Page 13 of Love at First Ride
I gasp in surprise, straightening. I look around to see where the voice came from, until a figure gets to its feet on the porch, the bottom of his boots scuffing against the wood floor boards.
‘What brings you out here?’ the man then drawls. ‘Folks from Canyon only welcome out here on Friday and Saturday nights. There’s a system.’
My heart begins to thud. I can’t see his face. ‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘Who might that be?’
I take a step forward. ‘Uh. His name’s AJ Callahan. I was told I might find him here.’
‘Told by who?’
I don’t even know who this man is. He has a thick, Texan drawl. I don’t reply, instead remaining rooted to the spot. There’s an abrupt thud as the door to the bar opens and a second figure appears and proceeds to light a cigarette. I watch the end burn bright as the familiar figure inhales, before he blows smoke out into the night.
‘Hooo-eee!’ he calls.
‘Hey, Reyes,’ the first guy says. ‘Girl here’s looking for AJ.’
I tense when I hear the name, and before I know it, the bright light from Balthazar Reyes’ phone is shining right in my face.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Balthazar exclaims. ‘It’s Jenny English!’
‘You know her?’ the first guy asks.
‘She was in my high school class.’
‘Hi, Balthazar,’ I say, a little awkwardly, because Balthazar Reyes was another boy in my high school who, along with AJ, took great pleasure in taunting me on a regular basis, and tonight he’s using their favorite nickname for me.
‘Whatcha doin’ out here in Rapture, Jenny?’ Balthazar asks, sounding giddy.
‘I… uh…’
‘She’s from England, you know,’ Balthazar tells the other guy.
‘Well, is she comin’ in or not?’ the other man snaps.
I see Balthazar’s lit cigarette fly through the air. ‘Sure, why not? You comin’ in, Jenny?’
‘I… um… am I allowed?’
Balthazar Reyes opens the door to the bar, rock music spewing out from the inside. Launching myself forward, I climb the steps. The first guy moves into the light, who I now see is an older gentleman with wrinkled skin, a white mustache and cowboy hat. He tilts his head toward the door, indicating I have permission to proceed.
I follow Balthazar through the door. It slams shut behind me. In the corridor, with a low ceiling lined with old street signage, Balthazar bellows at me over the chorus of Def Leppard’sPour Some Sugar on Me, ‘Remind me of your real name again?’
‘Hollie,’ I shout back, my eyes darting around, my stomach squelching with nerves.
I take in Balthazar’s features. He was always tall and scrawny, with those same dark eyes and distinctive, crooked teeth that he hasn’t had fixed since high school. There’s a wide gap between the two front ones. I recall he had some kind of Mexican heritage. His hair is black and cut incredibly short, and freckles dapple his cheeks, contrasting against dark skin. He wears a pair of skinny jeans. ‘That’s right, I remember!’ he says, and beckons me with his hand. ‘Come on, I’ll get you a drink.’
‘I don’t need a drink,’ I tell him. ‘I just need to pass a message to AJ. Is he here?’
Balthazar laughs. ‘Oh, he’s here, all right.’
My heart has gone from a gentle thud to outright pounding. I follow Balthazar on legs made from jelly into the bar, through a pair of wooden saloon-style double swing doors, like something out of a western. Inside the bar is heaving – more so than I would have expected for a Thursday night, bodies packed in both downstairs and on the upper balcony. Despite it being pitch black outside, the inside of the building is well lit, and everybody seems to be having a good time. Many of the men have thick biceps and tattoos on show. Some of them seem like they’re bikers, in leather vests and boots. In contrast, some of the women aren’t wearing much at all.
There’s a circular blue neon sign covering one wall. A scorpion, with an oversized tail, dripping red blood. It’s surrounded by the words,Hell’s Venom Motorcycle Club.
I pause to stare at the sign for a moment, then follow Balthazar as we push through the crowd, walking across wooden floor boards toward an area at the back of the bar. When we get there, there’s another wall of people. I stop when we can go no further and crane my neck, only to find a separate annex opening out in front of me, containing two large pool tables. The music at this end isn’t quite so thunderous. Two lightbulbs are suspended from ceiling wires, one above each table.
Through a gap in the crowd, I can see a man crouched over the pool table, at the far end, facing me. He’s concentrating hard, the cue stick resting across his outstretched arm, and cradled in the crook of his hand. When he pulls back and takes the shot, he misses the pocket, and I watch him wince.
