Page 39 of Finding His Fire

"Meg? You can't tell her where we're staying. No one, not even Jolie, can know. I won't even tell Emmy or Dawson. Okay?"

"I promise." She smiled at him. It probably looked like beaming, but after the scare she'd had at the shack, the news of visiting Jolie was welcome. Plus, once the fear had left her, she had to admit it was sort of exciting riding along with Ford. Maybe she'd become a badass one day, and Jolie could help her come up with a badass bounty hunter name.

Chapter32

Seeing Megan to the door at Jolie's, he kissed her lips, more than once, then tipped his head to Jolie and sauntered to his truck rather proud of himself. After all, when he said he wouldn't want to bring his woman to a bar like The Bullseye, he wasn’t referencing Megan in particular, but he meant anyone he cared about. But the instant it was out of his mouth, he realized he wanted her to be his woman. He wanted her to want to be his woman. If only he weren't still married and things were different.

He pulled to the curb outside of the seedy looking bar. Even the street it was on looked like the back end of the town. Dingy buildings lined the street—some of them not even straight—looking like a good strong wind would topple them over in a heartbeat.

The front door was held open with a barstool. The only two windows in front held dirty, bug-crusted neon signs, and both were cracked. The sign hanging over the front door was a beer sign; the plastic insert that no doubt had the bar's name painted on it had long been gone. So the dim light bulb inside was visible.

Once he shut his truck off, the music from the jukebox rolled out into the street, the current tune an old country ballad by Conway Twitty. The music playing inside was as old as the bar itself. Entering the dark, dank building, the smell of stale beer and old cigarette smoke assaulted his nostrils. His feet made noise as he walked deeper into the bar, as his shoes stuck in the layers of spilled substances from years gone by and popped when he pulled them up to take a step.

Locating a space somewhere close to the middle of the bar, he plopped on the stool, trying to blend in as much as possible, but since he'd recently showered and shaved, it was nearly impossible. A quick glance down the bar showed the general population here drank tap beer. Shit.

"What'll it be, buddy?" asked the bartender. His dirty wife beater stretched across a beer belly and didn’t quite meet its goal to cover the large pasty expanse that hung under it.

"Tap beer. The Olds is good." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled a five dollar bill out and tossed it on the bar. No need in looking like he had money in a place like this. He'd sit here a bit and see if anyone engaged him in conversation.

As he drank his beer, his ears tuned into a conversation at the end of the bar, toward the bathrooms in the back.

"You get your new stuff yet?" a younger man with a Pittsburgh Steelers hat on said to the man next to him, sporting an oversized cowboy hat on his greasy head.

"Naw. He's supposed to meet me later out back."

"’Kay. I'll be here too. I needed some cash this week and got some leads to make scores."

"Give 'im a coupla hours."

They were trying to talk softly, but the amount of alcohol it looked like they'd already consumed made it impossible. No one else in the bar seemed to pay them any mind so it must just be business as usual. He continued sipping his beer hoping to hear who this would-be dealer was. It would just be too perfect that he would find Waylon like this.

The stool next to him pulled away from the bar, and a large man around six feet six stood where the stool had once been. The man looked as out of place as he felt. Aftershave floated over the other odors in the bar, and as he took a better look at the man, he could see his clothing was of better quality than anyone else here in the bar. Long sleeves rolled back to the elbow of a blue dress shirt, tucked into black jeans and the man wore cowboy boots which peaked out from under his pants. When he looked up into the man's face, he found he was being watched by this big man, and his stomach knotted. Keeping it cool, he asked, "Can I buy you a drink, mister?"

"You don't look like you belong in here."

"I was thinking the same about you."

The man chuckled, then held out his hand. "Name’s Bull and I own this dump."

Shaking hands with Bull, he replied, "Ford. Nice place."

Bull threw his head back and laughed. "Naw, it ain't, but you wouldn't believe the cash that rolls through this place."

"Shorty, get my friend Ford here a beer and bring me a scotch."

The fat man behind the bar waddled to the back bar and poured a top shelf scotch into a glass. Setting it in front of Bull, he grabbed Ford's empty glass and refilled it with the tap beer he'd previously drank. Setting it in front of him, Shorty cranked his head back and looked up at his employer. "Anything else, boss?"

"Any word from our friend?"

Shorty nodded to the two men at the end of the bar. "Jason and Welch are meeting him a bit later."

Bull looked at the two men, his lip slightly curled up. Picking up his glass, he downed a large majority of the drink without missing a beat. The first thing that came to mind was one tough son of a bitch. He'd never be able to down that much scotch without his eyes watering.

"What brings you here, Ford?"

"Needed a drink. Old lady ragging on me. I'm new in town, dropped her off at her sister’s and came here to hide."

Bull slapped him on the back with one of his big paws and guffawed as if he'd been there before.

---