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CHAPTER ONE

LACHLAN

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PRESENT DAY

“Does the music suck balls or am I just getting old?”

I sidestep a heavily painted grandmother in leather chaps and a sheer halter. Her bloodshot eyes squint through me as she ambles past.

“You’re getting old,” I yell back over the heavy thump of bass accompanied by a shrieking wail of angry hyenas.

Van isn’t wrong. What used to be a gin-soaked house of rock and roll has fallen to the times. Devolving from a great place for a cold beer to a mosh pit of oily bodies and cat torture ... or whatever this music is.

“We need a new place,” Van gripes as we find our usual spot near the bar.

The round table is layered with a sticky sheen of taffy and carved with initials, slurs and a tiny dick with massive balls. The surface alone harbors several health code violations, but what’s a little risk of death for the chance to unwind after the longest week in history?

Van drops into the seat opposite me with a grunt that has me side eyeing him.

“You okay over there, old man?”

At forty and thirty-nine, neither of us are particularly old, but some days, I’m ready to hang up my hardhat and live in the wild somewhere. Grow my own food, hunt, fish. Just live in solitude until I’m dead.

“I’m ready for bed,” he mutters, making the mistake of setting his forearm on the tacky table. I smirk when he flinches and jerks his arm back. He scowls and rubs the spot before fixing me with his annoyed glower. “I think we should just meet at one of our houses and drink. At least it’s quiet and I won’t need a shot in the morning.”

Our usual Monday night tradition of driving the four hours to Mayfield has had a good run, but even I have to agree it’s getting tired. Or I am.

It used to be Fridays before our schedules started to clash. Van, as the assistant to the town’s only electrician, is on call around the clock. So far, Mondays have been pretty good in terms of boys’ night.

“Jefferson needs a fucking bar,” he continues to mutter.

I do laugh then. “I can’t imagine what kind of town meeting a fucking bar would require, but I guess we could bring it up to council.”

Van rolls gray eyes. “You know what I mean. Eight hours of driving for two drinks is a waste of gas and energy.”

I catch the eye of a waiter with lime green hair and enough piercings to get stopped at the airport and I motion for two beers.

“Didn’t realize you had such a busy life outside of this,” I remark, facing my best friend once more.

Van’s expression hardens before he deflates with a sigh. “Sorry. I’ve been weirdly on edge the last few days. I feel restless and annoyed. I can’t explain it.”

“When’s the last time you got laid?”

His scoff says it before the words come out. “It’s not always about sex, Lach. I miss having a person.”

“Then date. There are at least a dozen women in Jefferson alone who—”

“I’m not interested.”

I laugh. “You know the only way you’re going to start a relationship is by dating, right?”

Lines pinch the corners of his mouth. His gaze locks with mine and I can see him working up the nerve to spill the thoughts clamoring up in his head.

But I also see when he changes his mind and looks away.

“Just forget it.”