Page 17 of Massacre
He grumbled, muttering something I didn’t hear under his breath as he disconnected the call.
Figuring there was no time like the present, I put on my best smile and walked into the Queen’s Diamond.
“Turn to the right,” the sheriff’s deputy ordered as I glared at the fucker. Didn’t he know a friendly chat when he saw one? I wasn’t gonna hurt Bane. Hell, I was even trying to be cordial. Not my fault the motherfucker took what I said personally.
That was a him problem, not a me problem.
“Now to the left.”
Doing as I was told, I saw the sheriff of Diamond Creek walk Bane past, and I chuckled at seeing his bloody nose.
“What the fuck are you laughing at, asshole?”
“Made your face look better.”
Shoving Bane forward, the sheriff pointed his finger at me and glared. “You shut the hell up!”
“He started it.”
“And I’m finishing it!” the angry man said, huffing. “It’s always bikers. Why is it always the bikers?”
“Alright, Mr. Buchanon, if you will step over here so I can get your fingerprints.”
“Uh, not sure you want to do that, kid. I’ve got a rap sheet longer than you’ve been alive.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” The kid grinned. “You’re not the first biker we’ve had in this station.”
Shrugging, I muttered, “Alrighty then. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
The kid in uniform—barely old enough to buy a beer, I guessed—led me by the elbow to a cluttered desk at the side of the station. He rolled out an ink pad with a magician’s flourish, then gestured for my hand.
“Left hand first, please.” His tone was light, but the glint behind his glasses suggested a thrill at the break in routine.
I glanced around, catching glimpses of the other deputies pretending not to watch. The sheriff muttered something about paperwork and stormed off, boots echoing on the linoleum.
The kid pressed my fingers into the ink, and then onto the card, careful but determined. “So, Mr. Buchanon, what brings you to Diamond Creek? Passing through, or should we expect your smiling face again?”
“Depends,” I said, “on how good the local hospitality is.”
He smirked. “Well, jailhouse coffee’s strong enough to strip paint. That’s something.”
I shook my head, fighting a grin. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m shopping for paint remover.”
He finished the last print and looked up, suddenly serious. “You can take a seat while we process this. Shouldn’t be long.”
I found an empty bench beneath a crooked wanted poster and settled in, watching as the station returned to its usual rhythm, when Bane walked over and took a seat next to me.
“Next time a brother tries to buy you a fucking beer, let him. Could have avoided this whole mess.”
“I don’t drink.” Bane sighed, leaning his head against the wall.
Looking at the man, I scoffed. “What kind of biker doesn’t drink?”
“The one who’s allergic to alcohol, asshole.”
“Man, that sucks.”
Bane shrugged, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. “Story of my life. Miss out on all the booze and still get in trouble with the law.”
