swig from my glass and try not to cough it all up as it burns the back of my throat. “We’re just friends,” I assure him.
“ Mhm ,” George replies noncommittally, giving me the one-eyebrow-raised look that’s the visual equivalent of saying “whatever you say.” The bell on the diner door dings and that’s my cue to get back to work. “Saved by the bell,” he says enigmatically, clearly enjoying teasing me.
“Right, well I better go get those nice men some menus,” I say with a pasted on shit-eating grin and false cheer that makes George splutter out the whisky he had just sipped, which in turn makes me burst out laughing.
After the dramatic events of the night it feels good to laugh, especially when I can’t help but feel like there’s not going to be much to laugh about for long.
CHAPTER NINE
As always, I arrive at The Hideaway before Jake does. Even though neither of us were twenty-one, Painted Rock bars never checked ID's. Not since the Bleeding Angels came. I always joked that he would be late to his own funeral. I even keep reminding myself that I should really start turning up an hour after we’ve agreed to meet, and maybe then we’d actually arrive at the same time. But lateness isn’t in my nature. Besides, the bar isn’t a bad place to kill time; especially with how limited the options are in Painted Rock.
The Hideaway is one of only two bars in town, the other being the biker bar, Wheels, where no one in their right mind would go unless they were either the girlfriend of one of the bikers or were looking for a fight. I’d never been to Wheels and I had no intention of changing that anytime soon. I wonder if that’s where Suzie is right now.
It was one of the strange features that had become so normal in this town: you might find a group of bikers at The Hideaway, but you never found non-bikers at ‘Wheels’. The Bleeding Angels could go where they want, when they want, take what they want, do what they want. There was no one to challenge them. Not anymore.
I cast a look around the place as I walk in and head straight for the bar. It’s kind of a dive, but it has a certain charm about it despite the sticky floors. “Hey Noah,” I say as I hop up onto one of the stools and greet the owner.
“How’s it going, Aimee?” he asks back.
Noah was born and bred in Painted Rock, so he knows everyone and everything that goes on in this town. Although he’s no fan of the Bleeding Angels, he knows that it wouldn’t be anywhere near worth his while to do anything about them, just like everyone else.
If you wanted to know anything about Painted Rock, anything that’s going on that may not necessarily be public, Noah was your man. He could find out whatever it is that you want to know—for a fee, of course. Just like everything else in this town, information can be bought. I wonder how responsible Noah feels for some of the beatings—or, I should say, examples —that have occurred in Painted Rock over the years.
Sometimes someone lets slip how much they hate the Bleeding Angels when they’ve had a few drinks, or maybe confides to their drinking buddy that they haven’t handed over all the cash for their “protection” that month—that they’d kept some back. A few days later, that someone disappears only to be found barely alive by the roadside with drag-marks up and down their bodies.
That was one of the Bleeding Angels’ favorite ways to send out a message to the people of Painted Rock. Nothing quite says “don’t fuck with us” like being dragged behind a motorbike along desert roads.
“You know, same old, same old,” I say to Noah, shrugging my shoulders, thinking that the story of what happened to Big George in the diner the night before had probably already done the rounds.
I wait for Noah to try to get more information, to find out something that he may be able to use later on. He’s not a bad
“ Mhm ,” George replies noncommittally, giving me the one-eyebrow-raised look that’s the visual equivalent of saying “whatever you say.” The bell on the diner door dings and that’s my cue to get back to work. “Saved by the bell,” he says enigmatically, clearly enjoying teasing me.
“Right, well I better go get those nice men some menus,” I say with a pasted on shit-eating grin and false cheer that makes George splutter out the whisky he had just sipped, which in turn makes me burst out laughing.
After the dramatic events of the night it feels good to laugh, especially when I can’t help but feel like there’s not going to be much to laugh about for long.
CHAPTER NINE
As always, I arrive at The Hideaway before Jake does. Even though neither of us were twenty-one, Painted Rock bars never checked ID's. Not since the Bleeding Angels came. I always joked that he would be late to his own funeral. I even keep reminding myself that I should really start turning up an hour after we’ve agreed to meet, and maybe then we’d actually arrive at the same time. But lateness isn’t in my nature. Besides, the bar isn’t a bad place to kill time; especially with how limited the options are in Painted Rock.
The Hideaway is one of only two bars in town, the other being the biker bar, Wheels, where no one in their right mind would go unless they were either the girlfriend of one of the bikers or were looking for a fight. I’d never been to Wheels and I had no intention of changing that anytime soon. I wonder if that’s where Suzie is right now.
It was one of the strange features that had become so normal in this town: you might find a group of bikers at The Hideaway, but you never found non-bikers at ‘Wheels’. The Bleeding Angels could go where they want, when they want, take what they want, do what they want. There was no one to challenge them. Not anymore.
I cast a look around the place as I walk in and head straight for the bar. It’s kind of a dive, but it has a certain charm about it despite the sticky floors. “Hey Noah,” I say as I hop up onto one of the stools and greet the owner.
“How’s it going, Aimee?” he asks back.
Noah was born and bred in Painted Rock, so he knows everyone and everything that goes on in this town. Although he’s no fan of the Bleeding Angels, he knows that it wouldn’t be anywhere near worth his while to do anything about them, just like everyone else.
If you wanted to know anything about Painted Rock, anything that’s going on that may not necessarily be public, Noah was your man. He could find out whatever it is that you want to know—for a fee, of course. Just like everything else in this town, information can be bought. I wonder how responsible Noah feels for some of the beatings—or, I should say, examples —that have occurred in Painted Rock over the years.
Sometimes someone lets slip how much they hate the Bleeding Angels when they’ve had a few drinks, or maybe confides to their drinking buddy that they haven’t handed over all the cash for their “protection” that month—that they’d kept some back. A few days later, that someone disappears only to be found barely alive by the roadside with drag-marks up and down their bodies.
That was one of the Bleeding Angels’ favorite ways to send out a message to the people of Painted Rock. Nothing quite says “don’t fuck with us” like being dragged behind a motorbike along desert roads.
“You know, same old, same old,” I say to Noah, shrugging my shoulders, thinking that the story of what happened to Big George in the diner the night before had probably already done the rounds.
I wait for Noah to try to get more information, to find out something that he may be able to use later on. He’s not a bad
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