Kenny Roy might deny having anything to do with the missing mash—which he’d done repeatedly when she’d questioned him not a half hour ago—but Brandy wasn’t buying it. He might not be the one responsible, but he knew something and Brandy meant to find out exactly what it was.
She eyed the rusted-out silver pickup truck parked in front of the crumbling bar that sat just off the interstate. A few motorcycles leaned near the entrance. A couple of pickup trucks sat off to the side. A few more beaten-up cars sat here and there, along with Kenny Roy’s black Ford Explorer. Smoke drifted from the open doorway, along with an old George Jones song. The Possum had been one of her grandpa’s favorites. Not the favorite, mind you, but close, and so she’d heard every song a thousand times over. The familiar lyrics echoed in her head and the beat thrummed down her spine as she climbed out of Bertha and headed for the entrance. The clack of pool balls, followed by the crackkkk as a bottle hit the floor, brought her up short and she stalled.
Her nerves trembled for a few seconds before she swallowed against the fear and drop-kicked the notion that she should have told someone where she was going. Tyler maybe.
But he would have wanted to come and she wasn’t ready to face him just yet. Last night had thrown her for a loop. Add the missing mash on top of that, and she didn’t trust herself to talk to him without totally freaking out.
She was a nervous wreck and her only hope was to recover the mash. Since Kenny Roy was the only one who knew about the mash besides Ellie—who had been totally oblivious when Brandy had questioned her earlier—Brandy was placing her bets that he’d either had something to do with it or mentioned it to his connection, who’d decided to cut her out of the loop completely.
Not happening.
She eyed the bar again. Still, she wasn’t about to get herself killed. She debated heading back to her car to send a quick text. But reception way out here was poor at best and she didn’t want to waste any time worrying over a signal. Kenny Roy could be in and out in a moment and she would lose her chance to see him in his element.
No, she might not get another opportunity like this.
She drew a deep breath and walked inside the neon-lit interior.
The place was just a shell of an old tin building with a concrete floor littered with cigarette butts and scuff marks. A bar lined the far wall, the backdrop lit with a string of old Christmas lights. Similar lights crisscrossed the ceiling, helping out the bare bulbs that flickered here and there. A jukebox lit up one corner. An old cigarette machine from years gone by sat next to it, the display still advertising smokes for twenty-five cents.
“If you’re wanting to light up, you’ll have to fork over twenty times that much, sugar.”
Brandy turned to see the young woman carrying a small tray, a black apron tied around her waist.
“The machine still works,” the woman went on, “but Bubba, there”—she pointed to the hefty man tending bar behind the counter—“has it rigged to take tokens. You can buy a token for five bucks over at the bar.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I, sugar. At least not until quitting time. Then it’s the only thing that helps calm my nerves after dealing with the jerks in here. Nothing like a good drag every now and then.”
“That ain’t no way to talk about your favorite customer, Meg.” A man glanced up from a nearby table. He wore biker boots, a black leather vest, and a Duck Dynasty beard. Gray streaks hinted that he wasn’t anywhere close in age to the young woman serving his beer, but that didn’t stop him from going for a quick pinch on her butt cheek as she leaned in.
“You’re right, Cecil. Calling you a jerk is putting it mildly.” She swatted his hand away and slammed the beer down on the table in front of him. “You’re more like a dirty old man.”
Suds flew and he chuckled. “A dirty old man who knows how to tip.”
“That’s the only reason you’re not wearing that bottle as a hat, sugar.” Meg winked and turned back to Brandy. “What can I get you, girlfriend?”
“Diet Coke,” Brandy said, sliding onto a nearby bar stool and glancing around, her gaze scanning the interior for Kenny.
She spotted him in a matter of seconds standing near the pool table. Her gaze went to the now familiar man who leaned over the table to line up his next shot. He wore a pair of worn jeans and a black button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair was long, framing his face and falling a few inches below his chin. Stubble shadowed his jaw, lending him an air of danger that said Ryder Jax was a force to be reckoned with.
The man playing opposite him was no different. He was a few inches taller, his shoulders a bit thicker. He had dark hair as well, only his was longer, brushing the tops of his shoulders. He wore a button-down white shirt, the tails hanging free. His jeans were worn in all the right places, his boots scuffed as if he’d put in the same hard day’s work as every other man in the bar.
But he was different. There was something commanding about him. Tough.
The ball flew into a nearby pocket and the man turned to face the two-bit dealer. Kenny pulled out a wad of cash, followed by a hasty spiel that looked more like pleading. As if he’d come up short somehow and he feared telling the man.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous didn’t react. No displeasure. No anger. No nothing. He just stared at Kenny for a long moment before taking the cash and sliding it into his pocket. He turned away then, leaving the man still talking, and went back to his pool game with Ryder.
Kenny’s mouth snapped shut as he watched the next shot. He started to talk again, but Ryder waved a stick at him and that was that. Kenny headed for the door.
Brandy turned back to her drink before Kenny caught sight of her and counted to fifty to give him time to leave before she turned around again, her attention going to the pool game in the corner and the man lining up his eight-ball to Ryder’s dismay.
Downing a long sip of the icy drink, she slid off the bar stool and crossed the room.
“Nice shot,” she said as the ball slammed into the pocket and Ryder let loose a string of curses.
“Thanks.” The man spared her a quick, unreadable glance before turning back to his opponent. “Pay up, Ryder.”
“No fair, Gator. You hustled me.”
As in the Gator Hallsey.
Ryder frowned as Gator held out his hand. “I swear I don’t know why I let you hustle me,” Ryder grumbled as his hand dove into his jeans pocket and pulled out a few hundred-dollar bills.
Shock bolted through Brandy. He handed the money over as if they’d been playing with ones.
“There’s no hustle involved,” Gator said, taking the cash. “I’m just better than you. At pool, and everything else,” he murmured as he turned back to Brandy. “Everything.”
His meaning rang loud and clear and she stiffened. “That’s nice, but I’m not interested.”
“Hear tell you’re always interested, Miss Tucker. Every night, in fact.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“So.” He reached for a chalk cube and dusted the end of his stick. “If you’re not here looking to get lucky, then what are you here for?”
“I know you’re mixed up with Kenny Roy. Ryder, here, is his moonshine connection. And since you guys are affiliated, I’m guessing you’re part of that connection.”
“I can’t say I know what you’re talking about. How about you, Ryder? You know anything about any moonshine going on around here?”
“Not me.”
“Cut the crap. I know it’s you two and you know I know, so let’s stop pretending. Kenny Roy gave you some mash a few weeks back and you either ran it yourselves or gave it to someone to run. I just want to know who.” She swallowed. “I need to talk to them.”
“First off, I don’t run shine,” Gator said, putting his back to her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re just lying because you’re afraid I might be a snitch and you aren’t too keen on spending the next ten years behind bars.”
He stiffened and turned to face her. “If that was true then that would make me one mean mother,” he murmured, leaning so close she could feel the rush of air against her lips.
Lips that were fuller than she’d first thought. Kissable, even, if she’d been the least bit interested.
She wasn’t, she realized as she stared him down. She didn’t catch her breath. Or fight down a rush of heat. Or feel her knees tremble. Nothing. Because as good looking as he was, he wasn’t Tyler McCall.
The sudden truth shook her even more than the fact that she’d just called out the most dangerous man in the county.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” she added. “I just want what’s mine. I made another batch of mash and now it’s missing. Since Kenny Roy is one of the few people who knew about it, I’m banking that he took it and handed it over to you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Fine, deny it. It doesn’t matter.” She thought about arguing quality control, but at this point, she was too desperate. Beggars couldn’t be choosers and she was this close to dropping to her knees because the last thing she had time to do was come up with another batch of mash. “I don’t care who took it at this point. All that matters is that I get a jar of the finished product.”
He seemed as if he wanted to tell her where to go and how fast to get there, but then he shrugged. “I can get you a jar of shine, sweetheart, but I can’t promise it’s your product. I didn’t touch your mash and I don’t have a clue who did.”
“And I should believe you because of your stellar reputation?”
A slow grin split his face. “If reputations were in play, then you’d be doing a striptease on this pool table right now instead of arguing with me.” He shrugged. “Believe me or don’t believe me. I really don’t give a rat’s ass.” He peeled off a few twenties from the wad Kenny Roy had given him and laid them on the table before signaling the waitress. “Let’s cut out,” he told Ryder. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Wait a second. Where’s Cooper McCall?” she called out, her voice bringing him up short.
His brow furrowed. “What do you want with Cooper?”
“His brother’s looking for him. Kenny Roy said you two were delivering together, so if you’re back, then where’s Coop?”
Gator’s gaze narrowed ever so slightly. “He headed for Austin on business. I was going myself, but I got held up here.”
With her mash.
That was the only reason he was standing here right now. He’d come back for her mash and stuck around because he was going to hand it over to someone to run as his own. It was just one of the dozen theories pushing and pulling at her brain.
“Cooper’s a big boy,” Gator added. “If he wants to talk to his brother, I’m guessing he will. If not, then it’s his business.”
“Who are you working with?” she called after him when he started to walk away. “Who ran my mash the first time?”
“Trust me, you’d rather not know.” With that, he left her staring after him.
She debated following, but Gator Hallsey was the best driver to ever haul shine. As good as his daddy and granddaddy before him had been back in the day.
She might try, but she would never manage to keep up.
Even more, she couldn’t shake the crazy hunch that he was telling the truth.
Yeah, right. He was a criminal and she was no closer to getting a jar of the finished product before her meeting on Friday.
She was so screwed.
Professionally and personally.
The truth dogged her as she walked out of the run-down bar and climbed back into her car. Because there was no more denying that despite her best efforts, she’d done the unthinkable—she’d fallen head over heels for Tyler McCall.