BooksBarbecue
Back The Short Drop
Chapters (61)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication
  4. CONTENTS
  5. START READING
  6. PART ONE
  7. CHAPTER ONE
  8. CHAPTER TWO
  9. CHAPTER THREE
  10. CHAPTER FOUR
  11. CHAPTER FIVE
  12. CHAPTER SIX
  13. CHAPTER SEVEN
  14. CHAPTER EIGHT
  15. CHAPTER NINE
  16. CHAPTER TEN
  17. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  18. CHAPTER TWELVE
  19. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  20. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  21. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  22. PART TWO
  23. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  24. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  25. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  26. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  36. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  37. CHAPTER THIRTY
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  43. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
  46. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
  47. CHAPTER FORTY
  48. CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
  49. PART THREE
  50. CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
  51. CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
  52. CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
  53. CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
  54. CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
  55. CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
  56. CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
  57. CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
  58. CHAPTER FIFTY
  59. EPILOGUE
  60. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  61. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

His father could, and would, opine at length about the great diners around the country, but the Blue Moon on West Main in Charlottesville, Virginia, had always been home base. If Duke Vaughn had been a professor, his classroom would have been its pockmarked counter. Father-son talks over breakfast had been a hallowed Sunday morning ritual going back to when Gibson was six years old. He’d learned the birds and bees over a slice of cherry pie—and remained embarrassed to admit how many years passed before he got his father’s joke.

Duke Vaughn had been royalty at the Blue Moon. Gibson never once saw his father place an order, but it came the same way every time: two eggs sunny side up, hash browns, grits, bacon, sausage, and white toast. Coffee. Orange juice. A man’s breakfast, his father called it, and there was no metaphor that Duke couldn’t conjure from the meal. Gibson hadn’t set foot inside the Blue Moon since his father’s death. His father’s suicide. Call it what it was.

But after some time had passed, Gibson found he never felt at home in a new place until he located a diner that suited him. Home on the road, his father had called it. Gibson thought Duke would have approved of the Nighthawk and its proprietor, Toby Kalpar.

Gibson’s eyes drifted to the woman at the end of the counter. Not because she was beautiful or because she was wearing a tailored business suit in a diner on a Sunday morning. It wasn’t even the slight outline of a shoulder holster under her left arm—this was Virginia after all. Concealed carry was about as rare as a collar on a dog. It was the fact that although she never looked his way exactly, he could feel her attention on him, and not in a flattering way. He forced himself to look away. Two could play that game. Just a couple of strangers . . . not looking at each other.

“You drink more coffee than a busload of bad poets,” Toby said, refilling his cup again.

“You should have seen me in the Corps. I about lived on coffee and Ripped Fuel. By 1800 hours you could fry an egg on my forehead.”

“What in the name of God is ‘Ripped Fuel’?”

“It’s a supplement. For working out. Not exactly legal these days.”