Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“Wren’s the best,” Winston says from the passenger seat.
“Always was, always will be,” I agree. “Now . . . we talk.”
Chapter 2
WYATT
“Are you sure about this?” I ask uncertainly as I pull into the lot Winston directs me to. “There’s a sign right there that says ‘Fuck Jed Ford,’ and this is Uncle Jed’s ex’s place. Pretty sure we’re not welcome here.”
“Here” is the Puss N Boots bar and grill. It’s a long, skinny building, cinder block and clapboard with a tin roof just outside downtown, with the aforementioned sign and a ten-foot-tall neon cartoon Puss in Boots, complete with hat, boots, and swishing sword.
“Yeah, I come here all the time,” Winston says dismissively, as if that’s supposed to be reassuring. “It’s kind of an escape, because Jed and Dad wouldn’t dream of setting foot inside these four walls. Mostly because Etta would personally chop them to bits and Tay Tay would fry them up and serve them with a side of his homemade fancy ketchup. He does a killer one, by the way.”
“What?” I ask, not clear on half of what Winston said. But escape I understand, so I park and follow Winston’s lead inside. It’s not that pleasant of a walk: my guts are still roiling from what happened at the house, and a potential ambush doesn’t help things, to be honest. I haven’t been in town in years, and I’m not expecting a warm welcome or any of those supposedly friendly faces at my return. My hackles are up, my skin uncomfortably tight, and I’m ready to throw down at a moment’s notice.
When the door closes, I look around, alert for any incoming friends or foes. Honestly, I don’t want either one right now. But I can see why this is a popular spot. Regardless of the exterior architecture, the bar feels spacious but warm at the same time, with enough room for a bunch of tables, a bar, and an area with pool tables and a few arcade games. The wood paneling and hardwood floors are well worn but look cared for, and despite the midafternoon hour, there’s quite a crowd in here.
There’s absolutely no pretentiousness to it. It’s a bar with a “take it or leave it” vibe. And right now, I think I want to take it. Especially if it offers that escape Winston promised.
Three hours in town and already looking for an out doesn’t bode well for this visit, man.
“Order up,” a voice calls as a bell dings. “Come get your shit or I’mma eat this good-looking, finger-licking basket of fries myself, Charlene.”
“That’s chicken, not fries, Tay Tay. Chicken is good-looking and finger-licking,” another voice answers.
From the kitchen, there’s a bark of laughter. “Girl, everything I make is good-looking and finger-licking. And by everything, I mean everything.”
I see a blonde woman approach a large cutout in the paneling that shows the kitchen beyond. A guy in a black, silky do-rag peeks out with a smirk of satisfaction. I’m going to assume that’s the cook, and the blonde snaps some gum as she gives him a look. “I know what you’re implying, Tay Tay, and ain’t nobody sucking on your”—she cleared her throat—“straw to give a Yelp review.”
I snort in surprise, nearly choking on my own spit. Holy shit, there are levels, and then there’s this place.
“Have to take my word for it, baby. Five stars, every time,” the guy—Tay Tay, I guess—quips, flashing five fingers through the air repeatedly.
“If you say so,” she tells him, grabbing the basket of fries and speed-walking across the room. As she passes by the door, she sees Winston and me and I hold my breath, ready for another bomb. “Seat yourself anywhere. I’ll be with ya in a jiffy.”
Without a second glance she’s off, doing business. Huh, no evil looks, accusations, or punches thrown my way. I’m more surprised than I’d like to admit.
“See?” Winston says, reading my thoughts. “We’re fine here. And we can talk without Dad interrupting. Or trying to drunk dial council members.” He rolls his eyes.
“No way. He did that?” I ask, somewhere between horrified and delighted. There’re a few members of the city council who need an unfiltered verbal smackdown, in my opinion, though it surprises me that it came from Dad.
“More than once,” Winston informs me, pulling out a stool and perching at a table I suspect might be his usual. There are pictures of Etta all over the place, mixed in with newspaper articles about Cold Springs, but the photo by this table is of Hyde Hill, one of Winston’s favorite places to go when we were teens.
Before I can ask anything else, the blonde reappears at the side of the table. “Hey, honey-babies, what can I getcha?”
“Draft beer and a burger, please, Charlene,” Winston says automatically.
There are no menus to speak of, so I go for the sure bet and echo Winston’s order. “Same for me, please.”