Page 36 of Wicked Pickle

Me: Don’t you think we should wait a while? A week or two?

Marietta: I’m about to start working weekends.

Me: Oh, right.

Marietta: Come on! Let’s do it!

Me: We should at least wait until dark. It’s probably dead at three.

Marietta: Okay, I’ll take a nap. Last night went late.

Me: Good idea. Eight, then?

Marietta: I’ll come get you at eight.

I drop the phone like it’s hot.

Holy shit, I just decided to go see Diesel.

CHAPTER 12

DIESEL

Merrick insists I open the bar Sunday afternoon since he was forced to close alone. It’s fair, and I’d do the same to him.

Sundays aren’t so bad anyway, and it’s not like I was out all night.

In fact, I should have shown up at the Leaky Skull to help after leaving the wedding, but I didn’t.

I drove to the coast and filled my lungs with salty ocean air. I needed a breather in a big way.

Most women want to be coddled. Showered in shit like jewelry and fancy dinners. Or love bombed. Told they’re pretty and shiny and cute.

They really don’t like it when I don’t let them play pillow princess.

Or worse, when I walk away.

Symphony wasn’t like that. She responded to everything I dished out like she was fucking made for me.

Then we laughed behind a goddamn screen like kids.

I can’t remember the last time I actually laughed.

I have to get her out of my head.

I park my bike out back and start unlocking the series of chains and deadbolts required to keep the riffraff out of my bar when nobody’s there. We covered every window with iron and put in a steel door. There’s some real desperation out here, especially where booze is concerned.

I kick the door open, then lock it behind me. I’ve been attacked more than once in the off hours. Every employee, cleaner, and barback knows to keep this fucker seriously shut tight.

Hell of a life.

But better than pushing pickles.

I flip on the lights. I need to inventory so we can put orders in first thing tomorrow. A couple of kegs were low before I left, and we busted out the last case of Jack.

I don’t generally drink at my own bar, but right now, I could use it to take the edge off my goddamn traitorous thoughts. They keep going back to a glorious patch of pink between Symphony’s legs, her soft thighs, and a soundtrack I replay in my mind like an emo teen listening to Weezer.

And there I am again.

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