Barely Bewitched by Kimberly Frost

out of the restaurant and across the street, wishing Merc had been there to hear what she’d said, because I was sure he’d have agreed that law-breaking was our only option. And not just an option, an imperative. If Jenna got away with stomping on me and driving me out of my home, who knew what she’d get it in her head to do next? After all, every tyrant had to start somewhere. Thinking back to Mrs. Neilson’s high school world history class, I clenched my fists. What if my jewelry was Poland, and this was my chance to thwart a mini-Hitler in the making? I slapped my fist in my palm and nodded. No question. The hiccups weren’t enough. Jenna had to be stopped. As soon as Edie got back, we were going to rob Jenna’s house.

    I drove back to Old Town and parked in the alley next to the Whiskey Barrel. It was dark, and while Duvall’s not known for being crime-ridden, it’d been trying for an edgier reputation lately. I hurried to the cobbled walk.
    The Whiskey Barrel’s door is solid wood and hard to open. It sticks because the building’s shifted in the years since it was built. I’d been inside the Barrel only a couple of times with Zach and his brothers because usually they didn’t bother with Old Town. They liked Jammers better since it was a sports bar where every way you turned there was a big TV showing some game.
    I gripped the brass bar on the door and pulled until it finally creaked open. Willie Nelson crooned from the corner jukebox, and I stepped into the hazy room, blinking as cigarette smoke stung my eyes. There were about a dozen guys inside.
    Incendio leaned over the pool table, and the cue slid through his fingers. The balls collided with a snap that sent the eight ball into the corner pocket. Incendio stood with a slow movement and reached for a stack of bills that sat on the table under a chalk cube.
    He pocketed the money, took a drag on his cigarette, and eyed me. His faded black T-shirt with the Harley logo didn’t taper in from shoulders to belly, so he wasn’t made of perfect muscles like Zach or Bryn, but he wasn’t flabby either. His torso was a lot like a barrel actually, big and solid.
    He stubbed his spent cigarette out in a chipped ashtray. His thick left forearm had a tattoo of a skull with flames shooting from the eyes and mouth. I shivered.
    He picked up the ashtray and walked to a small corner table. Jordan was sitting there with his arms folded, looking like his clothes were resisting the temptation to get wrinkled.
    “Well, well. Out on your own again at night,” someone said.
    I turned to find my ex-friend Earl Stanton. Earl and I had recently had a difference of opinion. When I’d gone to Earl’s to pawn my jewelry, he’d decided that I should stay at his house even though I wanted to go. So he’d tried to convince me not to leave by pinning me down on his couch. A few minutes later, I’d decided that the best way to change his mind was to hit him over the head with a heavy brass lamp.
    “Hey, Earl,” I said, wishing I’d thought to put a baseball bat in my pocketbook.
    “Whyn’t you come have a drink with me? There’s some things I want to talk about with you,” he said with well-whiskeyed breath. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to the bar. I didn’t resist because there were several beer bottles on the bar that looked like they might serve my purpose in the case of another disagreement.
    Jordan strolled over. “Miss Trask, so good of you to come. Who’s your friend?”
    I wanted to take exception to the term friend , but that wouldn’t have been polite, and even if I did have to hit Earl over the head with a beer bottle later, I’d try to mind my manners at first.
    “Earl Stanton. He owns the town pawnshop. Earl, this is Jordan Perth. He’s visiting.”
    Earl let my arm go, and they shook hands.
    “Mr. Stanton, a pleasure. Miss Trask, shall we?” Jordan asked, nodding toward his table.
    “Sure,” I said. Earl didn’t object when I walked away with