Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
I briefly consider stabbing him with my fork, but quickly decide Letty would probably kill me for it. I think she wants to be the first one to stab him on purpose. Honestly, don't blame her. I've known him my whole life. I'd cover for her. "Does he annoy the fuck out of you, too?" I ask Bishop.
"Every goddamn day," Bishop growls, glaring at my brother.
Walker just laughs again, hard enough that he chokes.
"Serves you right, you big bastard," I say, amused when he reaches for his coffee, wheezing. I eat my bacon, enjoying his misery. If he dies, he dies. Not my problem.
Eventually, he catches his breath. Believe me, I'm just as sad about it as the next motherfucker.
"So, who's the new bartender?" he asks a moment later.
"Harlow Spencer."
A flicker of recognition flares in his eyes.
"You know her?"
"Know of her," he says after a moment. "Remember when Ma took us to that art gallery to see the sculptures when we were kids?"
A vague memory tickles at the back of my mind. "The animal sculptures? The gallery was decked out like a jungle or a forest or something?"
"Yep," he says. "Her mom, Lynnie Spencer, was the sculptor. She was a big deal until she got sick."
"Got sick?"
"Yeah. ALS or multiple sclerosis. I don't remember the details," he murmurs with a frown. "I just remember there being a big fundraiser in Midnight Falls when she was first diagnosed. Her kid was there." He meets my gaze. "Harlow."
Well, son of a…
Is that why she's working in the bar? To take care of her mom?
"Her mom died about a year ago, if I remember correctly."
My heart plummets. She lost her mom? Goddammit. She said she was used to taking care of herself, but fuck my life. If Walker's memory is correct, I'm guessing she's used to taking care of more than just herself. She probably took care of her mom too, for a long goddamn time. And now, she's on her own.
I rub my chest, right over my heart where it aches.
Walker clocks the move, his expression softening. There's no bullshit, no amusement this time, just a well of empathy, as if he gets it on a level I'm not entirely sure I understand yet. "I assume you'll be keeping an eye on her?"
"That's the plan."
He jerks his chin in a nod. "We'll cover for you around here as much as we can," he mutters. "Give you a few days to sort it out. Just do me a favor?"
"What?"
"Call Dillon next time Palmer is a problem, Wade," he says, his tone serious. "I mean it. You aren't going to be any good to her if you land your ass in jail. And you know damn well that Hudson doesn't want that kind of shit around here."
I mutter a curse because he's right, as much as I hate to admit it. Hudson fired the last cowboy who got arrested. I do not need to end up in the same boat. "Yeah, fine. If he's a problem again, I'll let Dillon deal with him."
"Good," Walker says, seemingly satisfied. And then he turns to Bishop, who has been studiously pretending to ignore us, like if he tries hard enough, Walker might forget that he's doing a favor for Morgan, too. "Now, we going to talk about what Morgan has you doing?"
"Nope," he says, standing abruptly, his expression uncharacteristically dark. "We're not talking about it at all."
Walker stares at him for a long moment and then nods. "Fine. But if you need us, we've got you."
He jerks his chin in a nod, his expression tight before he grabs his plate and stomps toward the front of the mess hall.
"Think he'll talk?" Walker asks when he's out of earshot.
"Not a chance in hell," I say with a laugh. Bishop has always held his cards close to his vest when shit matters. And judging by the look on his face when he walked away, whatever he's doing for Morgan matters. It matters a whole helluva lot.
Chapter Five
Harlow
"Here." I drop a Coke on the bar in front of Wade, who is posted up at the end of it in a faded flannel and jeans…just like he has been every day for the last week straight. It's annoying as hell. He doesn't even have to say anything for me to know he's there. It's like my eyes pick him out as soon as his fine ass strolls through the doors.
It's driving me nuts.
Most nights, he just watches me. And unlike when Danny does it, my skin doesn't crawl. It hums with this energy that makes me want to scream.
This man is slowly unraveling me at the seams, and I don't think he's even trying. He's just…quietly showing up. No one bothers me with him planted at the bar. It's like they all know that he'll crack skulls and break faces if they try.