Truly, Madly, Whiskey(26)
What’s up? I want to track down some motherf*cker and torture him until he can’t breathe, and then I want to help him breathe so I can torture him all over again.
Bear fixed himself a double shot of whiskey. Not trusting himself to give a more civilized answer, he ignored the question. “What’s Pop talking to Viper and Bud about?”
Viper and Bud Redmond were brothers and members of the Dark Knights. They owned the Snake Pit, an upscale bar at the other end of town, as well as Petal Me Hard, a local flower shop.
“From what I can piece together, he’s on another kick to expand Whiskey Bro’s and they’re giving him pointers.”
Their father had talked about expanding the bar on and off for the past few years. It was a good idea, but a major undertaking that Bear knew would fall on his shoulders.
Bullet’s eyes darted to Bear, and he shoved his phone in his pocket. “What the hell happened to you?”
Bear set the glass on the bar and went to the other side, climbing onto a stool, feeling the weight of Crystal’s confession eating away at him. He stared at the amber liquid, which he’d been ready to down three seconds ago.
He pushed the painful reminder of what Crystal had endured across the bar. “Take this away, will ya?”
Bullet grabbed it and downed it in a single gulp and leaned his forearms on the bar, bringing him eye to eye with Bear. “Now I know some shit went down.”
“Yeah, some shit went down all right, but…” I can’t talk about it. His eyes skated around the bar as he replayed the night for the umpteenth time. After he and Crystal left the park, he’d driven her back to her car and then followed her home. He’d walked her up to the door, expecting to go inside and hold her, make her feel safe, but she’d said she just needed to sleep and had apologized profusely. He’d seen the fatigue in her eyes and in the drooping of her shoulders. Where her confession had gutted him and then filled the hole with a fireball of rage and sadness, it had depleted Crystal of all of her energy. It had killed him not to push her to let him stay, but he knew she’d taken a giant leap of faith by trusting him with her secrets, and he vowed to respect her wishes, no matter how hard it was for him.
“But…?” Bullet leveled him with one of his glares. He had the patience of a saint when it came to Tru’s kids, but he had a nose for bullshit and for trouble, and where family was concerned, Bullet didn’t put up with either.
That threatening glare was almost enough to make Bear spill his guts. Almost. But he’d never betray Crystal’s trust. Not even for Bullet.
“Nothing.”
Bullet leaned so close Bear could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Either spill your shit, little brother, or wipe that look off your face. You look like you’re either going to rip someone’s head off, in which case I need to back you up, or you’re going to start tearing shit apart, in which case I need to wrestle you to the ground.”
Bear smirked. “I don’t need backup. I just need advice.”
His brother laughed and pushed off the bar, shaking his head. “That’s a first. You’re usually the armchair psychologist standing on this side of the bar, doling out advice the way hookers dole out blow jobs.”
“No shit.”
“What’s got you so effed up?” Bullet filled a glass with ice water and pushed it across the bar, watching him like a hawk.
Bullet had a way of getting into people’s heads. For that reason, Bear stared at the glass as he spoke. “Thanks. What would you do if someone you cared about was taken advantage of but wanted you to take a step back?”
Bullet laughed again, and in the next second his eyes cast daggers. “No one tells me to take a step back.” He set his palms on the bar, leaning closer again. “You always do what’s right, little brother. It’s that simple.”
“No, bro. It’s that f*cking complicated.” He guzzled the water. “It’s Crystal.”
Bullet’s brows slanted in disapproval.
“Some shit went down years ago, but…Fuck, B. I don’t know what to do.” Bear felt his father’s hand grip his shoulder. He tipped his face up, taking in the familiar roadmap of wrinkles. His father’s skin was like worn leather from his years of riding all day and partying all night. Once a biker, always a biker. It was in their blood. There was no mistaking the biker in Biggs, from his black leather vest with the Dark Knights patches to the leather boots he’d had since Bear was a kid, and every tattooed inch in between. His father looked as though he belonged on a mean machine, save for the cane and slight drooping of the left side of his face, which was hidden pretty well by his scruffy white beard and mustache.
“Hey, Pop.”
“What’s got your nuts in a knot, boy?” He sank down to the stool beside Bear and nodded to Bullet. “Mind getting me a water, son?”
His father hardly ever called them by their given names or their road names. It was always boy, son, or kid. Asking had never been his forte, either, until after his stroke. Still, it was a rare occurrence. Bear guessed that was where he’d learned to do or take or tell. His father had been demanding things from him for as long as he could remember. Ride your bike over to the bar after school to help with inventory. Run up to the store and get [whatever he needed at the moment]. His father didn’t dole out life lessons the way most parents did, with thoughtful discussions and kind conversation. No, sir. Biggs believed lessons were learned by doing not listening. From the time Bear had gotten his driver’s license, his father would haul his ass out of bed with a phone call to drive drunken customers home. Bear would drive the customer’s car and one of his brothers, or Dixie, when she learned to drive, would follow behind and drive him back home. When no one else was available, Bear would drive the customer to their house and then take a cab back. He’d minded those trips like nobody’s business, until one day when he’d driven a drunken man home and the guy had rambled the whole way about his beautiful, smart little girl and his son who tried his patience at every turn. When he’d dropped him off, he’d seen a little girl peering out the window. He’d known then that regardless of how tired he’d be the next day at school, his father had done the right thing. The image of that little girl’s face pressed against the window had stuck with him.