Move the Sun (Signal Bend #1)(3)
“Nope, no McDonald’s. Not a lot of those chain places here in Signal Bend. We have the A&W; that’s about it. Oh, and the 7 Eleven, for gas and sundries. Where you really want to go for breakfast or lunch is Marie’s. Good pies, fresh baked daily. And the fluffiest waffles you ever will eat. For dinner, there’s the Chop House. Those are my recommendations.” He gave her what Lilli figured was his best flirty smile. “In fact, I’d be happy to buy you dinner at the Chop House tonight, welcome you to town.”
“Wow, Mac, that’s really great. But I’ve been driving all day. What I really need is a quiet night. Rain check?”
He took the rejection in stride. “I’ll hold you to it. You have a good night, now.”
Thus released, she went back to her car and drove to her new home.
oOo
It was a prefab, a glorified double-wide trailer, elevated from trailer park status by the fact that it was attached to a foundation. She had rented it without seeing it in person, because the satellite photos she’d found online showed it was tucked back into woods, with the nearest neighbors a good half mile away. It was rented furnished. It had a large, detached garage. And it was in the right location.
She parked her Camaro in front of the garage doors. No remote opener. So she got out, unlocked the door, pushed it up, and drove in. She pulled her duffels out of the trunk and headed in to check out the digs.
It was clean, and smelled as if it had been recently aired out. Mac had had the place prepped for her.
She was impressed, she had to admit. The place was sparsely but adequately furnished in a random style that Lilli immediately thought of as 1970s garage sale chic. She took her duffels and dropped them in the largest bedroom. It had a small en suite ? bath. Must be the “master suite.” Funny.
There were linens and blankets stacked at the foot of the bare queen-size mattress. But no. Lilli would not be using linens for which she didn’t know the history. Sheets she had packed, but she was blanket-poor. She’d pull her bedroll out of the car for tonight, and she’d find a place she could buy a couple of blankets, maybe a bedspread, tomorrow. She needed to stock the kitchen anyway.
Tonight, though, she meant to drive around a little, find a burger—not at the Chop House—and start getting to know the town. Maybe find a bar. Even the shittiest towns at least had a bar. The shittier the town, the livelier the bar, in her experience. People with shitty lives liked their beer on tap.
She went into the en suite bath and gave her face a quick splash, then checked her look. She’d do.
oOo
The GPS was no help to her finding local businesses. If it could have shrugged at her, it would have. So Lilli simply drove around, got to know her surroundings the old-fashioned way. It was better, gave her bearings much more quickly.
She found a couple of diners and cafes, but at 9:30 in the evening, they were already closed. She found the Chop House, but wanted to avoid that in case Mac Evans had kept his taste for steak even after she declined his invitation to dine with him.
There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the roads. This was the kind of town where the few traffic lights still swung from wires strung across the intersections. These people mostly kept farmers’ hours. 9:30 was the deep dark of the night. Even the streetlights seemed dim and sleepy.
Eventually, though, she came upon a brightly-lit building that screamed old-style honky-tonk. It had the clever name of “No Place.” The gravel lot was more than half full on this mid-week night, and there was a line of bikes, all big, black Harleys, arrayed near the front door. When Lilli stepped out of the Camaro, she could hear the music coming through the walls: high-steppin’ country. No surprise. Didn’t sound live—that was no surprise, either, on a weeknight in the sticks.
She ran her hand over her long, dark ponytail and strolled on in. Hopefully, they had a kitchen that stayed open to feed the hungry drunks, but at this point, Lilli would be content with a bowl of stale peanuts.
The music was coming from a jukebox, a huge Wurlitzer in the far corner. Lilli was sort of impressed by the sound quality, as if someone had figured out a way to juice it up. Garth Brooks was singing about his friends in low places.
The setup was pretty standard: wood floor, wood walls, country-style wood tables and chairs. Long, dark, L-shaped bar, scratched and gouged from years of hard use, darkened by years of spilled booze. Big mirror on the wall behind it, the booze arrayed on glass shelves on the mirror. Straight off the Universal Studios lot. Add some swinging louvered doors and a spittoon, lose the Wurlitzer, and sit back and wait for Wyatt Earp to stroll through.
Well, except for the big, hand-lettered sign on the mirror that admonished: “This Is A CASH ONLY
Establishment: Save Your Fucken Plastic For The Mall.”
The place was doing some brisk but not overwhelming business. Most of the tables were occupied, mostly with the typical farmland types—grungy John Deere caps, dark red, lined faces. Not a lot of women, Lilli noticed. Those around were, on average, fuller figured and dyed. Lots of plaid and denim. Lots of draught beer. This was definitely not a pick up joint. It was a place for hard-working men to get drunk. Lilli noticed sandwiches and baskets of fries on several tables. Score.
She went to the bar, which was crowded with the owners of the Harleys out front—a row of six men, all wearing kuttes with the same patch: the Night Horde MC. Three of the men were leaning with their elbows on the bar; the other three were leaning back against it, keeping an eye on the room. One of those was the man she’d noticed riding down Main Street with a couple of his brothers earlier in the day.