One
The rain tapered off, the last crystalline drops of a pop-up spring shower flashing in the sunlight. Umbrellas snapped shut, tires hissed over pavement, and the glaze of rainwater flared, bright and slick as sugar frosting over everything.
Ghost took another drag on the cigarette he wasn’t supposed to be having – he kept promising he’d quit, for his own health, for Mags, for Ash’s sake – and turned away from the idyllic view of the street, and toward the boarded-up windows of Bell Bar. Of his new bar. Construction was still underway, and in the way of all construction, was taking forever. Grand Re-Opening Coming Soon, it read on the sign taped to the plywood covering the front window.
Someone had spray-painted under it: Fuck the Lean Dogs.
And, in Sharpie, on the sign itself: Don’t let them take over our city!
He exhaled a plume of smoke. “We’ll have to get some new plywood up.”
“That’s the third time in the last two weeks,” Walsh said. He stood with his hands in his pockets, expression inscrutable save the groove pressed between his brows. “It’ll keep happening.”
“Yeah.” He glanced down the sidewalk, to the other storefronts they now owned: the planned café for Mags, the home of the future Maude’s, a failed old music store he still hadn’t decided what to do with yet. Fuck the Lean Dogs seemed to be the consensus all the way down. “Here’s what I don’t get: how do people know we bought these storefronts?”
Walsh shrugged. “That sort of thing is in the public records. Someone could look it up – if they wanted to.”
“But that’s my point: who would want to?”
Walsh gave him a flat look that managed to suggest he was stupid. He managed to do that in a way that wasn’t insulting. “We’re not exactly the Boys and Girls club, Kenny.”
Ghost sighed out his next exhale of smoke. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Word gets around,” Walsh continued. “We can set up some cameras inside and see if he we catch anyone on film.”
“Yeah.”
Behind him: the sound of a car pulling up, the engine cutting off.
He turned to find Jasmine’s silver Toyota at the curb. She smiled at him through the window, but he could see the tightness in it. The uncertainty. Could see it in her body language, too, as she climbed out and joined them, heels clipping on the cement. “Hi.” She was on her way to class, Ghost figured, based on the jeans, and the light jacket she wore over her low-cut top. Jazz didn’t do modest, as a general rule, or flat-heeled shoes, but she’d toned her usual look down a fraction.
Carter had said she was unexpectedly excited about her afternoon GED classes at the high school, but Ghost didn’t think it was unexpected at all.
Lean Bitches tended to come and go. Those who’d been looking for a thrill and a taste of danger usually got spooked and took off the first time things got dicey. Some had been hoping to become old ladies – and some did – but, for others, the shine of wildness wore off quickly.
Jazz was one of the ones who’d stayed. Ghost could still remember her kneeling at his uncle Duane’s feet, young, and terrified, but already committed, for whatever reason. No one would have blamed her for bolting after Duane died, but she’d stayed. Through the shootouts, and the rival clubs, and the revolving door of Lean Dogs. Throughout the duration of the club’s slow, inexorable climb to the top in Knoxville.
Ghost knew you didn’t stick around that long without wanting something for yourself. Some recognition for loyalty; you didn’t hang around somewhere most of your life without acquiring a dream or two.
“Hey,” he echoed, careful to keep his expression neutral. “You off to class?”
“In a little while, yeah.” Her face brightened immediately at mention of it. “We’re talking about the Revolutionary War tonight.” She toyed with a honeyed curl of hair in a rare show of self-consciousness. “It’s pretty cool.”
“Hmm,” Walsh hummed, his back to them, still, and Jazz cracked a grin.
“Not for you, I don’t guess,” she teased.
“He married an American, he’s got no room to judge,” Ghost said.
She laughed. Her eyes held a question, though, as they flicked to him. And a hunger, when she glanced toward the boarded-up front of Bell Bar.
Maggie was the one she’d asked about it, a few months ago, when Ghost first bought the place. Mags said her brows had gone up, and her hands had frozen on the salad tongs, and she’d said, “Who’s gonna run it?” in a show of forced casual interest.
When he’d considered it, he’d thought why not? Everyone else was busy with his or her own stuff, and Jazz had long since proved her dedication to the club and all its members and family. She ran the clubhouse like a drill sergeant – only better to look at. She had an easy, friendly way with strangers, that Southern hostess skill that seemed ingrained at birth here in Tennessee, plus the kind of flirtation skills that would have men emptying their pockets when they passed the tip jar at night.
Ghost hadn’t promised her anything yet, or even asked if she wanted to, but she’d started taking classes anyway. And he could see the want plain as day on her face now, as the post-storm sunlight caught the sparkle of her eyes.
“Construction’s been slower than we thought,” Ghost said, gesturing to the building. “There was mold in the walls and some of the wiring was bad. A whole lead paint situation. But the dry wall’s going up next week. We managed to keep the original bar. Now we’ve gotta figure out what we want it to look like inside.”
She nodded, gaze still tracking over the exterior façade. “Right.”
“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to help with that.”
It took a moment for the sentence to land. She started to nod, and then her eyes widened, and her gaze snapped to his face. Her throat jumped as she swallowed. “Really?” Cautious, doubtful, wanting to be pleased.
He reached into his cut pocket and offered her what he’d just picked up on the ride over. The nametag.
It was just a bit of plastic with a pin on the back. But on the front, engraved in sleek caps, was JASMINE. And, under it, Manager.
“If you’re up for it,” he said, suppressing a smile.
“I…” She sucked in a breath. Pressed one shaking hand to her mouth, and reached slowly toward the tag with the other. She hesitated, manicured nails hovering over his palm. Her gaze darted up. “Really?” she whispered.
“Really. A bar needs a manager, right?”
“I…” For a moment, he thought she’d cry, and he wasn’t equipped to deal with that – shot a glance toward Walsh who only smirked at him. But then she took a deep breath, gathered herself, and picked up the tag. Curled her hand tight around it, knuckles white, like she was afraid he’d take it back. “I…thank you. Oh my God. Thank you. You won’t regret it. I won’t let you down.”
“I didn’t figure you would.”
She squealed, and threw her arms around his neck.
“Oh. Um. You’re welcome.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, and Walsh grinned.
~*~