Page 10 of Kings of Sherwood

“Well, that settles it,” Rob cuts in. “Pretty lady, we’re taking you out tonight.” He raps on the table like a judge giving an order. “Though, to be clear, I don’t think we’re gonna hear shit-all. I think y’all are worried over nothing and we’ll be back to the usual routine by this time Sunday. But I’ll humor you with a little excursion to prove myself.”

Will’s sour look doesn’t budge, but he looks at me, not at Rob. “If Maren’s okay with it,” he says.

“I...” I consider for a moment or two. “Yeah.” I nod. “Let’s.”

“Great.” Rob smacks his hands together. “I know just the place. Cozy little joint, where everybody knows your name—”

He looks, for whatever reason at LJ. LJ’s good eye narrows.

“No.”

“Aw, let bygones be bygones, my Cajun friend,” Rob says, smacking his shoulder. “The Crossbridge Inn will bethrilledto see you darken their door again.”

Chapter Three

LJ

Ifucking hate this place.

The barstool squeaks under me, the air is thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of stale peanuts, and the beer is warm.

No fucking thank you.

At my elbow, Scarlet leans in and says something I can’t make out over the southern-fried rock on the shitty PA system.

“What?”

“I said,” he repeats, too loud and getting martini breath in my ear, “don’t looktoocheerful on your night out, my ursine friend.”

I grunt into my beer and polish it off just so I can not be drinking it anymore and drum my fingers on the bar.

“Fucking stupid to come here,” I say to no one. “For the record.”

“Noted.” This from Rob, who’s grinning like the goddamn cat with the canary and taking his sweet time with his own beer, watching the crowd.

Not me. I don’t need to look to know what kind of humanity’s working its way through the guts of this place. You could say I’m a kind of expert on places like the Crossbridge Inn. Reluctantly. I could have drawn up this place with my eyes closed—or the good one, anyway: Christmas lights, old beer ads from the 80s, a Jaeger dispenser that doesn’t work, a jukebox that doesn’t work, and floors too sticky for sawdust. Couple of wannabe pool hustlers trying to make a buck on the scratched-to-hell felt, couple of graying bikers, and a few of our local good ol’ boystrying to charm over the local good-time girls with what’s left of their phony disability checks.

Next to me, Scarlet fishes something out of his glass and looks at it like it owes him money.

I hate to ask, but clearly he wants me to. “Something wrong?”

“I think these bleu cheese olives are...off.” He wrinkles his nose.

“Poor baby,” I mutter. No sympathy from me on that front. I catch the eye of the bartender, who’s wiry as a scarecrow, and signal for another—whiskey, this time.

“That’s ‘cause there’s nothing bleu cheese about it,” Rob says, still staring forward. “That’s just good old American mold, my friend.”

Scarlet gags. I laugh. The barkeep flips up a glass and tips over a brown bottle. Doesn’t look me in the eye, not that I blame him. Not much to see there, and not much seeing I can do back.

“My advice is to quit complaining and enjoy the view,” Rob finishes, nodding forward.

My whiskey arrives and I lift it.

“I’ll toast to that.”

Because she’s out there, in the crowd.

Maren.

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