Page 10 of Cold as Stone
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.” He extends his hand across the bar, callused and warm and steady. “Welcome home.”
I shake it, thinking of how the town will react when they hear the news.
Let the town gossip. Let them whisper about Patty Sullivan’s daughter and her grand delusions.
Kya Sullivan is back, and this time I’m not leaving.
Devil holds up the bottle. “Another?”
I push my glass toward him. “Why not?”
2
LEE
The first thing I notice is that the sign’s finally fixed.
The “B” in Bar used to flicker like a dying firefly, annoying as hell every time I rode past. But now it glows steady and sharp against the dusk. Strange.
The second thing I notice? The music.
It’s not the usual honky-tonk bullshit or the same classic rock that’s been on rotation since before I was born. This is something bluesy and low, with a woman’s voice thick like honey and heartbreak.
I push through the door and step into the warm, familiar buzz of the bar. Only it feels different somehow. Cleaner, maybe. Like someone’s been paying attention to details that’ve been ignored for years.
I don’t come in here as often as I used to—club business has been keeping me busy lately. But tonight I’ve got a reason. Devil called earlier, said he was finalizing the handover, wanted to give mea heads-up before word got around. As enforcer, it’s my job to know who’s operating in our territory.
He didn’t say who the new owner was, which was weird in itself. Devil’s not usually one for mysteries. If anything, he’s too direct for most people’s comfort. It’s what I like most about him.
I spot the old bastard behind the bar, polishing a glass. He’s built like a brick shithouse, with the cholesterol to match. The man’s a walking heart attack in a leather vest who should’ve retired five years ago.
“Thought you were hanging up your apron,” I say as I approach, sliding onto a barstool that’s seen better decades.
He grunts without looking up.
I lean forward, waiting. Within a few seconds a beer appears before me. Devil might not be the most talkative guy, but he knows that’s not why we come here.
I take a sip, waiting for him to share. He ignores me, racking glasses and cleaning down counters that are older than sin.
Finally, knowing the stubborn prick is gonna make me ask, I do so.
“Heard you’re selling up.”
He gives me a look that would make Medusa proud. “I’m finalizing the transition. Handover’s done. Place has a new owner as of yesterday.”
“You gonna tell me who?” I lean back, studying his face for tells. “Is it someone local? Someone who understands how things work around here?”
He shrugs. “Don’t need to. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”
I narrow my eyes. “Devil, if this is someone who’s gonna cause problems?—”
“Relax, Harley.” The use of my real name makes me sit up straighter. “New owner’s not gonna be trouble for the club. If anything, might solve some old problems.”
Before I can ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, the bastard walks off, leaving me with more questions than answers. Typical.
Whatever. I’ve got eyes. I’ll work it out.
I drift toward the pool tables, scanning the room. The place looks good—better than it has in years. Someone’s replaced the burned-out bulbs, wiped down surfaces that probably haven’t seen a clean rag since they were first installed.
