Page 11 of Touchdown, Tennessee
It took me until fifteen or sixteen years old to realize I’d come from a bad childhood. Mom’s drinking got worse, and the moment I refused to aid her criminal activity, she cut me out like a tumor.
You’re not a little kid anymore, she told me, shortly before I stopped talking to her.Nobody trusts you with that stupid big, black cat on your arm. Who gives a sixteen-year-old a fuckin’ tattoo, anyway?
There was a reason thattrust issueswere my bread and butter, now.
In a way, bars did feel like a childhood home to me.
And I fucking hated the feeling of home.
“Well, I’ll still give you my usual, if you’re going to be hanging with the guys,” Max was saying now, picking up empty pint glasses and putting them on his tray. “Welcome to the Hard Spot. If you can’t tell from all the shelves and nooks, this placeused to be a bookstore, but it’s a saloon now. Kane is the owner, and he’s essentially half bear, half human. If there’s a weird cocktail on the menu, I probably made it. Um… what else?”
“How often does Peachel come here?” I asked.
Subtlety wasn’t really necessary.
I was here to learn about the Tempests.
Preferably their cocky fucking wide receiver, who acted like he was God’s gift to college football.
I wanted information.
“Andrew?” Max asked, glancing back over at Peachel at the bar. “He comes here fairly often. Maybe once or twice a week, most weeks.”
“So he’s a regular.”
Max shrugged. “I mean, he’s here sometimes. I guess he’s aregular. But we also have one old man who comes in here every single day at 4 o’clock for a single shot of gin—just pure gin—then leaves to go back to his farm. That guy is more of a regular. I guess. Does that make sense?”
I spotted Luke and Andrew slipping out the front doors of the bar and I took my cue to leave.
I needed to follow them.
The golden boy and his quarterback bestie.
No shot they’re fucking each other, right?
“Actually, nix that cocktail. I’m going to head out,” I told Max.
“You sure?”
I nodded, dropping a ten-dollar bill on the table to cover the shot of tequila I had plus a nice tip. “Have a good night, Max. Thanks for welcoming me in.”
I was out the front doors soon after, surveying the front lot for Andrew and Luke.
Laurel Ave was busy tonight, with plenty of people out and about, heading to different restaurants and shops.
At first I thought I’d lost the guys, but then I saw Andrew, alone, leaning on the corner of the brick building next door.
“Caught me,” he said. “Detective.”
He was giving me a look.
Drunk, clearly, but also looking me up and down.
Checking me out.
I walked over toward him. He was illuminated by the string lights wrapped around the trunk of a nearby tree on the sidewalk, casting him in a faint white glow.
“Not much of a catch.”
