“Good to see you, Sam.” We give each other a quick hug that lacks the warmth of friendship.
Her tiny cutoff denim shorts and cowboy boots make her look like every dime store cowboy’s wet dream. She doesn’t look to have changed much since high school except for maybe a little sluttier, which is saying something since she already took the prize for most likely to end up pregnant at eighteen.
“You look good.”
She waves me off. “This place makes me dress like a whore for my shifts. If I were home, my shorts would be, like, a half inch longer.” She winks. “You in town for the weekend visiting the boys?”
“Eh . . . I mean, yes and no. I’ll be staying for a while.”
She tilts her head, the mahogany corkscrew curl of one of her pigtails dipping down between her breasts. “No kidding, you’re back?”
“It’s temporary. But um . . .” I swing my gaze around the dark bar, the stench of booze-stained wood and dry roasted peanuts competing with Sam’s pungent perfume. “I could use a job.”
Her eyebrows pop. “Here?”
“What can I say? I’m desperate.”
She chuckles low and throaty, like maybe those years of sneaking off to smoke cigarettes when we were sixteen became more of a habit for her. “City life made you bitchy.”
I can’t help but grin. “Huh, and here I thought I was just being direct.”
She ties on a short apron and shakes her head. “I’ll talk to Loreen and see what she says. We might be able to use you for backup on the weekends, but during the week we’re already fighting for hours.”
Shit. A few weekends here and there, it’ll take me twenty years to save enough money to leave town. I drop my chin and ignore the tiny voice that whispers I’ll end up at Jennings eventually.
“Hey, Sam?” I shift on my ballet flats, feeling the mud between my toes from the mix of dry earth and sweat. I really need to find some more appropriate clothes. “We should grab a drink sometime. I need to get caught up on what’s been going on the last five years.”
“Ha!” Her once-cocky expression turns almost sad. “Like you care.” She shoves past me and walks away.
I don’t really care, but I miss my friend. Hell, she’s the only real friend I’ve ever had. “Sam.”
She stops but doesn’t turn around.
“Look . . . I’m sorry, okay? I . . .” Probably should’ve called or tried to reconnect. I don’t blame her for blowing me off. “I am a bitch.”
“I get off at four-thirty.” And with that she disappears into the back.
Great. An awkward drink with an old friend who practically hates me. This should be fun.
Before heading back to my dad’s house, I swing by the bank and withdraw the last of my money. It’s not much, and I’ll be lucky if it’ll get me through the next week even with living at home. I’m almost out of gas, have no job, and my dad’s just waiting for me to come back begging.
SIX
SHYANN
It’s almost four-thirty when I pull into the single paved parking lot outside Pistol Pete’s. After a quick pass through the tiny ten-car lot up front, I hit the dirt lot that’s used for overflow.
Pretty busy for a Thursday. Must be the happy hour crowd, or it could be the larger part of the labor community that can’t end the workday without a cold beer.
I find a spot at the far end and I’m grateful for the old cowboy boots I found in the back of my closet. They’re a half-size too small, but the black leather is so worn and soft, slipping them on felt like coming home. But this time in a good way.
I check my face in the rearview mirror. Wanting to look somewhere between trying and not giving a shit, I’d put on a light layer of makeup, straight ironed the fuzz of humidity from my hair, and threw on a kickass pair of skinny jeans, pairing it with a tank top and an old flannel.
Just enough to look like the old me but with a big-city-girl flare.
The sun dips below the pine trees enough that although it’s still light, it’s muted and comfortable with a soft breeze that reminds me fall is on its way. A song about a lost lover and a pickup truck filters through the big barn doors as I kick up dirt through the lot. I push through the double doors and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Voices at all levels, from murmurs to obnoxious yelling, round out the audio-intrusion and the heavy scent of booze and dirty boots mix in a way only a country bar can.
I scan the room without lingering too long on faces, and don’t see Sam, so I take seat at the bar.
A woman with unnaturally red hair that’s shaved in a buzz cut on one side tosses a cocktail napkin in front of me. “What’ll it be.”
I lean in. “I’m looking for Sam. She still here?”
Her eyes narrow and she turns to the guy beside her who just showed up with two six-packs of Heineken under each arm. “Monty, you seen Sam?”