I can’t help but feel like I’m right back where I started, sitting in a bar full of belligerent drunks, one hand wrapped around a cold beer and the other clutching the bag that holds what’s left of my possessions.
Even though smoking in bars is illegal in the state of Colorado, the room swirls with the stench of burning tobacco and God knows what else. Clearly the rules don’t apply to those whose motto is “Live wild or die.” The clanking of glasses and ruckus of deep manly laughter mix to make this dive exactly what I expected. Everything, from the women who’re walking around half naked and one hundred percent tanked, to the air in the room, screams one thing.
Wild Outlaw MC property.
This is stupid. I shouldn’t have come here. Speeding away from Vegas, I chose highways at random and drove all the way through Utah until I saw the sign: Denver 465 miles. I remembered Hatch talking about a bar between Denver and Leadville that had a motel attached. I decided that’s where I’d go. At least, until I could figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
I blink to focus on the line of bottles against the wall behind the bar, various brands of tequila and bourbon, not a single bottle of vodka. The bartender looks just like the rest of the guys in this hole: too much hair, too much gut, and too much leather to hold it all together.
“Leather and together. That rhymed.” I muffle a giggle and bring my room-temperature beer bottle to my lips. Tilting back the last of the lukewarm liquid, I try to count how many I’ve had. I’m almost positive this is number five, but the way my head is swimming I’ve probably had more.
Not that it matters. Nothing matters.
My heart beats its fluttered objection.
“Nope. Not listening to you ever again.” Stupid heart and its stupid plans.
“Yo, Ann Wilson.” The bartender’s voice sounds as if he’s been smoking since birth. “’Nother beer?”
I face the grungy biker. “Sure, why the hell not?” I’ve got nowhere to go and no one looking for me. I nudge my empty bottle toward him. “What did you call me?”
He coughs or laughs, most likely a combination of both. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Ann Wilson is.”
I scrunch up my face in thought. “No clue.”
Propping his forearms on the bar, he leans in. “How old’re you, kid?”
“It’s rude to ask a woman how old she is.” And telling a guy who looks as if he’s seen his fair share of death and mutilation anything about me is fucking freaking me out.
“I’m assuming you’re old enough to drink. If not, I don’t really give a shit as long as you don’t get in any trouble.”
I don’t say anything to confirm or deny. I’m old enough to drink, but just barely, not that he needs to know that.
“Ann Wilson’s the lead singer of one of the greatest bands of the late 1970s.”
“Huh.” My head spins. I squint one eye. “Which one?”
“Which one? You’ve got to be kidding me. Your parents did you a huge disservice by not sharing this shit with you.”
Ha. My parents did a lot worse than a simple fucking disservice. “My parents are dead.” Most likely murdered, but whatevs.
“Tough break, kid.”
I shrug. “Not really. They were assholes.”
His lips tick beneath his thick beard and ’stash. He goes back to standing and tucks the corner of his bar towel into his belt. “Yo, Trek, name the greatest chick rock group of 1978!”
“Heart!” The voice of what I’m assuming to be Trek calls back from the other end of the bar.
His eyes swing back toward mine. “Heart. Ann Wilson. You’ve got her hair.”
Okaaay. “Um . . . cool.” I guess.
A couple of guys dressed in matching leather cuts drop down in stools close to mine. “What is this shit?” One of them flashes a few fingers to the bartender, his eyes on the flat-screen TV hung high behind the bar. “Fight’s been on for over an hour. I got some serious dime riding on the main event.”
Bartender guy gets busy pouring him a generous amount of bourbon. “Gimme a sec.” He drops the drink in front of the guy, a fresh beer for me, and messes with the remote.
I nod a thank you and take a long pull from the bottle. I try to keep my thoughts focused on the future and not dwell on the last forty-eight hours, but the memories lure me in. His body, so strong wrapped around mine, holding me close while I caught my breath. Hands capable of knockout punches, or creating beautiful music, stroking up and down my sensitive skin. Hearts pounding against each other as if being separated by bone, muscle, and skin couldn’t keep them from becoming one. Stop it! He’s gone and memories won’t bring him back.
It’s over.
I’ll never feel that again.
I toss back a good half of my beer, tasteless against my tongue, but it’s doing the job.
The room erupts in cheering. My eyes dart to the TV. It takes a second for me to realize what they’re getting worked up over, until . . .
“Oh shit.” I blink to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
Rex’s fight.
*
Rex
“Don’t let him go!”
“Keep ’em down, T-Rex!”