I glanced at him. He handed me the beer and I took a long, fortifying sip. Then another.
“I’m not. Worried, I mean. I’m a curiosity, I get it. So did all of the people working for your oil company take part in this contest?”
“No. Most of the guys are married with families. They shift in and out. Usually in six-month rotations. A few of us who are single, we stay year-round. It wears on you. The contest was Angel’s idea. Think he wanted to shake things up.”
“Angel. He was one of the other profiles wasn’t he?”
The only answer I got was a single nod. I wanted more details, context—it was the cop training, needing to know what was going on—but sensed I wouldn’t get that right now. I thought of the pretty blonde leaving today and wondered who she had dated in this sea of men.
“And did he?” I asked.
Another grunt. “Too much.”
I smiled. “That sounds like a story.”
Another grunt. Only this one sounded more ornery. It was like his very own language that I would have to learn. I drank my beer and asked for a second when he went to fetch our food.
Tonight, the special was fish tacos, which were surprisingly delicious, and fries seasoned with enough sea salt that made them pretty addictive. I didn’t push the conversation, but the silence wasn’t as awkward as it could have been. Two strangers in a place that seemed removed from the world.
Country music played in the background, the sound of pool sticks clattered away. I watched as Jackson ate his tacos. Neatly, efficiently, without making a mess. No beard crumbs. I don’t know why but it was one of those things I looked for in a man. Guys who slobbered all over their food or licked their fingers constantly drove me crazy.
I finished my second beer and was feeling pretty good. More grounded and less likely to jump out of my skin, which was how I had felt all day.
“I’m going to get us another round,” I said and stood, taking our empties to the bar with me.
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t try to go all macho asshole on me, insisting he had to pay. I liked that, too.
I pushed the empties across the bar and raised two fingers to the man working behind it. I took the credit card out of my back jeans pocket, where I had placed it earlier, and tried to hand it to him.
“What’s that?”
“Uh…you don’t take Discover?”
“Don’t take plastic,” he snarled. “Cash only.”
I turned around and could see Jackson’s lips were twitching again.
“I’ll be back,” I told the bartender and made my way to the table.
“Seriously?” I asked Jackson. “No one takes credit up here?”
“Gert does, but only on big orders. Bud, however, believes all those chips on credit cards are the government’s way of tracking us. He refuses to use them.”
I huffed. “I don’t suppose there is an ATM somewhere around here…”
“Gert’s, but she’s closed.”
I couldn’t wait to meet this all-purpose woman, Gert. Postmaster General, banker and store owner.
I pouted. “Can I have ten dollars?”
He took the cash out of his wallet and handed it to me. I returned to the bar to plop down the bill. The man handed over the beers with a glare. As if by attempting to use a credit card, I had offended him.
“You know,” I said in my defense. “You’re going to have a hard time expanding your business if you don’t take credit. Just saying.”
“Noted,” Bud replied.
I went to the table and handed Jackson his beer. “I’m sorry my attempt to buy you a drink was thwarted by a government conspiracy.”
