Page 11 of A Stop in Time
His chest rattles with a raspy laugh, but it doesn’t stop him from lighting the cigarette pinched in the corner of his lips. “Got one right outside, matter of fact.”
Frustration has my mouth flattening. “Thanks, anyway.”
“Mmhmm.” He eyes me just like everybody else did the moment I stepped inside. They’re in either overalls or jeans that are filthy or just look it and T-shirts to match. I stick out like a sore thumb, but I don’t give two shits about that.
A guy like me walks into a place like this, frequented by “lot lizards” offering up pussy to all these lonely truckers who’ve been on the road far too long, and I stick out like a sore thumb.
I’m wearing my usual—black slacks with a matching button-down and black steel-toed boots to match. My shirt’s untucked, but it’s a half-ass attempt to conceal my holstered gun.
Even if I were dressed like the rest of them, I sure as hell wouldn’t blend in. Not with my darker skin and my accent, that’s for damn sure.
Sidling up to the bar, I slide onto the stool that’s decorated with a long, wide strip of duct tape to hide the split in the old leather. Might as well grab a drink while I’m here. Fuck knows I deserve it after hitting so many goddamn dead ends.
The bartender’s old as shit, but I’ve got a feeling he won’t turn me away based on my appearance. Prison tats cover his bare forearms. His eyes alone tell me he’s seen some serious shit.
He slaps a thin-as-shit square beverage napkin down in front of me. “What’ll it be?”
My eyes drift past him to scan the liquor bottles on the shelves behind him. “Whiskey neat. Three fingers.”
A nod is all he offers before turning around and grabbing the bottle and a glass. A moment later, he sets my drink on the napkin.
“Thanks.”
He gives another nod, glances around, then leans in. His dark gaze locks with mine, his voice hushed, words meant for only me to hear. “You ain’t plannin’ to cause trouble in here, are ya? ’Cause I ain’t got no beef with y’all.” His eyes flick down to the inside of my right forearm at the inked scorpion tattoo that represents our gang—our family, for all intents and purposes.
I lift my glass and dip my chin. “Not plannin’ anythin’.” Holding his gaze, I toss back half the whiskey, welcoming the familiar warmth as it slides down my throat.
He’s smart enough to read the truth in my eyes. “Fair enough. Let me know if you need somethin’ else.”
“Will do.”
He walks away, leaving me in silence. I stare into the amber liquid wishing like hell Emilia had given me more to go on.
With an inward grunt, I’m tempted to ask the bartender to give me the whole fucking bottle of whiskey, but drowning myself in alcohol won’t get me any closer to finding her murderer or tracking down this guy named Mac.
I’ve got more motherfucking Freebirds to hit up. Who the hell knew there were that many within a two-hour radius of downtown Jacksonville where Emilia worked?
With a sigh, I toss back the rest of my drink and slide off the barstool. Dropping enough cash for my drink and a decent tip for the bartender beside my empty glass, I leave the bar.
Wishing like hell I weren’t leaving empty-handed once again.
9
MAC
Monday Morning
Wiping my greasy hands on the rag, I heave out a sigh and turn away from the Tacoma sitting in the bay of my garage.
“In local news, another body was discovered early this morning along the banks of the St. Johns River.
“Authorities have admitted that the body was of a woman in her late twenties to early thirties, but they cannot reveal more at this time. The Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office will—”
Stepping over to the radio, I’m not sure why I’m antsy as hell to do it, but I shut it off in mid-news story. Relief settles over me at the absence of the radio’s noise, and I breathe a little easier.
I move in the path of one of the industrial-sized fans sending gusts of wind barreling through one open end of the bay doors to the other. They never quite combat the humidity Florida’s known for but serve as a small reprieve from the heat.
Tossing my rag on the top of one of my tool chests, I lift the hem of my tank top and swipe at the layer of sweat and grease coating my forehead. I’m about to lose daylight, so it’s time to wrap it up.