Once Easton got to my place and took his sweet time reading the unwelcomed letter, he called up some people, and in a matter of minutes, he knew everything there was to know about Stone Bennett. I have to admit that I’ve never heard the name before in my life. But Easton has a lot of shady friends with even shadier acquaintances, who were all too willing to give us details about the girl.
The first thing we learned is that she’s a Southie, and knowing my target is some girl who lives in the wrong part of town, didn’t settle my anxiety any. With a name like Stone, who knows what I’ll be facing. Most likely, it’s some junkie or thief that got her hands on the wrong asshole’s wallet, and now they want me to teach her a lesson.
When Easton told me to be ready to go on a little outing tonight, I never thought for once that he’d bring me to such a hole in the wall. I don’t know why I’m surprised, though. I should have expected as much.
The minute he parks his truck, and I see exactly where we are, I have half a mind to tell him to turn around and take our asses back home. How am I ever going to befriend some chick who works in a fucking biker bar? The eyesore is located on the edge of town, right in the middle of a notoriously dangerous neighborhood—the type that everyone pretends doesn’t exist, and turns their nose up in a stink until they are faced with one.
When people think of Asheville, they instantly imagine big plantation houses or mansions that would put the White House to shame. A place where the elite lives, enjoying their accumulated fortune under the North Carolina blue skies, warm weather, and southern hospitality. They wouldn’t be wrong either, but where there is wealth, there is a whole lot of poverty hidden away, too. And in this very moment, Easton and I are smacked right at the center of such a destitute place.
Every house in this neighborhood looks like it’s on its last leg—uncared for and forgotten, much like its Southie inhabitants. Still, even the poorest of souls deserve a drink, even if only to forget their miserable sorrows. Judging by the number of bikes parked out front, this disease-ridden watering hole seems to be everyone’s bar of choice.
The huge, red neon light blinking the words ‘Big Jim’s Bar’ accompanied by a silhouette of a woman riding a chopper with her breasts out, shows just how classy the inside will be. Easton, of course, doesn’t hesitate and strolls into the bar like he’s in his element. I can’t help but hate the fucker a little bit for looking like this place doesn’t unnerve him in the least. I’m not as cool. My lead feet have barely taken three steps inside the place, and I already want to hightail it out of here.
I’m not trying to be a conceited prick or anything, but fuck, doesn’t anyone know how to use a fucking mop or a dust cloth? No way am I drinking out of one of those glasses. Might give me an STD, tuberculosis, or some shit like that.
Easton looks around the dimly lit bar and points to an empty table next to some guys playing pool at the back. I’m not bothered by the noise they’re making since it muffles the commotion coming from the other end of the bar, where a makeshift stage hosts a wet T-shirt contest as tonight’s entertainment.
There is an array of women being doused with buckets of cold water, leaving them drenched to the bone. I wouldn’t mind it too much if most of the women on stage didn’t look like they are my momma’s age. Definitely past their prime. Yet they don’t look one bit embarrassed about their saggy boobs and muffin tops being on display. Judging by the howling and wolf calls coming from upfront, the male clientele doesn’t care either.
One goes as far as pulling the flimsy wet material down a redhead’s breast and sucking on her nipple like it’s there for his pure enjoyment. His buddies beside him all whoop at the bare boob being fondled, while the woman grabs her groper’s head closer to her bosom so he can milk her for all she’s worth. I’m more repulsed by the spectacle than the foul smell of poor hygiene in this place.
Head held high, I follow behind Easton because the prideful bastard that I am doesn’t want anyone to see any weakness in me, even if being in a place like this has me feeling like bugs are crawling up my back. It’s dirty, loud, and too damn revolting to stomach.
“Fuck,” I grunt as I feel a crunch come from whatever insect I just annihilated with my shoe.
I look at the grimy floor and see the remains of a cockroach while its pals speed away from their impending death, once again making my nose flare-up in disgust.
Again, not being a dick or anything, but come on!
Cockroaches? Really?
I don’t care if this place is in the worst part of town. Some shit should never dwell where people eat and drink, for God’s sake. If I found cockroaches running around in any establishment on my side of town, they sure as fuck would get an earful from me. But this place is on a whole other level of repulsion. It stinks of urine and puke all at once, and by the looks of the couple on stage who are two seconds away from fucking, it’s about to stink of jizz, too. I’m not sure if I should use my nose or my mouth to breathe while I’m in this dump. Suffocation feels like a good alternative at this point.
But my lungs not getting enough oxygen isn’t even the worst part of being in this joint. I stand out like a sore thumb, which makes my presence at Big Jim’s even more unbearable. Not that I have an issue with being the center of attention. I’m used to it, just never for the wrong reasons. While Easton looks like he’s just another customer looking for a good time and a cold beer, I look like I’m about to do a fucking audit on this poor excuse of an establishment, which, by the way, would fail miserably. Just saying.
It’s not that I’m dressed like a boring, tired-looking inspector, or even a prick with more money than sense. I mean, I didn’t go overboard with my get-up or anything. Only black slacks and a white shirt, nothing flashy.
When Easton said this Stone girl worked in a bar on the south side of town, I didn’t expect fancy, so I didn’t dress for it. But never did I once expect this shithole. Even if I came in here with just an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I would still stick out like a sore thumb. I look like a crisp dollar bill, while everyone else looks like they’re still scraping for change.
“Jesus. Take a seat, Finn. Your uptight scowl is giving me a migraine. Just relax,” Easton barks out with a laugh, making fun of my discomfort.
“Let’s just get this shit over with,” I groan, aggravated by some leather-wearing patrons over at the bar counter looking at me funny.
Why couldn’t this boogeyman society have given this job to Easton instead? I mean, he fits right in. But me? I’m going to have a fucking hard time trying to get close to a girl who works in such a pigsty. No way am I spending my nights here just to fulfill some half-brained order from our blackmailers.
Fuck that!
“Relax, Finn. This is going to be a piece of cake.” Easton winks at me as if I weren’t the one who The Society sunk its fangs into first.
“Just tell me again what you got on this Stone girl,” I counter back, preferring to distract myself from my surroundings by getting down to business.
The sooner I get this over and done with, the faster I can go back to living my life. Not that it’s been a bunch of laughs lately, but anything is preferable to this putrid environment.