Page 4 of Isaac

“Great, I’ll give you directions as we go.”

* * *

With every mile we travel out of the city, my stomach churns out more acid. Not only am I running low on gas, and gas money, but I don’t like being out with a guy I just met in the middle of nowhere. By the time Joe tells me to turn right into a parking lot of a dark building, I’m ready to throw up.

In need of cool air, I throw my door open and climb out as soon as my seat belt is off.

“What…what is this place?” I ask while reaching into the back seat for my purse.

“You’ve never been to the Comedy Hour?”

“Comedy Hour?”

“It’s a bar with stand-up comedians. One of my favorites is here tonight.”

I glance around and see a few other people getting out of cars, women in dresses holding men’s hands as they walk toward the dimly lit front door. It’s just a bar with comedians. Nothing sinister about that.

Actually, it sounds like a really nice date night. I was obviously freaking out for no reason.

Or at least that’s what I told myself until an hour later, when Joe went to the bathroom and my purse with my keys and phone mysteriously disappeared at the same time.

* * *

Isaac Perry

It’s nearly midnight on a Friday night, and where am I?

Working.

Just because my office happens to be above a bar doesn’t mean I just sit around and drink all day and night.

I’m lucky if I remember to eat once a day.

The Devil Hounds MC sometimes feels like more trouble than it’s worth.

But a shit-ton of people depend on me, and on the MC, to pay their bills through our legal and illegal ventures. And next weekend, we’re hosting our first-ever demolition derby.

Mostly, it’s just another way to launder some cash, but it’ll also rake in the dough and give the town something fun to do.

Since I’m a control freak who doesn’t like to delegate responsibilities, I’ve been stuck scheduling food trucks, vendors, and even porta-potties for the event.

I’ve just made my last call on the bar’s landline about beer kegs when my cell phone buzzes across my desk.

Picking it up, I barely register my youngest daughter’s name before I hit the button to answer.

“Lyla? Is everything okay?” I ask since she never calls me, much less this late.

“Ah, yeah, I’m fine, Dad. I just, um, could you do me a favor?”

“Anything, baby girl,” I tell her honestly.

“Well, it’s not actually for me. It’s a favor for Holly.”

“Holly?”

“Holly Garrison?”

“What about her?” I ask, vaguely recalling her friend, the brunette I’ve seen at the house a few times during the summer.

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