Page 27 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“I wasn’t ghosting.”
What the fuck is ghosting?
“You were ghosting.” Behind him, Wheeler pushes past like a man on a mission. “I want my beer before the meetin’ ends and half the town gets in and drinks the taps dry.”
“Dibs on pie.” Dean’s hands rub together in anticipation.
“When do you not call dibs on pie?” Levi says, though his attention splits past the broken and jagged brick hole in the wall, searching Kiwi’s bar.
“Me and pie go way back. We’ve got an unspoken bond.” Dean stalks past Wheeler, smacking him in the gut with the back of his hand.
Only my brother could talk about pie and make it sound like seduction.
Levi barely glances at him, his eyes narrowing as he picks through the crowd, still scanning. “I don’t want any of your pie, sicko. Just don’t eat all the wings.”
He doesn’t stop scouring, inching closer to the hole between the two bars until he spots his wife digging into a planter.
What the hell is she doing? That’s when I notice she’s not the only one over there acting off. Hannah balances on a barstool, peeking behind the liquor bottles, and Daisy has yanked open the jukebox panel.
“That’s off limits!” Kiwi is bootin’ it toward her.
What’s off limits?
What the hell are they all doing?
Levi doesn’t give their strange behaviour a second thought and pivots. All my brothers bicker their way to the bar—an old beast of carved wood, stained darker than sin, lined with stools and the usual suspects already half-drunk. Behind it are shelves stacked with whiskey bottles and mismatched glassware.
Bucky knows the routine and starts pouring drinks.
“I’ll take a pitcher.” Wheeler wraps his hand around the thick handle of the first mug to hit the counter.
“Pitcher coming up.” Bucky grabs a glass pitcher and tucks it under the spout.
“Hot. We like our wings hot,” Levi spins the laminated sides of the wing menu.
“Hot wings for four Wildes!” Bucky shouts as he passes by the swinging door to the kitchen.
“Pie.” Dean knocks on the counter. “Whatcha got for pie, Bucky?”
Bucky slaps a towel over his bony shoulder. It hangs long beside his grey ponytail. He also sports round John Lennon-style glasses and has a free-spirited vibe that ripples through him.
“We’re out of pie,” he says.
I swear the color drains from my brother’s face. “What the hell do you mean you’re out of pie?”
I hang back, chewing on regret and irritation, and planning the next time I come into town. I’ll make sure to be armed with bear spray and a knife in hand to keep my brothers the fuck away.
While they continue to argue over wing flavors like toddlers, I make my way toward the booths in the back, which means passing the biker, who’s glued to Jade like gum on a boot.
Has he inched in closer?
Dude, it’s not like she’s never held a cue stick in her life.
His fingers drift lower—too low.
She doesn’t flinch.
Didn’t peg her as someone who’d go for a guy like that. But hey, people surprise you.
