came without making him wait. And after the big blowout with Regis last night, she was worried. Regis might have told Whiskey her plans as a ploy to keep her bound to the holler. Not that Regis cared for Whiskey or felt an obligation. He didn’t have any interest in him at all, but he ignored Whiskey’s business without trouble. Because he’d been told to. Period. And if he didn’t want to disappear, he followed the rules.
Mostly Regis hated that Whiskey and Ruby had been something once. And that they had a child together. When she’d told Regis she was leaving, he explained clearly why that would never happen.
Their conversation had heated until she finally stormed from Regis’s house. She never should have told him. But she needed someone, and Regis had some authority. Except he wouldn’t use it to rescue her and Lula, to help them make a better life.
The music was louder than the laughter. Cadie Rae was playing darts with Jerry Billings and tossing back shots. Bella Dawn was in a secluded booth with a frisky Greg. Bella Dawn wasn’t a huge fan of Greg personally, but no one would know that. Not that he was unattractive or unappealing—he wasn’t. He was actually easy on the eyes, and he always smelled good underneath the hint of booze. But since the day she’d met him, there was something off about him. He’d been handsy with Tillie and Darla at one time, until Atta.
Then he never strayed. But Atta was now dead, and it appeared Bella Dawn was his new toy. Ruby sighed and fiddled with the toothpick lying on the counter, her stomach in knots. She had no idea what Whiskey wanted, and he was nowhere to be found. He had no problem making her wait.
“Hey,” a soft tenor voice said. Cecil Johnson slid onto a stool next to her. He wore a brown sweater and jeans and hiking boots. His hair had been pulled back in a low ponytail; a few curly strands that wouldn’t fit fell around his face. “What are you doing here? You’re too good for this place.”
“I could ask the same of you, CeCe.” CeCe. A nickname he didn’t particularly like, but it was a habit from childhood. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Old habits die hard.” He ordered a Miller Lite in the bottle. “You never said what you’re doing here.”
“Neither did you.” She sipped her vodka tonic, hoping it would settle her nerves. “Whiskey called. I’m waiting on him to emerge and grace me with his presence.”
His laugh was light and shimmery. “I don’t understand why you still bother with him.” He shrugged. “At least you got your girl from it. Saw her with Mother the other day in town.”
She did have Lula. Her one ray of hope. “Because when Whiskey calls, you come. And you know that.” And part of her still wanted him to want her. She was a mess. “Why are you here?”
“Just...felt like a drink.”
Donnie Ray set his beer in front of him and winked. Cecil bristled.
“Ignore him. He’s a jerk.” She finished off her drink, letting the warmth flow down her throat and pool in her gut, relaxing her. She looked to the right where the stairs led to rooms above. Heavy boots bounded down one step at a time until Whiskey’s frame came into view. He spotted her then motioned for her to follow him behind the doors into the back of the bar, where patrons were only allowed if invited.
To do business. And to his private quarters.
“Gotta go.”
“See you, Rube.” She looked back and sighed. Then she approached Whiskey, and he opened the doors and led her through to the back room. She’d been here a million times before. They passed an open area where a few men sat hunched over poker tables, a different smoke hovering in the air. Nothing stunk worse than skunk. He led her to another narrow staircase that led to his private living quarters.
Inside his studio apartment, he opened the fridge. “I got that wine you like. You want a glass?”
