Page 8 of Fairground

My eyes widen slightly. Damn. Girl drinks like she’s done this before. Or maybe she’s just that determined to forget something. I see it sometimes—the ones who don’t sip, just swallow, like they’re hoping whatever ache is riding them will drown if they’re fast enough. Or they’re chasing a way to lighten up. Problem is, it never works. It just makes the ache meaner. Cleverer.

“So,” she says, setting the glass down with a soft clink and not batting an eye. “How do people make friends around here?”

I bark out a laugh. “Well, it’s certainly not by walking in dressed like a doll fromMonster High Barbieand shooting straight vodka.”

“I don’t get it,” she deadpans, her green eyes blank.

“Then the joke’s not for you.”

She rolls her eyes again, an art form for her, apparently.

“Why are you trying to make friends so… aggressively?” I ask, leaning a little closer, keeping half an eye on the rest of the bar that I'm supposed to be paying attention to.

She puffs out a sigh. “My sister said I needed to.”

I prop an elbow on the counter. “And who’s your sister?”

“Laken Black.”

Nowthat’sinteresting.

I tilt my head, studying her again. Yeah, I can kind of see it—the resemblance is there, underneath all that gothic flair. Laken Black is practically a saint in this town. She moved here about twelve years ago with her special ops husband, and she’s been a staple ever since. An eye doctor with a heart of gold who loves kids, people, and Whitewood Creek. The perfect picture of small-town charm. When I was coaching basketball a few years ago, I'm certain I coached one of her sons and when my nephew Beckham injured his eye during a football game on a Friday night, she dropped everything to take care of him.

But this woman? She looks like she’d rather hang out in a crypt with bats and skeletons than spend five minutes volunteering at a bake sale or watching a kid’s sporting event.

“So… you’re Laken’s sister?”

“That I am,” she mutters, drumming her fingers on the bar as if she’s impatiently waiting for people to come up to her and say they want to be friends. But now I’ve got questions.

Lots of them.

“Don’t know her,” I lie as I grab an empty glass and begin making a vodka cranberry for Mrs. Bellview who I see is almost out of hers. I know she’ll ask, so I’m getting a jump on the request and using it as a distraction to drawOscar the Grouchout of her shell so that she starts confessing all her deepest, darkest secrets to me.

“She’s an eye doctor,” she offers before nudging the glass back my way, asking for a refill without saying a word.

“And how do you say please?”

She rolls her eyes. “Aren’t I paying you for this service?”

“Just because you’re receiving a service doesn’t mean you can’t have some manners, darling.”

Her lips twist like she’s not sure how to handle that. One of my regulars, old Smythe, is seated next to her. He chuckles behind his beer, trying to hold back his smile and failing. He’s a sixty year old, retired farmer who now that his grandson has taken over the family property, just sits around town drinking, playingpool, and cheering at the town’s high school football games with me.

Our weekly, fall football game meetups are a whole thing which is why I’m surprised he’s still here tonight and not already at the game.

I lean up against the bar, completely ignoringMorticia Adamsnext to him. “Shouldn’t you be at the game, old man?”

“About to head over there.”

“Method of transportation?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I’m walking, don’t worry Cash. I wouldn’t drive.”

I tap the bar. “Good man. And you're cut off. Beckham’s playing tonight in the pre-game.”

“Can’t wait to see him. He's going to be a force when he makes it up to the high school.”

“That he is. Your tab is on the house,” I say smiling while I hear the little grave digger next to him scoff loudly.

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