Page 27

“You reek of pot.”

“You look sixty years old,” Barrett snapped back at his uncle, who barely flinched at the half-hearted jab. Barrett grabbed a bowl from the counter, plopped onto one of the kitchen stools next to Ron, and grabbed the awaiting OJ’s cereal box.

“Keep that up, and you’ll look the same at my age,” Ron said as Barrett shoveled a large spoonful into his mouth.

“Why would I want anything less? You’re the picture of perfection.”

“Har, har.” Ron shook his head. Even though he liked to play disinterested, Ron was terrible at hiding his subtle glances from Barrett, who could feel the tingling of eyes on his face. “You’re lively for 9 a.m..”

Barrett smiled and downed another bite. “I’m in a good mood.”

“Any particular reason?”

Barrett set down his spoon and stretched his arms overhead, cradling the back of his head in his laced fingers.

“Just been a good few weeks. Speaking of which . . .” Barrett stood up, remembering something he’d been waiting for until he saw Ron outside of his ever-changing work schedule. “I’ve got something for you.”

He left his uncle sitting at the counter so he could rush back into his room and shuffle through his drawer until he found a specific bundle of cash among a few others. He returned with it in hand.

Ron frowned. “Business must be going well for you.”

“So-so.” Barrett grinned, proud to say it. “But this has nothing to do with that. This stack is entirely my cut of two gigs in Bellevue.”

He’d received his portion of the payment right after their second show, and when he saw how much it was, his eyes had bugged from his head.

Ricky said they were paid a generous base rate plus a percentage of what was made at the bar.

Ricky must not have been kidding when he said that they’d brought in the best crowd in ages if the wad in Barrett’s hand had anything to do with it.

It was more than three times what they made at The Pour House.

Barrett caught the near imperceptible flinch of Ron’s surprised brow as the news sank in. “Two nights?”

“Two nights.”

“Goddamn.”

Barrett shook it until Ron picked it up. “Take a few days off from work. Get some youth back into your complexion.”

“I can’t take this.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“You worked hard for this.”

“Damn right, I did. So I get all the say in what to do with it.”

Ron opened his mouth to argue with him but gave up before he could. He sighed and dropped his head. “You could use this to move to Bellevue. Or somewhere bigger where they’ll pay you better than a gig at The Pour House. There’s a million places better than here for you.”

Barrett’s delight plummeted. “Now why the hell would I want to leave this lovely place?”

“If it’s because of me”—Ron paused, taking a deep breath—“I don’t want to hold you back.”

“You give yourself too much credit, old man. I’ve got plenty of things here,” Barrett lied through a nonchalant, ribbing smirk.

“Like what?”

Leave it to his uncle to ask the hard-hitting questions.

Truthfully, nothing held Barrett there. His band would follow him out of there in a heartbeat. He could play his music anywhere, make money anywhere.

The only thing he could not take with him was the man sitting next to his cheap, half-finished bowl of cereal and looking guilty like he’d done something wrong.

Ron had been his rock, his savior. But he was set in stone in this dead-end town.

He was content with his home and his job, and staying there for the rest of his life.

Barrett had zero chance of convincing him to follow him along into big cities and concert venues on some music-induced daydream.

So yeah, he didn’t plan on leaving any time soon. He wasn’t leaving the one person who’d been there the whole time.

Plus, he was finding there were some other things to look forward to here. Pretty, blue-eyed things.

“Call in sick and play hooky for a few days. Sleep in, take a trip . . . I don’t care. Just take a break.” Barrett left Ron there so he could take a shower and wash away the scent of pot.

He stared at the shower wall, with his back to the steaming hot water as it ran down his bare body.

Yeah, he was content staying here, making decent bucks handing over baggies in forests and picking out records for old ladies.

He was perfectly happy playing Tuesday night gigs at The Pour House to a half-interested crowd.

In perpetuity.