Page 22 of The Bad Brother
Maybe she’s not as drunk and medicated as I thought because when I mention Ethan again, she hears the threat in my tone and sits up even further before she starts screeching. “How dare you. If you touch one hair on my baby’s head, I’ll call the sheriff. I’ll?—”
“The Sheriff? Go ahead.” I laugh giving her a cruel smile, playing the part of villain that she and the rest of them cast me in, years ago. “He’s family.”
Before she can start screeching at me again, I turn around and walk away without looking back.
I’VE BEEN SITTING IN THE MOSTLY EMPTYparking lot in front of the old Barrett Mill for nearly fifteen minutes now, trying to talk myself into forgetting this whole crazy thing before the young woman who ambushed me at the coffee shop a few hours ago shows up and makes leaving impossible. Try as I might, I can’t seem to jam my key back into the ignition and start my car.
Because I’m morbidly curious about what she considers agreat placeand too desperate for it to be as great as she claims, for my own good.
How great can it be, Sloane? It’s an apartment over a bar.
Not justa bar—the most notorious bar in Barrett county. I’ve heard stories. How rowdy it can get. That the owner will let his patrons brawl in the parking lot as long as he gets to fight the last man standing. Rumors about what goes on in the basement—illegal, bare-knuckle boxing for money. The ED has a revolving door on the weekends because ofthis place. Stitches and broken bones. Concussions and missing teeth.
Just thinking about it makes me question my sanity because I’m still here. Because as long as the place has a working toilet and I can afford the deposit, I’m going to take it. I’ve exhausted all of my options and I’d rather room with an army of rats than tell Ragnar I failed at getting my shit together within her timeframe, and I’d ratherkissone of those rats on the mouth than give in and move in with my mother and Mark.
She texted me again, just as I was leaving the coffee shop.
Mom: Don’t forget you promised me lunch at the club. I’m booked all this week and most of next. How does Saturday, the 24th work for you?
I have no idea if Saturday the 24th works for me but since it’s a nearly two-week reprieve, I don’t argue. If I’m lucky, something besides my fall from grace will garner her attention between then and now and she’ll forget all about me.
Me: The 24th is perfect.
Hearing the crunch of tires rolling across gravel, I look up to watch an ancient but well-maintained, topless jeep roll past me, the young woman I met at the coffee shop, sitting in the driver seat.
Me: Ilove you, Mom
Hitting send, I jam my phone back into my purse and climb out of my car, just as the old Jeep rolls to a stop in front of the bar, next to a primer gray muscle car.
Unlatching her seatbelt, River throws me a bright smile. “You actually showed up!” she practically shouts before hopping down from her seat through a gaping hole where her driver’s side door should be. Throwing her hand up to shade her eyes from the sun, she watches me walk toward her. “I was sure you were lying when you said you would.”
Laughing even though I’m pretty sure I’ve just been insulted, I shake my head. “A promise is a promise.” Looking past her, I give the sturdy, two-story brick building a skeptical once over. The front door is propped open with a large rock. Even though we’re less than a hundred miles from Dallas and we’re firmly planted in Cowboy country, AC/DC’sTNTpushes its way through the open door, occasionally punctuated by the sound of clinking glass. Even though it’s obvious, and I already know the answer, I ask anyway. “This is a bar, right?”
“It hasn’t always been but yeah—” She bobs her head, her smile dimming just a bit. Probably because she can hear the apprehension in my tone, despite my determination to see this through. “it’s a bar. Do you still want to take a look?”
“Yes.” I give her a nod, curiosity and desperation winning out over apprehension and self-preservation. “I still want to take a look.”
Grinning at me like I just passed some sort of test, River loops her arm through mine and starts to drag me through the open front door. “We’re closed on Sundays and Mondays,” she tells me while I’m momentarily blinded bythe sudden light change. “I’m not sure why Cade’s here.” River stops, mid drag while I blink, dispersing the dots dancing in front of my eyes. “Whyareyou here?”
Vision finally cleared, I see a tall, tattooed man in his late twenties behind the bar, polishing glasses. Sitting at the bar in front of him is a little boy, no older than ten, a textbook and spiral notebook open in front of him. They’re both staring at me like I’m some sort of animal, escaped from the zoo.
“Jen had some stuff to do, so I came in to do the re-set and wait for a few deliveries,” the man says before dropping his gaze to the boy sitting in front of him. “Let’s go, Gun—those fractions aren’t going to multiply themselves.”
Tearing his gaze away from me, the boy sighs. “Yes, sir,” he grumbles before refocusing on his notebook.
Setting the glass in his hand on a wire rack, the man looks at us again. “Who you got there, Riv?” He says it to River, but he’s looking right at me, giving me thatescaped animal from the zoofeeling again.
“This is Sloane,” River says before she starts walking again, dragging me across the bar to a set of stairs tucked into a corner. “She’s going to rent the loft.”
When she says it, the man makes a weird noise in the back of his throat. Watching us while he polishes another glass, he nods. “Sounds good.”
I can’t be entirely sure but I think he’s trying not to laugh.
“Don’t pay attention to him,” River tells me, right before she drags me up the stairs. “Cade’s an asshole.”
“I heard that,” the man calls up from the bar below us while the little boy laughs.
“Good,” River shouts back, making the little boy laugh even harder. “Sorry—it’s not always like this.” Gaining the top of the stairs, we walk down a long, wide hallway with a simple, wooden door on either side. “Weekdays are usually pretty quiet.” Stopping in front of one of the doors, she palms the knob. “Things don’t really kick up until Thursday night—Friday and Saturday are obviously our busiest nights.”
