N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(21)

Becky pulls a glass from under the bar and turns it upright in front of me. “It’s on me. What ya having?”

“Vodka,” I reply, sitting back down on the torn barstool. “Ice please.”

“What do you want for a mixer?” she asks, dumping ice into the glass.

I sigh and rub my eyes. “Vodka.”

Becky chuckles and sets the glass in front of me. “One vodka-vodka coming right up.”

I drain it in three gulps. “Thank you,” I tell her, setting the glass back down onto the sticky bar.

She leans forward on her elbows. “Men are shit. Had that happen to me once, too. My fiancé left me, and I lost the house, my dog, and then the motherfucker went and married my sister.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you and that your fiancé couldn’t see what was right in front of him.” I sigh. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure I’m about to lose my house, too.”

Becky grabs the bottle again and refills my glass. “No, I mean I lost the house because he hitched my trailer to his fucking truck and dragged it right out of the goddamned trailer park.”

I can’t help but laugh, holding my mouth closed so I don’t lose any of the precious free booze inside.

“Did you ever find him again?”

She smiles. “Oh yeah, I found him alright. My cousin Irwin lives two towns over and when Joon came driving on through with my house on his hitch he told my cousin he’d rather see it burn to the ground then bring it back to me.”

“So, what did you do?” I ask, taking another swallow. Maybe, I can learn something from Becky’s story.

Becky smiles with a kind of wicked satisfaction I yearn to feel. “What do you think I did?” She leans over the bar once more. “I burned it to the ground.” She winks and pushes off the bar, heading to the far end to serve another customer.

I finish my second vodka-vodka and fish my phone out of my pocket to call Yuli for a ride, since I’m pretty sure sympathy and pity carries a two drink maximum. Only, I can’t get a signal.

I look around and spot a side door that’s been left propped open. Rather than face the hoard of leering bikers in the parking lot, I make my way through the crowd to the door. Once outside in the narrow alleyway between the pawn shop and the bar, I hold up my phone to the sky. Nada.

“Damn it!” I huff. Like this day could get any worse. I’m trapped in a fucking Tina Fey comedy where everything bad that could happen does. Only, my movie isn’t funny because it’s a tragedy.

“You need to make a call?” A voice asks. I turn around, and there are two huge men approaching. They don’t look like bikers. One of the men is bald, wearing a fitted black t-shirt over black dress pants and the other larger men is dressed in a blazer over khakis with slicked back black hair. “You can use my phone,” he says holding it out. “I’ve got signal.”

Feeling less than comfortable in the alley with two strangers who are smiling and snickering as if they’ve just told a joke I don’t get the punchline.

I hold up my hand and take a step back. “No, thanks. My friend is waiting for me inside.”

The larger man, Big Thug, I nickname him in my mind, approaches, blocking my way to the door. “Liar, we saw you come in alone. You ain’t got no friend in there.”

Little Thug grabs my arm. “You’re going to take a ride with us. Got someone who wants to…let’s just say talk to you.”

“No thanks. I’m good on magazine subscriptions, and whatever you’re selling I can’t buy because I’m broke. And I do have a friend in there. A very large friend with muscles and uh...tattoos, yeah, and anger issues. So, if you’ll excuse me.” I try to push between the men, but now they’ve each got a hold on one of my arms and they’re lifting me in the air, walking through the alley. “Let go of me!” I scream, but it’s not like anyone can hear me over the blaring music.

“Don’t’ think that your friend is going to hear you, sweetheart,” Little Thug says.

I spot a large, military green Hummer behind them in the alley and fear stabs me in the heart. I kick and I scream and I fight but I’m outweighed by over a hundred pounds on each side.

Big Thug laughs and opens the door to the Hummer.

All I can see is darkness. Darkness inside the vehicle. Darkness in my future. Darkness in death.

I spread my legs so one foot makes contact with each side of the door, resisting being pushed inside until I feel like my thighs about to give way and snap off my hips.

“We got a fighter,” Little Thug laughs. “So, who is this imaginary friend of yours anyway? You know, just so we can be on the lookout for tall, tattooed, angry, imaginary men.”

“It’s me,” a deep rough voice echoes through the alley.

Both men turn to face the newcomer who emerges from the shadows in all of his tattooed six plus feet of muscular man glory. Black and grey feather Tattoos that start beneath his tight white V-neck t-shirt extend from his short sleeves down the length of his strong biceps making it look as if he has wings. His jeans are slightly baggier than the trendy tight pants I see a lot of men wearing these days. He’s got a thin silver chain double looped around his neck and two more similar chains wrapped around each of his wrists. His bright white sneakers squeak on the damp pavement as he approaches. A vein ticks, making the ring through his right eyebrow jump.