Page 80 of Hold Your Breath
“I agree. I’ll give Rob a call.” They passed the small “Welcome to Liverton, Altitude 9,745 feet” sign. “Right after we’ve talked to Ian.”
Callum turned left onto Second Street and immediately turned left again to park in the small gravel lot next to the bar. It was big enough for only five or so vehicles, and Callum took the last available spot. Glancing at the clock on the dash reading 10:53, Lou shook her head. Not only was the bar open before eleven, but it was packed, at least by Liverton standards.
She hopped out of the truck and joined Callum by the door. “You know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the line of pickups, “this is why my truck has—had—such good self-esteem.”
He didn’t say anything but just looked at her with an expression of wry amusement mixed with a touch of bafflement.
“Anywhere else, my truck would’ve been considered a POS. But in Field County, she was a shining star of beauty…at least compared to most of the vehicles around here.” Lou jerked her head to one pickup in particular, the color of primer except for the orange topper and army-green hood. A huge dent hollowed out the right side of the bed.
With a quiet huff of amusement, Callum ushered her inside.
The place was pretty much what Lou expected—a row of bar stools and a few Formica tables. The stools were all occupied, and everyone turned to look at them as they entered, making Lou feel like an actress in an old Western. If music had been playing, she was pretty sure it would’ve screeched to a halt.
Since none of the gawkers were Ian, Lou followed Callum to a table tucked in a corner. He pulled out a metal-framed chair with a vinyl seat bearing the requisite rip in it. Once she sat, he took the chair next to hers. She noted that he’d arranged them both with their backs to the wall, facing the door. Callum plucked the plastic-covered menu from its spot propped between the salt and pepper shakers.
The bartender, with her bleached hair and overtanned, lined skin, fit right in with the decor. She appeared to be doubling as the waitress, since she left her spot behind the bar and headed to their table. “What can I get you?” she asked in a raspy smoker’s voice.
“Chicken wings?” Callum sent Lou a questioning look, tilting the menu in her direction.
“Yes, please.” Leaning closer so she could see the options, she added, “And onion rings. Oh, and cheese sticks. Mmm…an order of mini-pizzas, too. The sausage ones.”
The waitress nodded. “Anything to drink?”
“Just water,” Lou said, and Callum held up two fingers.
As the server took their order to the kitchen, Callum gave her a look.
“What?” she asked defensively. “I’m hungry.”
“That’s about a year’s worth of grease,” he said. “You’ll probably regret this in a few hours.”
“Probably,” she agreed with a shrug. “But it’ll taste pretty good going down.”
After the waitress dropped off their waters and then returned to her post at the bar, Lou watched Callum thoughtfully as he unwrapped his straw.
It was his turn to ask, “What?”
“I just realized that I’ve never seen you drink,” she explained, stripping her own straw. “Alcohol, I mean. You ordered a beer once, when we talked to Belly, but you didn’t drink any of it.”
“That’s because I don’t.” He flattened his straw wrapper and folded it in half with careful precision. “Not unless I’m on vacation and far away from Field County.”
“Why’s that?”
“Can’t go on a call if I’ve been drinking,” he explained, snagging her straw wrapper and pressing it smooth. “The dive team isn’t that big. I think of how I’d feel if someone died because I decided to have a few beers. To me, it’s an easy sacrifice.”
“I never thought about that,” she said.
“Why haven’t I ever seen you have a drink, then?”
With a laugh, she admitted, “Because living out here in the winter is scary. I need to have all my faculties intact to give me the best chance of survival.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but Ian Walsh walked through the door, catching both of their attention. The transition from his fire department bunker gear to lots of leather did not detract from his calendar worthiness. Sure, it’d be a whole different calendar, but she’d still hang it on her wall—or would have, if her walls hadn’t all burned.
Lou waved, and Ian headed in their direction. As he pulled out a chair, she noticed his expression was unusually grim.
“Thanks for meeting me—us,” she said.
In response, he gave a short lift of his chin. When the waitress headed in their direction, Ian shook his head. She retreated back to the bar.
