Page 7 of Wicked Pickle

I knock on the door. “Symphony?”

If she answers, I’m not really sure. The band is so loud, you could smash a bottle on the floor and nobody would flinch.

“We already tried that, jackass,” Carla shouts. “I’m about to piss in your vodka.” She elbows her neighbor. “Might improve the taste.”

They get a good laugh.

I hold up a hand to them. “All right, all right. I’ll get this handled.”

The bride chick taps my arm. “Let me talk to her.”

I step back. “Sure.”

She leans close to the door. “Symphony, honey? It’s Bailey. You okay? Did you drink too much?” She looks at me pointedly. “You did a lot of shots.”

Right. Fuck me. I did challenge her. She’s probably dying, and the cops can’t wait to collar me for alcohol poisoning.They’ve hated my bar ever since my brother Merrick and I bought this rat hole.

We intended for it to be a haven for military vets like us, raucous and loud, a place full of music and women, cheap beer and camaraderie.

And we have plenty of that coming through.

But our location attracted the bikers, too. They’re all right, generally speaking, but prone to fights, mostly over women, and having pissing matches over pointless shit.

“Symphony, honey, can you answer us?” Bailey turns to me. “That music is so loud. I can’t tell if she’s saying anything.”

“Have you tried texting her?” I ask.

“No.”

“Do that.”

Bailey unlocks her phone, and I spot a shot of her and Symphony plus one of the other women, heads close together, as her lock screen. It switches in a second to her and a dude in a suit, kissing her cheek. Probably the groom.

Marriage. What a racket. My sister is married to a total loser. Well, one of my sisters, Greta. The other, Sunny, married a literal prince. I haven’t met him and don’t plan to. The whole family lost their damn minds a decade ago, and half of them changed their name to Pickle, of all the asinine things.

Kid after kid, cousin after cousin, got sucked into the Pickle machine and work for the family. Merrick and I, who are only ten months apart and graduated from high school in the same year, bailed the minute we were both eighteen. No way were we getting caught up in that. Off to the Army, we went.

Bailey looks up. “Nothing. She’s not answering anything.”

Fuck. She’s passed out. She did all those shots. I fed them to her. Fuck. I knew better. Of course, I did. But something about her made me reckless. I wanted to play with her. Fight with her. Push her up against a wall.

Cool it, asshole. Get her out.

“Back up, ladies,” I tell the line. “I’m going in.”

The women titter and start lifting their phones to video whatever happens.

Bailey frantically waves to her friends, and the three of them form a barrier, pushing the others back so they can’t get a good view.

The door will give easily. I’ve repaired it more than once.

I push on it to figure exactly where the latch is. “Symphony, it’s Diesel,” I shout. “I’m coming in on three.”

I wait a second, then call out, “One, two, THREE.”

My shoulder slams against the door, level with the hook. It pops open. I stumble inside.

For a second, I’m not sure what I’m seeing. There’s a woman in there somewhere, bent over, hand in a white rope-looking thing, walking in circles.

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