Page 8 of Thornhill Road

I needed to look for a guy who was more gentle than rough.

Safe.

Reliable.

Maybe a guy who knew how to tie a Windsor knot.

I gathered my hair and put it back up in a clip.

Man, I needed sleep.

I wasn’t there to impress anyone. I was there for Ed.

It wasn’t unheard of when patients died alone. Except, usually those patients were in a hospice care facility, not at home. The whole point of choosing to spend one’s last days at home was tohave the freedom to enjoy their loved ones in a place filled with warmth and memories.

Ed’s house was not full of memories. It was full of clutter.

I knew I couldn’t get emotionally wrapped up in his situation. I needed to remain objective, and I promised myself I would—afterI spoke with Sully. I didn’t want Ed to die alone. Also, I didn’t want his son to live with regret having not gotten to say things he might have needed to say but didn’t know he was running out of time to say.

I wanted to help.

I wanted totry.

Glancing around the parking lot, I noticed it wasn’t too busy yet. The couple nights I’d been in the past, the place was so packed I wondered how many fire-safety laws had been violated.

I’d wondered, but I hadn’t worried.

I was too busy having a good time.

The reputation the bar had was actually pretty impressive. I couldn’t remember exactly when it opened, but it wasn’t older than five years, and they were known not just in Gillette, but in the surrounding towns, as well. I would have gone more often, but it was the kind of place one went to party all night—and I didn’t have that luxury most of the time.

I got out of my car, adjusted my purse on my shoulder, and tried to ignore the thrill that shot through me at the sight of a dozen Harleys parked out front.

Like the bar, the garage, and the auto-parts store, the Wild Stallions had a reputation of their own. They were as respected as they were feared. I didn’t know any of the specifics behind why they were feared other than they were a bunch of badass bikers. It wasn’t like they were in the news for stirring up trouble—even though it seemed unlikely they weren’t the kind that stirred the pot every now and again. Of course, there were rumors and conjecture, but one could never tell fact from fiction.

As I approached the front entrance, I drew in a deep breath and let it out on a heavy sigh.

I was on a bad boy hiatus—that meant no badass bikers, no matter what I found inside.

I was there for Ed.

I pulled open the door and stepped through it, allowing my eyes a moment to adjust to the lack of bright sunlight. When I looked around, I found the place just as I remembered.

To my left, toward the back, were a couple of pool tables. That half of the bar had a number of high-top tables with barstools. On my right were the low-top tables and chairs. The seating was strategic, as the stage for the bands was along the far right side of the building.

The walls were covered in neon lit signs, framed photos of old motorcycles and famous musicians, posters, flags, and metal wall art that made it clear their bias was for Harley Davidson.

The bar, opposite the high-top tables and tucked in the corner, was L-shaped. The front was decked out in old motorcycle license plates from all over the country. There was a custom neonSteel Mustangsign that hung in the back corner, and the walls were full of shelves stocked with booze. There were no televisions, like one might have found at a typical bar. No one came there to watch sports. They came for the drinks and the music.

My favorite part was the ceiling.

It was plastered with vinyl record sleeves.

“You lost, sweetheart?”

I looked toward the bar, where the voice had come from, and noticed two men were staring at me. I remembered I was wearing pink scrubs, and I couldn’t fault him for his question.

“No,” I said, making my way toward them.

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