Page 2 of Falcon

Chapter 1

Present Day

Falcon

There’s only one building that exists on the first turn off Exit 357. It’s a small, warehouse-style bar with neon signs dotting the windows, and when I open the door, smoke billows out in a thick cloud.

It’s busy for a Thursday night, though I’d venture to guess this is all there is to do in this town. Some country tune is blaring from a jukebox in the corner and men and women of all shapes and sizes chatter, dance, and laugh. I size up the crowd, people watching, if you will. There’s a small group of college-aged girls in the far corner, taking shots and being overly loud. Over by the pool tables, there is an older man playing a game with another man, and judging by their heated stares, it’s getting intense.

I slide onto a barstool and an older man with a dark tan, clearly from working outside, and graying hair comes to take my order.

“What can I get you to drink, friend?”

“Whiskey. Straight up. Fuck it, make it a double,” I say, pulling out my credit card. “Start a tab. It’s been a long day.”

“You got it.” He takes the card from me, glancing down at the name. “Hey…wait a second.”

Christ’s sake. Here it comes.

“Problem?” I ask.

“You’re not that Marco Masen, are you? Falcon? The fighter.”

“Nah, but I get that a lot,” I lie. Some days, the recognition is fun, ego stroking, but today, it’s not something I want to deal with. “Funny coincidence, isn’t it?”

“It sure is.”

His accent is thick and Southern, which can be expected for a Podunk bar in the middle of who the fuck knows where I am right now.

Texas? Arkansas?

I look around and see college football memorabilia plastering the walls. High school state champion plaques, college national championship banners, autographed jerseys, and flags. Texas. Definitely Texas.

I take a deep breath and sigh in complete exasperation. It’s not the bar’s fault I’m too pissed off to enjoy anything today. It is dark in here, which is number one in the pro column, but it smells like cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. There are neon signs decorating the walls advertising multiple types of liquor and beer, and I spot the occasional signed celebrity photo. It’s your average, run-of-the-mill, family-owned bar.

“Your whiskey, boss.” The middle-aged, tattooed bartender places the glass in front of me. “Just holler for Jesse, that’s me, if you need anything.”

I raise my glass in understanding before downing a large gulp. He leaves me be and I stare at the amber liquid in my glass, giving it a swirl every now and then.

“Awfully cute to be looking so damn lonely over here.”

A saccharine, sickly sweet Southern twang sounds from behind me before a petite redheaded thing slips onto the barstool to my right.

Ah, yes. The source of the cheap perfume.

“I’m not alone. Jack is keeping me company.” I motion to my glass.

“I don’t think Jack there can compare to the company of someone with warm flesh and blood, do you?”

She lays a pink-manicured hand on my arm and gives me a bit of a squeeze.

She’s easy, but in that hot way. Too much makeup, too little clothing.

Falcon from three days ago would have had her bent over my bike six minutes ago, without even blinking.

But today, it’s not something I’m interested in.

“Tell me…” I leave the sentence hanging, so she’ll tell me here name.

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