Sniper smacks George’s face on the side that isn’t pulverized. “Wake up, ya wanker.” George flutters open the eye that’s not swollen and groans. “That’s a lovely shiner you have there, mate,” Sniper notes as he attempts to sit George up. “Go get a bottle of bourbon,” Sniper orders me as he reaches in his pocket and tosses me his set of keys. I hurry inside, groaning as I try each key on the lock to the cabinet. Of course, the last one works. I grab the bourbon, and as I slam the cabinet closed, Misty appears.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she squawks as she glares at me with her arms crossed. She thinks I’m stealing bourbon.
“It’s for George,” I answer nervously. Not because of her, but because my nerves are a fucking wreck.
“He asked you for this?” she questions and quirks a bitchy brow.
“Now’s not the time for your shit, Misty. Your boyfriend—ya know, the one you’ve been cheating on—just beat George’s ass,” I counter before spinning around and sprinting to the back door.
“What?” she calls, shock laced in her tone.
By the time I get outside, Sniper has George sitting up. Peeling the plastic off, I twist the top open before handing the bottle to Sniper. “Chug this.” Sniper holds the bottle to George’s lips and George gulps it. I cringe. I can hold my own, but I could never chug Wild Turkey.
“George,” Misty gasps as she kneels beside him, placing one hand on his leg. I can’t help the gigantic eye roll I make.
“Misty, lass.” Sniper shakes his head as if trying to reel in his anger. All I’ve ever seen of the burly line cook is flirtatious winks and perverted smiles. This look on him is quite terrifying. “We both know who did this. You need to go. Take a few days, and let’s see how things play out.”
Misty shakes her head vigorously. “Roger wouldn’t—”
“Misty!” Sniper snaps. “Get the fuck out of here, and tell that asshole boyfriend of yours Sniper’s coming for him.” Misty is stunned silent. So am I. I wonder how he would react if he knew I was also responsible for George getting hurt. Sniper is incredibly scary when he’s pissed off. “Go!” Misty stands stiffly and rushes back inside. “You have to take him home, Char. I have to stay and close this place down for the night. The only other people to call would be his mom and dad, and he’d kill us both if we did that.”
“Shouldn’t we take him to a hospital?” I ask.
“No,” Ike and Sniper say, almost in unison.
“I have tables,” I add.
“I’ll have Peyton take over your tables.”
I help Sniper drag George to my truck where he straps him in, leaving the bottle of bourbon in his lap. George’s head lulls as he struggles to keep conscious. Sniper shuts the door and his head drops for a moment. Slowly, he turns back toward me and his expression makes me freeze. Is he pissed? At me? When he grabs my arm, jerking me away from the truck a few feet, I know he definitely is.
“What the fuck, Sniper?” I hiss. “You’re hurting me!”
“I might hurt you worse if you don’t tell me how the hell you knew George was going to get the shit kicked out of him tonight.”
“I didn’t,” I lie.
“Bullshit! What was that the other day, that little I just feel like something is going to happen and having a tough guy like you around might keep things from getting too crazy bit? You knew this was going to happen. You ratted George and Misty out to Roger, didn’t you?”
“Is that true?” Ike gasps, but I don’t look at him. I’m too busy staring at the vein swelling off of Sniper’s throat because he’s so angry. I was na?ve to think the truth would never get out.
“Yes,” I answer, which coincidentally answers them both.
“What the fuck?” Ike groans.
Sniper takes me by both arms, holding me firmly in place. “Do you know what he’s going through? What’s your game here? Trying to break him and Misty up so you can move in on him?” he snarls.
“No!” I shriek as I panic. Sniper’s understandably irate. He thinks I’ve just gotten his friend badly hurt, and I’m trying to take advantage of him, which technically, I did, but I had good intentions. I’d be pissed, too, if I were him.
“Tell him you see me, Charlotte,” Ike insists. “Tell him friends share the joy and divide the sorrow.” I repeat Ike’s words and Sniper freezes. “He said that at my grave, months after they buried me. He didn’t make it in time for the funeral.”
“You missed Ike’s funeral,” I wheeze, still panicking. He turns slightly, fixing his lethal, narrowed gaze on me.
“Anyone could know that,” he hisses, releasing me. “What are you doing here?”
“Tell him the truth,” Ike says.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. I have to tell Sniper the truth, or he’s liable to break my neck. I hate this part. They never believe me at first. Then they ask you fifty questions trying to prove I’m lying. “Listen, Sniper,” I begin, “what I’m about to tell you is going to sound crazy, but I just need you to hear me out, okay?” He crosses his arms and glares at me, but doesn’t argue. The muscles in his jaw tic, and I have to swallow my nervousness and fear before I continue. “Ike brought me here. I’m a medium . . . of sorts.”