Page 39 of Tangled Up In You
“I’ve had alcohol,” she clarified, looking at the label. “Just not a Coors.”
“No kidding? Y’all make moonshine on that farm?”
“We have some neighbors who make moonshine—I’ve had it….” She looked at him and grimaced comically. “I prefer our wines and ciders.”
“You’re telling me you get to live on a big piece of land with wild cats, don’t have to speak to anyone if you don’t want to, and you make your own booze?” He tilted his bottle to his lips, speaking against it. “Homesteading is sounding better by the minute.”
They looked over at a crash of glass to the right, where a fight was breaking out near the jukebox. The crowd backed up to give the fighters space, jostling Fitz and Ren against the bar. On instinct, Fitz put an arm around her shoulders, shielding her. The furor reached a crescendo, and they looked at each other and then to the kitchen doors when they swung open and a leathered woman in a greasy apron stepped through, held up a shotgun, and fired it twice into the ceiling. Ren and Fitz slapped their hands over their ears, hunching for the impact of the ceiling raining down, but other than a spray of dust, it seemed to remain intact.
“Knock it off!” the woman yelled, and returned, Fitz hoped, to making their lunch.
“Is this normal?” Ren whispered.
Slowly, he lowered his hands. Trying to hide his own panic, he muttered, “Define normal.”
“Shotguns at every meal?”
“Maybe not every meal.”
Their bartender friend appeared from the kitchen with two plates he dropped down with a clatter in front of them. “Twenty-two bucks,” he said, and waited.
Fitz reached back for his wallet and—
His fingers scrambled over his back pocket. “Where—?” Panic clutched him. “Where’s my wallet?”
He looked to Ren, who was performing a similar scouring of her pockets and backpack. “Fitz, my money is gone!”
“Mine, too. I think someone took it.”
Ren yelped, clapping a palm over her mouth. “Are you telling me we’ve been robbed?”
“This is life out in the real world!” he cried, sending a hand into his hair. He’d have to call his bank, the credit card company, his father—God, no, this was the worst—
The bartender rapped two knuckles on the bar. “And are you telling me you can’t pay?”
Gulping, Fitz stared at him. The man could easily crush Fitz’s windpipe with the gentle pinch of a thumb and forefinger. “Sir, I believe someone took our wallets.”
The bartender laughed at this and lifted his chin, indicating the rowdy mob behind them. “Why don’t you go ask ’em to fess up?”
“I—” Fitz began, but realized the man wasn’t looking at Fitz anymore. Fitz followed the man’s attention up, up, up to where Ren had climbed onto the bar.
“What the—” Fitz scrambled to hold her legs so she wouldn’t fall and take a header onto the disgusting floor. “Sweden! What are you doing?”
Ren ignored him and clapped lightly. “Everyone? Can I get your attention, please?”
No one reacted, not even a glance.
God, this was mortifying.
“Ren,” Fitz whispered, gently cupping her ankles. He tried cajoling. “Come on, Sunshine. Get down.”
A piercing whistle cut through the room, and Ren slipped her index finger and pinkie from her mouth. “I said,” she repeated, louder now, no-nonsense, “can I get your attention?”
Voices faded out, and the only sound in the room was that of fifty menacing bodies turning to face them. Someone cleared their throat. Knuckles cracked.
Fitz laughed jovially. “Oh boy! This one, am I right? She’s a lightweight. Please, friends, go back to your meals and beers and darts and fisticuffs.”
But when he slid his hands higher to the back of her calves, urging her forward, the muscles tensed under his hands. She was strong, and she wasn’t budging.