Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(12)

“We do, Sheriff,” Hatty said, also standing and trying to make eye contact with as many of the officers as possible. “But first things first.”

Griffith rubbed the back of his neck and gazed at her. “We have to find Waylon Pike.”





11


Waylon couldn’t help himself. He’d been back home a week, and he was restless. He was also tired of his mother. The way she frowned and pursed her lips every time he described his work in Guntersville was a dead giveaway that she knew he was in trouble. Slinking home after getting in a fix had been Waylon’s pattern his whole life, and Lynette Pike was no fool.

I’ve got to get out of here . . .

His instructions had been clear. Lay low. Stay the hell out of Marshall County. Don’t bring any attention to himself.

He’d planned to take some of his blood money and go to the beach. Drink beer on the sand for a couple of weeks. But, if he were honest with himself, that was a pipe dream. Waylon Pike didn’t have the first clue about how to have fun on the coast, and sitting in a lawn chair all day in the hot sun sounded boring. Maybe the mountains then, he’d thought. Hike the Appalachian Trail? Get a cabin in Gatlinburg? Or what about the lake? He’d worked on a lot of boathouses around Lake Guntersville. He could rent a place over by the Nickajack Dam near Chattanooga. Or how about Lake Burton over in Georgia? Wasn’t that where they filmed Deliverance? He loved that movie. Hell, screw this local mess. Why not see the country? He had enough cash to easily get him to California. Or Colorado. He could maybe become a ranch hand or something on a spread like the one in Yellowstone. Maybe get branded like those bunkhouse boys. Cool, right?

Wrong.

All his ideas sounded lame or like they required too much work.

Truth was that the only vocation Waylon Pike enjoyed was crime, the only thing in life that he’d ever been good at.

And he’d just killed a man. His first murder. He’d hit the top of the criminal food chain, and it had been easy as damn pie. A week had passed, and the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department hadn’t come calling. From what he’d read on the internet, they didn’t have a clue.

He wanted to celebrate. To get drunk and blow off steam.

And he wanted to be with a woman. Yes, by God, he missed some of the female companionship he’d enjoyed in Guntersville, and all the adrenaline and success of his latest venture had made him horny as hell. Being cooped up in his mother’s shack for a week had only heightened his desires. He’d thought about paying for a whore. He knew where to look for that kind of fun and wasn’t above it.

But Waylon was a man of means now. Well heeled, as he’d heard his mother describe rich folks. With the kind of cash he could sling around, he ought to be able to pick up a woman. Maybe not Jana Waters quality, but something.

So on July 11, seven days after killing Dr. Braxton Waters, Waylon drove across the Alabama state line and stopped at Fat Boys Bar & Grill in Bridgeport. When he saw the Harley Davidson motorcycles parked out front, Waylon smiled, breathing in the scent of exhaust and, from inside the building, grilled burgers.

He took a seat at the bar and ordered a cold PBR, cheeseburger, and fries. Waylon took a long sip from the chilly mug and exhaled.

He had $1,000 cash in his pocket. He was about to get drunk, and judging by the three or four good-looking women he’d already seen in the place, he’d have every opportunity to get thoroughly laid. After drinking another long gulp from the beer, he held up his glass to the mirror behind the bar and winked at himself.



Tara Samples was a slightly husky woman with a gap in her bottom teeth that you couldn’t see unless she smiled big, which she hardly ever did. She loved draft beer, cheap bourbon, and Alabama football. She’d let ROTC put her through four years at Jacksonville State University and, in return, had served one tour of duty in Afghanistan. Tara had been home in Bridgeport for a decade since turning in her uniform. She owned and operated her father’s hardware store, attended church every Sunday, donated money to North Jackson High School, her alma mater, and was a fine tax-paying citizen.

However, every so often, when her PTSD would rear up, Tara had to have, as John Anderson liked to sing, a straight tequila night.

The evening of July 11 happened to be one of those occasions, and Fat Boys was her preferred destination. After three shots, she noticed another one placed next to her that she hadn’t ordered.

“Buy you a drink, ma’am?”

Tara turned and peered into the dull eyes of a man she didn’t recognize. Then she pulled back and sized the stranger up. She saw the veins sticking out of his arms, the stubble on his face, and the calluses on his hands. Tara had never married, but she enjoyed a good romp, especially to close out a night of liquor shots.

And the rougher the better. In the army, she’d fucked in closets, gotten diddled while driving an open jeep across the desert, and on one particular batshit night in Ghazni, had a three-way with two superior officers. She squinted at the man, took the shot glass, and kicked it back before slamming it down on the table.

“Another?” he asked.

He’ll do, Tara thought, nodding and placing her hand on the back of his stool.



Six hours later, Waylon lay on his back and looked up at the stars. He was hammered, on the verge of exhaustion. Next to him, Tara ran her fingers down his stomach to his groin. “You got anything left?” she asked.