Page 1 of Bone Dust

CHAPTER ONE

Ian

The bar reeks of old smoke, the smell lingering from a time long ago when the promise of wealth lured men away from their homes and loved ones. The scent has penetrated the ancient hardwood, invading every splinter to mix with the aromas of desperation, hopes, and dreams. Dings and scratches mar the unpolished planks and, given the history of the area, old spurs and boot heels seem the most likely culprits for the divots. This building dates back to the 1800’s and, as my gaze wanders the room, I take it all in. I can only imagine the goings on here during the gold rush days.

Though this area of the country held the most famous promise of fortune buried within the rocky landscape, it wasn’t the first place in the United States that suggested riches to men seeking a better life. Library shelves now hold dusty books that chronicle tales of those prospectors, some stories taller than the imagination. A few men were lucky, but most lost everything including the families they left behind.

As I cross the room and head toward the bar, my gaze drops to the floor. I’m certain some of the dark and blotchy masses beneath the soles of my boots are bloodstains. A sad remnant of a man’s life now permanently etched in validation of his quest. That’s what happens when money becomes your god. You find yourself at crossroads that kill friendships and expose a man’s rotten core. I feel sorry for the bastards who found themselves on the bullet end of another man’s gun.

Love of money is the root of all evil.

Words my momma said drift through my mind. She recited them whenever my daddy left us to travel for work. His job required him to be away more than he was home. Once he was gone Momma played with my emotions, telling me he was absent because he only cared about his money and everything it brought him, while in the next breath, she said he worked so hard because he loved us above everything.

My strongest recollections are of Daddy walking out the door while Momma clung to him. I hid in a corner as she’d plead with him not to leave her, but he always did. Once he left, Momma would sob until she had no more tears, making herself sick. Then, spent and defeated, she’d take my hand and lead me to what she called our ‘secret place’. In truth, it was her huge, four-poster bed. She’d put the covers over each one of those posts, constructing a hideaway fortress where she said we’d be safe. The problem, I realized later in life, was really in my mother’s imagination and her solution was always a fine whiskey mixed with rock candy at the bottom of her pretty teacups.

The scene consumes my thoughts and I think about how like my father I’d become. How the love of money, and the vices it bought, nearly killed me. I was young when Momma died, but her influence will forever be the words she tattooed on my heart, and they are as real a legacy as the scars my daddy’s belt left on my body.

I shake off the memories and, instead, concentrate on the woman performing on the stage. Beneath a lone spotlight, she’s perched on a high back barstool, her legs crossed as she plays the weathered wood guitar resting in her lap. A blue and white checked cushion peeks out from beneath her rear end, and a lone microphone mounted on a stand is a breath away from her lips.

An empty seat at the end of the bar beckons me and I lower myself onto it to take everything in. Emblazoned on the wall behind the singer is a logo that I can’t quite make out. The bright lights spilling against her distort the image in the shadow her body casts, and yet, that same white light illuminates her. With her head bowed, it showcases slivers of snowy highlights within a curtain of thick blonde hair. The strands fall over her shoulders, cascading like a waterfall, and then disappear as they puddle somewhere on her lap behind the guitar.

“How long’s she been playing here?” I pitch the question to the busty strawberry-blonde barmaid, keeping my voice low enough so as not to disturb the patrons at the tables not far from where I’m sitting. She draws closer and I can’t help but notice how her ribbed tank top clings to her massive tits.

The size of her bust corrupts the image on the front of her shirt. I make no secret of the fact I’m curious as I stare, which she notes with a sly smile. I can tell she likes the attention. Her emerald-green eyes follow my line of sight. As she looks down, she plucks the bottom of the design with red, dagger-shaped fingernails, and pulls the material away from her skin. Now that I can see it better, I recognize it as the same logo that’s on the stage wall; a cigar-smoking bulldog wearing a spiked collar and Aviator sunglasses.

“It’s a badass dog, isn’t it?” she asks, with a hiked brow and a cheeky smile.

“Sure is.”

The smirk that slithers across my lips is because the dog’s sunglasses bulge big and round right over the woman’s perky nipples. The shirt’s tight enough to accentuate her curves and capture the attention of any man in her vicinity. I’m no different. My cock stirs so I divert my attention by glancing over her shoulder to see the wait staff working the floor. All the women are wearing the same top as the barmaid. It’s like I’m at the dog version of Hooters. My smile raises half an inch higher. My friend Sam Weston is a wise ass and a smart businessman. He’s marketing his Mad Dog Run brand brilliantly.

“So, about the singer …” I jut my chin toward the stage.

“Her name’s Savannah Grace,” she answers.

“She play every night?”

“Just a few nights a week.”

The woman leans against the bar top, supporting her ample chest with petite forearms that practically disappear beneath all that boobage. Her stance offers a little peep show and I’m able to see more than a glimpse of cleavage. I’m not new to this game but I haven’t played it in a while. When our band, Boundless Hearts, performed, more than enough females flashed their tits from the audience hoping to get a backstage pass, and a chance to meet the band’s members.

The woman steals a quick glance between me and the stage, and a knowing, shit-eating grin creeps into her gloss-covered lips.

“You like her.” With an eyebrow quirk, she speaks as if she can read my mind.

“Do you?” I toss back.

She straightens up. “Savannah Grace’s been here for a few months now, and there isn’t anyone who doesn’t like her, including me.”

“And why is that?” I push.

“Because Savannah is good, and she packs in the place. A packed house means happy customers. Happy customers tip bigger. All of us love that,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “Besides, Savannah’s good people.” Distracted by more customers approaching the bar, she tips her head. “What can I get for you?”

“Coke. The bigger the better with lots of ice.”

“You got it.”

She turns away and I see the back of her is as shapely as the front. Her tight ass sways like a back porch swing in a breeze. I shake my head and chuckle under my breath. She’s funny, sweet, and a blatant flirt. Perfect barmaid.

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