Walk Through Fire (Chaos, #4)(6)

I just had no idea if one of those bikes was Logan’s.

I hoped one was.

And I was terrified of the same thing.

“You should go home,” I told myself.

I should.

But home was where I’d been nearly every night since I’d bought my house and moved in eleven years ago. It had changed since I’d renovated every inch of it (I had not done this myself—I’d paid people to do it—but it was all my vision).

I loved home. I never got sick of looking at what I’d created (or someone else had, obviously, through my vision).

But I was there nearly every night. And the only times I wasn’t were when I was at Dottie’s or babysitting a friend’s kid or at one of the events I’d planned.

The last, being my work, didn’t count.

Now I was not at home. I was back at Scruff’s. A place I hadn’t been in twenty years.

I was there because Logan might be in there.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

“God, this is crazy,” I muttered, pushing open the car door and throwing out a leg.

I got out, slammed the door, and beeped the locks, keeping keys in hand and purse clamped securely under my arm.

I walked toward the building, worried about my car. I had a red Mazda CX-5 that was only a year old. I loved it. I hadn’t upgraded cars in five years, so it was my baby. And not only was this bar not the safest spot in Denver, it was located in a neighborhood that also wasn’t the safest in Denver.

I had to brave it. I was there. I was out of the car.

There was no going back.

Before I got to the door, a biker fell out of it, shouting behind him, “Fuck you too!” and I nearly turned back.

He stumbled the other way, so my path was clear.

I knew I should retreat.

I didn’t.

I went in.

When my eyes adjusted to the dim, I saw the inside hadn’t changed much either, except to get seedier. In fact, even the neon beer signs looked the same and on my second eye sweep after the quick, frantic one I did to see if Logan was there, I saw four of the plethora of them no longer worked at all. The vinyl on the barstools was worn, the furniture scattering the space was more mismatched. Even the felt on the pool table was more faded.

And there was no Logan.

Actually, there wasn’t much of anybody. It wasn’t vacant but back in the day the place was nearly always hopping. Logan and I would go on a Wednesday to find fun with the dozen people who were also there that we knew and partied with. Or we’d go on a Saturday and find mayhem with three dozen people we knew and partied with.

It was Chaos’s place. It was where the boys went when they wanted to tie one on, tag fresh meat to bang, find trouble, or if none was to be found, make it.

However, looking around, I didn’t see a member I knew from back in the day. I didn’t even see a Chaos patch on any jacket.

This was a surprise. Chaos had been a fixture there in a way that there wasn’t a night when at least a couple of brothers were at Scruff’s.

This was also an excuse to leave.

I didn’t go.

I walked to the bar and slid onto a stool, doing this with my eyes still scanning the space like Logan could materialize out of thin air.

“Well, f*ck me. Millie freakin’ Cross. Blast from the past and not a good one.”

I turned my head and stared in shock at Reb.

Reb had been a bartender back then. One I would have suspected would have been long gone by now.

This was because she’d been sleeping with Scruff’s son who was set to inherit the place since Scruff was on his deathbed. Though, Scruff had been on that deathbed the entire three years I’d gone there (two of which I’d drank with a fake ID, not that Reb or any of the other bartenders cared).

Wade, her man and the next in line to own the establishment, was rarely there (or rarely there working). He was usually there drinking or alternately out cheating on Reb or fighting or drying out in a jailhouse or on his bike wandering and leaving her behind to bitch about him and swear she was going to leave him.

Reb was tough. She was so unfriendly she was mean. And she didn’t take a lot of shit (except from Wade).

I was sure she’d get fed up and go.

But she wasn’t gone. She was behind the bar, looking as faded and worn as the rest of the joint, like she’d aged forty years in the last twenty.

I barely recognized her.

The life-is-shit-and-then-you-die look in her eyes was unforgettable, still there and even sharper, so I knew it was her.

“You’re like a mullet,” she stated, glaring at me from her side of the bar. “?’Cept haven’t seen you in forever and I see too many a’ those every week. Though, you’re here so just sayin’, coulda used a longer forever when it comes to you.”

That wasn’t a warm welcome.

Reb wasn’t big on handing those out. She never had been.

But this was more than her usual nasty.

I decided to ignore it.

“Hey, Reb,” I greeted.

“Fuck off, Millie, and I mean that as in, you can get your ass off my stool and get the f*ck outta my joint,” she replied.

I stared.

Way nastier than her usual nasty.

“Like,” she leaned in to me, “now.”

Because apparently I’d gone insane, I decided to ignore that too.