Page 74 of Micah

I’m going to have to ask him to move so I can get tonight’s deposit bag before it gets too late.

My nerves are frayed, and my stomach is doing flips.

I hate confrontation.

Loathe it, really.

The clock on the wall creeps toward closing.

One more hour.

Then thirty minutes.

Then fifteen.

The regulars head home one by one until only Patrick and four strangers remain.

They came in through the back a few minutes ago—Patrick let them in.

There’s only ten minutes left of the night. Ten minutes before I turn the lights on bright and escort the stragglers to the door.

I don’t know these men.

But I do know I hadn't liked the look of them the second they walked in.

Expensive boots.

Cheap manners.

Eyes that never stopped moving.

They’re the kind of men who looked at people the way wolves looked at livestock.

When they asked for drinks, I'd refused to serve them.

“We’re about to close.”

But Patrick practically shoved me aside.

“Drinks are on the house, boys.”

On the house?

What the hell?

Patrick never gives anything away.

Never.

Not unless he thinks he's getting something in return.

The thought leaves an uneasy knot in my stomach.

I finish locking the front entrance and flip the sign to Closed.

The fry cook I hired to work the kitchen has already gone home.

And the dishwasher finished twenty minutes ago.