Page 131 of Soul So Dark

And do that many people here order whole Kosher dills with their beers?

“Who can say, Dallas?” she chirps before whipping around to glare at Ron, who appears at the top of the stairs. “But everyone’s getting their fucking pickles tonight!”

This shouldn’t be a shock to any of us. Beneath his phony exterior with the five o’clock shadow and tousled hair shiny with product, I get the feeling that Ron got married, had a kid, and immediately regretted leaving the bar scene. Which is why he hangs out here more than any owner should and then tries to simultaneously hit on and insult any woman in a 10-foot radius.

It’s also not out of the norm for Ron to create odd specials to move product faster, even pickles. I’m just glad I didn’t have to drag them up the basement stairs. But pickles or not, I’m in a good mood because since I turned 21, I’m finally allowed to freely work behind the bar. Up until now, I could only run food and serve beer, but not pour it, which slows everything down. And liquor? Forget about it.

However, on really busy nights, Ron bent the rules out of necessity and I got to practice, which Kara and the rest of the bartenders were stoked about.

“If anyone asks how old you are, just run out the back and Ron won’t fire you.”

Based on Ron’s behavior around women, which I picked up on pretty quick, running out the back door always seemed like a viable option regardless of the situation.

But Ron picked a good night for his pickle special because Thursday nights are always busy on campus. He tries to convince Duane in the kitchen to fry them whole, but ends up getting cussed out instead. I make a really cute design for the sign board outside, the “Pickle Ron Special”, complete with pink lettering and a neon green Kosher dill with Ron’s stubble and wavy hair.

However, since I have no seniority compared to everyone else at Blood Horse, I still have to run food and drinks when it gets busy. But I like talking to people, especially tonight when it involves shit-talking my boss and his pickles. So, that’s exactly what I do when I load up with two armfuls of chicken wings for three guys at a table by the window.

“What’s the deal with this pickle special?” the one with chestnut hair asks while I set down the baskets of wings.

All three of them look strikingly similar with their high and tight haircuts, clean-shaven faces, and the same thick black watches. And based on their facial features, the ones with chestnut hair and black hair look like they could be related. The third just kind of looks like he’s either spaced out or drunk.

“It’s a prettysweetdeal,” I reply, leaning on the back of the empty chair. “The owner is a misogynist and a cheapskate, so we’re hawking his old-ass pickles to unsuspecting patrons.”

“Damn,” the one with black hair chuckles.

“Let me know if you want any.” I point to a half empty pint glass sitting near the empty chair. “Can I take this one?”

“No, not yet,” the chestnut-haired guy pipes up. “We have a fourth,” then he nods over my shoulder, “right there.”

A few moments later, I sense someone at my shoulder, and when I glance up, I do a double-take. The fourth man with shiny black hair looks down at me, studying my face, and then smiles.

“Da-allas…”

I blink, and then my mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I just stare at him for an awkward amount of time, until I can finally coax a sound out of my throat.

“You…”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Alex

“My brother’s having brain surgery the day after he gets released from prison.”

It’s not something I anticipated ever having to say to my commanding officer, but here we are.

And before I know it, I’m on a plane back to the states to show up for my brother who almost murdered me on our living room floor four years ago. But I called that shit—Luca finally got arrested and convicted for aggravated theft. He had to go to prison to break his cycle of destruction, just not in the way anyone expected.

While I watch the ocean change to land in the blink of an eye, I’m still lamenting why Luca couldn’t have waited another couple of months to have his skull sawed open. Then I wouldn’t have to apply for emergency leave to fly 48 hours round-trip just to turn back around, complete my discharge process, and fly all the way back to the states.

Maybe I’m just doing it for Adrian. Regardless of how I feel about anything else, I don’t want him to sit in a waiting room, alone, worrying about whether Luca will wake up. Even if he did almost wreck our family. Only is it when I arrive at the hospital and we’re sitting in some fancy new surgical waiting room with skylights and lines of pleather recliners that I start asking questions.

“So, what’s the story?” I figure we have a few hours for him to catch me up to speed.

He’s started wearing polos and button-downs rather than the worn-out t-shirts he used to. Before, he was on roofs and digging foundations with the crews because he was so worried he’d drop the ball and run our dad’s company into the ground. Maybe he’s finally convinced he’s not on the edge of ruin.

“I told you how he turned into a whack job, always screaming at the guards about migraines and shit.” I nod as he continues. “He finally got himself put in solitary and the prison psychiatrist ordered an MRI because…” Adrian pauses, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.

“What?”