“—but it can’t be anything good.”

My hands squeeze the steering wheel.

Just hold on, Waylon.

Just hold the fuck on.

22

22

Will Foster

Bootleggers is one of those bars I imagine you’d see on the 10 o’clock news, boxed in with yellow caution tape, a police cruiser parked out front. A reporter would stand a safe distance away, talking about the stabbing or shooting or overdose that took place, red and blue lights flickering over her too-tight smile.

Harsh? Maybe.

Accurate? Probably.

Squeezed between what looks to be an abandoned motel and a sketchy looking convenience store, Bootleggers would go otherwise unnoticed if it wasn’t for the flickering green OPEN sign hanging above the screen door. It’s the first sign of life I’ve seen since we turned onto this road a mile and some change back.

Reggie pulls in right behind us, wasting no time in turning off his truck before jumping out. By the time I turn the key and step out, he’s already reached my side. His face is drawn, leaving no traces of the vulgar, ball busting man I’ve come to know.

Even the worried man from earlier is nowhere to be seen, hidden behind a hard shell that looks ready to wage war, all on behalf of his estranged nephew.

He looks at each of us. “You follow my lead here, got it?”

I exchange a wary look with Ivy.

“Ivaiah, I’d ask you to stay in the car, but—”

“You know better,” she finishes sharply. “My sensibilities are anything but delicate, thank you very much. This is Waylon. I’m going in.”

He sighs with exasperation. “I know you can handle yourself. If I didn’t think I’d need you two as back-up, I wouldn’t have asked you to come—”

“What the hell is this place?” I cut in, seconds from storming the place. Reggie must sense my growing impatience, because he grabs my arm, placing himself in front of me. Halting my angry stride.

“Not back-up because of them, but because of him. The folks that come here are all just a buncha dead-beats who aren’t worth your time. It’s just not a nice place.” He hesitates, looking down at the ground, and some of the sadness I saw earlier peeks out. “It’s Waylon I’m worried about. Jimbo didn’t say what condition he was in, but there’s a good chance if he’s here, he’s pretty fucked up. And he’s going to be pissed when he sees me.”

Some of the fight in me retreats at his words.

He huffs and turns to lead the way. Over his shoulder, I hear, “Let’s go.”

Not wasting another second, I follow him, with Ivy fast on my heels.

A wall of smoke greets us as we push our way inside. My eyes sting and it takes a few rapid blinks to see through the tears.