Page 57 of Drive Me Wilde

"That's definitely going to work against us," Zander says. "But Charlie is a great lawyer. He'll get this to go in your favor. You'll see. In the meantime, pull on your shirt, and I'll buy you a breakfast burrito. Have you eaten? You look like you worked up an appetite overnight."

"Still not giving names," I say as I walk back to the room for the shirt. I stop once more to call Rio, and it goes to voicemail. "Hey, it's Dad. I'm coming for you soon, all right? Just hang on and stay safe. I'm coming for you, tiger. You'll be home soon." I hang up and drop down into a crouch to catch the breath that has left me. I allow myself a few seconds of quiet, hopeless despair, then I straighten. "You'll be home soon, kiddo," I mutter to myself.

twenty-six

. . .

Indi

Ipark in front of the brick building. The sign on the door says closed, but according to the same sign, the bar opens in five minutes. It would be a bonus to be able to talk to the owner or manager before the doors open, but I can't see inside to know if anyone's working. The small windows at the top of the wall are tinted. Not that anyone could look through them without the use of stilts or a ladder.

The squeaky wheels of a handcart pull my attention to the corner where a delivery van is parked. A man in a blue uniform is pushing a handcart that's stacked with cases of beer. I follow him as he walks around the pub, down a broken brick pathway to the alley in back. The man hears my footsteps and glances over his shoulder. "I don't think they're open yet," he says.

"I was hoping to see the manager about the bartending job," I say.

He stops the cart and grins at me. "Glenn!" he calls past the propped open back door. "Got someone here about the bartender job."

Glenn pokes his head out. He's middle-aged with thin hair and heavy sideburns. He nods for me to come inside without hardly looking my direction. I follow him through a cement-floored, narrow hallway. It smells like wet towels. A radio is blasting through the space, a grainy sounding talk show where the two hosts are debating the outcome of a football game. Glenn stops to open a stockroom door and then continues to the front of the bar, still not acknowledging me.

Harry's Gold Rush has a sort of rustic, western vibe. Its cheesy décor still has charm, but I can't say the same for Glenn's Pub. I know little about the place or its history because we rarely crossed the invisible line between our two towns. It was a rivalry, mostly born from football, that seems ridiculous now. I'm certain it wasn't called Glenn's Pub back when I was growing up. The chairs remind me of the uncomfortable plastic ones we had in school, and while Harry's bar counter is made from reclaimed barnwood, each plank wearing a different shade of weathering, Glenn's bar is fake wood, only it's not fooling anyone with its grainy surface. There are three pool tables in the center of the room, and each one has a brass light hanging over it. There's a jukebox in the corner, and the stools running along the front of the bar are covered in green vinyl. Each stool has a unique duct tape design, presumably to hold the vinyl together, not to add to the decor. It is quite possibly the least inviting bar I've ever had the misfortune to step in, and the bar owner isn't exactly a bundle of charm either.

Glenn hasn't looked my direction. I stand, awkwardly, at the counter, waiting for some kind of recognition. He pulls on a green apron with his logo splattered across the front. It hugs his beer belly as he ties it in the back. He reaches to the radio behind the bar, turns down the talk show and pulls a rag out from a bucket on the floor. He wrings milky looking water out of it and starts to wipe the counters. "I'm holding interviews tomorrow at three. You're early."

"Sorry, I didn't know. I heard through a friend that you had an opening, so I thought I'd stop in and let you know I'm looking for a bartending job."

His arm is furiously running the rag along the counter. "Got any experience?" he asks without looking up.

"Yes, I have a bartending certificate for California, and I worked in a bar down south for four years. I'm sure I can get a reference from the owner." I've never walked cold turkey and empty-handed into a job interview before, and I may have made a mistake. It might be why I'm getting such a cold shoulder from the owner. Either that or he's just a dick. I'm going with the latter. The longer I stand in the place, the less I can see myself working here.

Glenn stops and drops the rag in the bucket. I assume he's going to tell me to get out. Instead, he walks past me to the door and flips over the sign. Seconds later, two men, both older and busy debating some sporting event, walk in. "Hey, Glenn."

"Tom, Ray," Glenn says by way of greeting. It's Monday, early afternoon, and there are people anxious to sit for their first beer.

Glenn goes straight to the beer tap and fills glasses without asking their order. "How are you going to handle yourself when one of the patrons gets drunk or handsy?" It takes me a second to realize the question is directed toward me.

"Oh, well, I've learned that it's best to diffuse situations like that with calm, direct orders such as we need to cut you off for the night, and let's keep our hands to ourselves."

It's the first time Glenn actually looks at me, and I'm not loving the wry grin he's shooting my way. "Pretty woman like you might bring more trouble than help to this place. I'm not sure you're a good fit."

Light fills the dark space temporarily as the door opens and shuts. "Just a few drinks. I told you—I've got to get back to my kid."

The woman's voice behind me causes my spine to stiffen. I've only heard it a few times, but I recognize it immediately. I glance over my shoulder casually, not wanting to attract attention. Nicole has her hand wrapped around a man's arm. The mean-looking man looks familiar, but I can't place him.

Nicole and her friend slip into one of the four booths on the far wall. The man says something to her and then comes up to the bar to order a beer and a screwdriver. I walk discreetly around the corner of the bar while Glenn is busy filling the drink order. Intuition tells me to take out my phone and record what's happening. Unless something has changed in the past few hours, the woman sitting in the bar booth waiting for her drink is supposed be taking care of her twelve-year-old daughter. I peer up casually as the man waits for the drinks. A clearer view of his face kicks my memory into gear. I'm sure it's one of the men who came into the Gold Rush to start a fight. He's got a nasty cut on the side of his jaw to confirm my suspicions.

Nicole is busy running long pink fingernails over her phone screen. She hasn't looked my direction. The man heads over with the drinks, and they instantly start flirting heavily while downing their drinks in record time.

"If you have a resumé, you can leave it with me." Glenn's terse words zap me out of my secret mission.

I'm holding my phone casually, so it's impossible to tell I'm recording the action in the booth across the way. Nicole has already emptied her highball glass, and her companion shifts his loose, greasy jeans as he gets up to buy her another round. Glenn turns back to the bar to help the customer.

I continue filming. Nothing about the scene in front of me is going to win her a mother-of-the-year award, and my main concern is where the hell is Rio? Before jumping to conclusions, I decide to shoot a text off to Jameson. I'm sure he would havetold me if Rio returned home but then he might not have gotten a chance yet.

Is Rio with you?

Seconds later, Jameson returns a text.

Why would you ask that?

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