Page 6 of Forgiving Utah
“One pitcher of beer and a game of pool. Then we can go back to your fancy nightclub.”
“Christian,” he squeaks, grabbing my arm in a death grip. “I don't think we're allowed in that place.”
I glance at him with a snort. “Who says? It's a bar. Pretty sure they're open to the public.”
“I’m serious. Places like that—”
“Serve alcohol,” I interrupt, prying his fingers off. “And last I checked, that’s why we left the house, fool.”
Poor guy looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. “You don’t get it. That’s a biker bar. They’ll eat me alive.”
“Nah, they’ll be too impressed with my pool skills to complain.”
Owen groans, but he follows anyway because even he knows there’s no stopping me once I’ve made up my mind.
The closer we get, the louder the music plays. Smoke leaks out through the cracked door, carrying the smell of weed and worn leather. A few more bikes pull up to the front, revving their engines loudly. Testosterone permeates the air.
Oh, yeah. This is exactly what I’m looking for.
The second we step inside, cigarette smoke chokes my lungs, and I fucking love it. Bad Things by I Prevail rattles the floor and vibrates the cracked walls. Heads turn when the door swings shut behind us, most of them men who would give the Hulk a run for his money.
Owen freezes like a deer in headlights. “Christian,” he hisses, eyes darting in every direction. “They’re staring.”
“They’re just curious,” I say as I tug him farther inside. “They’ve probably never seen a man in khakis before.”
“You’re a terrible human being.”
That just makes me laugh.
We weave through the crowd, past a few card tables and a group of bikers playing darts. One of them sneers our way and shouts something, but the music is too loud to hear it. Owen grips the back of my vest tighter.
When we reach the bar, I lean over the counter and eye the grizzly-looking bartender. “Pitcher of beer, please. Whatever’s cheapest.”
He glances up from wiping a glass and takes one long look at us before pouring from the tap without so much as a smile. Not much of a talker, I guess?
Owen groans beside me. “I don't even like beer. I was hoping for a Cosmo.”
Grinning over my shoulder, I open my mouth to respond, but the bartender mutters something under his breath. Something that I'm sure I misheard, because it sounded super offensive and ain't no way it came out of his fucking mouth.
I eye him for a moment, hoping he’ll say it with his whole chest, but he doesn't look our way, so I ignore him and scan the crowd instead.
It’s darker toward the back, shadows spilling over the booths. A few guys sit hunched over a table as smoke curls in lazy rings around them. Playing cards or something, typical bar behavior. I go to move my gaze away, but freeze when one of them lights up a cigarette, orange glow flashing off a set of familiar piercings.
No fucking way.
My chest tightens, and I stand on my toes to get a better look, but the crowd closes in and blocks my view. Son of a bitch.
Owen elbows me in the ribs. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” I reply, whirling around. “Just… thought I saw a ghost.”
The bartender thumps a pitcher down in front of me with a grunt, hard enough to send beer sloshing over the side. “Thirty bucks.”
“Thirty?!” Gaping at him, I gesture at the torn menu taped to the mirror behind him. “That says seven dollars a pitcher. I wanted cheap.”
“Prices are for regulars only,” he scowls. His eyes bounce between Owen and me, lingering a little too long on the former.
Every instinct in me prickles, blood simmering, but I pull out my wallet and slide the bills across the counter without argument. “There. Keep the change, I guess.”
