Page 25 of A Stop in Time
My eyes drift to the papers lying on the shitty excuse for a desk, illuminated by an even shittier excuse for a desk lamp.
Linking my fingers together, I rest them atop my head and sigh. “Maybe I’m just a spoiled motherfucker these days,” I mutter. It’s gotta be true, because this place would’ve been the equivalent of a palace to eleven-year-old me.
Nowadays, the revenue The Scorpions bring in helps out the community so nobody is in need. Everyone has a good home. Including me. I’ve got a house that puts my childhood one to absolute fucking shame.
The Flamingo Inn motel is the only place to stay in this one-stoplight town. I could stay at a better place where I don’t risk getting bedbugs, but I can’t take a chance that I’d miss tracking down this Mac character. Especially since this particular Freebird bar is within walking distance of this motel.
I pull on my button-down shirt and leave it untucked to hide my holstered gun. With a glance in the mirror, I bite back the urge to wince at my reflection. Lack of sleep from trying to retrace my sister’s last steps has taken its toll. I look like ass, but I don’t give a shit.
I’ll find the motherfucker who’s responsible for her murder if it’s the last thing I do.
15
MAC
“A Thursday and a Friday?” Brows raised, Benny pours me two fingers of whiskey, neat. “You suddenly gone sweet on me or somethin’?”
“Yeah. That’s totally it.” To complement my deadpan expression, I pretend to scratch my cheek with my middle finger.
He rolls his eyes, but I notice the slight twitching at the edges of his lips as he slides my drink over to me. That trace of a smirk doesn’t last but a split second, though. Typical Benny.
I raise my glass in salute. “Thanks, Benny.” He gives me a barely there nod before his attention is stolen, thick silvery-gray brows bunching fiercely, by the bar’s newest arrival.
I don’t bother to offer a glance at the newcomer, because honestly, I don’t give a shit. I normally tune out any nearby conversations the minute I walk in. I plan to drink my whiskey in peace without any assclowns bothering me tonight.
Evidently, I won’t be granted that peace. That much is clear by the unfamiliar accented male voice currently questioning Ty Pickford and friends. “I’m lookin’ for a guy named Mac.”
I stall, my glass held at my lips while zeroing in on the stranger in the expansive mirror behind the rows of liquor bottles. I catch sight of the newcomer’s reflection—or, at least part of him.
From where he currently stands, I’m only afforded a view of his back, broad and covered in an untucked black button-down that I’d bet has some expensive name etched on the inside tag. It just looks fancy, with sleek pinstripes cutting dark-gray paths along the fabric.
He shifts slightly to address one of Ty’s friends, Garret, and I survey the stranger as he keeps his hands in his pockets.
Shirtsleeves cuffed just beneath his elbows, the rich bronze color of his skin is nearly camouflaged by the vivid black ink wrapping around his forearms. Though his stance might appear casual, the way he holds himself tells me he’s prepared for anything that might come his way.
The hem of his shirt hangs past his waist but fails to conceal a fine-looking ass encased in midnight-black slacks. He finishes it off with sleek but functional boots in a matching color.
That’s a whole lot of black for someone to wear. I mean, shit. Even his hair matches his outfit, so black it practically gleams. It’s shaved super close on the sides, while the top strip of hair is only a few inches long, bordering on a short, stylish faux hawk.
“…tryin’ to find Mac…” As the stranger makes another attempt with Gus and Johnny, his Hispanic accent grows a shade more pronounced with his impatience.
Gus and Johnny pretend to consider the stranger’s inquiry before snickering like fools. Each offers up a response filled with glee. “Nope. Can’t say I know a guy named Mac,” and, “Don’t know any man by that name.”
I groan under my breath and sip my whiskey. At this rate, I really should’ve ordered a double.
Using the bar mirror to my advantage, I covertly watch the man’s spine tense beneath his shirt at each failure to procure a successful response. I raise my glass to my lips just as he turns to question someone else and promptly freeze.
Holy shit. I don’t make it a habit of waxing poetic over much of anything, least of all a man. But this guy… Now that I’m granted a view of his face, I’m rendered powerless to yank my eyes off him.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s not a conventionally beautiful man. What he is, is a poster child for rough-edged masculinity. The kind that grabs your attention as if someone’s forcing your eyelids open as far as possible to take in the unique and compelling sight.
Harshly chiseled angles form his striking jawline. The bridge of his nose is straight and narrow, yet it sits off-center the slightest fraction, indicating the probability it’s been relocated by a fist at least once.
Johnny leans back in his chair, the wood creaking with his weight. “This Mac owe you money or somethin’?”
With dark scruff and flat, expressionless brows, the man’s mouth appears to be permanently fixed in an imposing slant. “No.”
“Sorry. Can’t help you.”