The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(36)

“I think it’s time we go see what the residents of Sheet Cake do for fun.”





Chapter Eleven





Pat





I’m not sure what everyone else was expecting, but I for one was not thinking those pickups would lead us to what amounts to a rundown, corrugated metal shed at the edge of the woods with rows of cars and trucks parked in a field next to it.

James followed the other trucks at a distance, and he has his lights off now as we watch a group of guys exit the three vehicles and head toward the open sliding doors. As James rolls down the window, we can hear country music blaring from speakers somewhere.

“This doesn’t seem like the best idea, brother,” Collin says.

But James guns it, pulling up next to one of the parked trucks that almost ran us down. “Might as well meet the locals,” he says with a grin I do not like one bit. “Right, Patty? I mean, if we’re going to live here and set up shop. I’m sure they’ll be happy to meet their new landlords.”

Sometimes, I think my oldest brother has a death wish. James throws open his door and steps out while Chase, Collin, and I exchange uneasy glances from inside the cab of the truck.

“This does not bode well,” Chase says as James takes long strides toward the building, not looking back.

“We probably shouldn’t let him go in there alone.” I unbuckle my seatbelt.

“If this goes south, I’m blaming you,” Collin says.

I roll my eyes. “Clearly, I’m the family scapegoat.”

By the time the three of us reach the shed, James has a can of beer he lifts in salute. He’s standing at the bar, which is essentially a long board propped up by a few large metal barrels. A few white coolers are against the back wall, manned by a guy with a beard that’s more Duck Dynasty than hipster.

“Beer?” James asks us, tipping his can at us. “I’m buying.”

Chase shakes his head no, which isn’t surprising, but Collin and I nod. James hands the guy behind the bar a twenty, and the man pulls two more dripping cans from the cooler, setting them on the makeshift counter. “Next time, you should try the moonshine. I’m Wolf.”

“Of course you are,” James mutters as he walks away.

“Thanks, Wolf.” I tip my can his way, and he grins.

“Be careful out there, fellas,” Wolf says, and I’m not sure if he’s joking.

The room isn’t as full as I expected based on the number of vehicles outside, but I can hear music and muffled conversation through another set of open doors. A couple of white-haired men in overalls pause their darts game to watch us.

I take a sip of the beer, which tastes more like sour water. The issue with having a brother who crafts microbrews is losing the ability to enjoy the cheap stuff.

“We came, we saw, and maybe it’s time to head home?” I suggest.

“Don’t give up yet,” James says with a smile that looks more like a threat. “The night is young.”

He heads out back and I follow on his heels, Chase and Collin close behind me. There is trouble in James’s swagger and the set of his jaw. The sooner we can get him out of here, the better. But when he’s like this, you can’t force him to do anything.

This is where the party is. Though I don’t get the impression it’s a one-time party. Everything about this place screams homegrown bootleg bar. Not even close to legal but overlooked because all the locals know about it and don’t care.

A few floodlights light the dirt clearing that leads to the edge of the woods. Small groups sit on hay bales and others in camping chairs or some wooden Adirondacks. Unlike Austin bars, which tend to cater to specific age groups, there’s quite a cross section here. Old country music plays over a speaker duct-taped to the back wall, and several couples sway in a dirt area in the center. A fire truck is parked to one side of the clearing, though I see no men in uniform.

I scan the crowd for Lindy, just in case. I’m relieved and disappointed not to see her.

Just like in a movie, conversation halts as we step outside. Heads and bodies turn as the country singer wails about his lost love and spilled whiskey. The songwriter must not have loved his woman that much, because he seems more upset about the whiskey.

“Tough crowd,” I mutter, taking another sip of my beer.

“Maybe we should go,” Chase says.

“It’s fine.” James tips back his beer. “Don’t be such worrywarts. Anyone up for a game of cornhole?”

I am definitely not in a game-playing mood. The last time I felt this level of hostility was on the football field lining up for the snap. I get the impression that people like us, non-Sheeters, are not welcome at this establishment. I think Chase has the right idea. We need to vamoose.

Before I can say as much, a booming voice calls out, “Hey! You’re those guys!”

A man steps out from one of the small groups. He has an impressive thatch of dark chest hair climbing out of his button-down shirt. It doesn’t match the bleached blond hair on his head.

“What guys do you mean?” Collin asks in a neutral tone.

My entire body tenses as Chest Hair crosses the distance to us. “You’re those football players.”

It’s clear from the way his eyes bounce between the four of us he doesn’t know exactly who we are but has enough of an idea to be mostly right. Guess word has gotten out about Tank’s purchase. Phenomenal.