Page 37 of Violent Skies

“Bowie!” I holler through the empty bar as the door slams closed, shutting out the sunlight and leaving us in the dingy glow that hangs over the old, cracked bar top.

“My favorite brat.” She pops up from behind the counter, blonde hair piled on top of her head in a bun the size of mine. Her massive, round blue eyes swallow what little light is left as a shark-like grin spreads across her cupid’s-bow mouth. “Ooh I missed you.” She growls at me and fills an empty glass with whiskey.

“You’d say that about me if you blinked.” I climb on the stool, bracing myself on the cold counter as I press a kiss to her lips.

“Don’t kiss my girlfriend.” Jet appears from the back hallway with a crate of cups in their hands and a scowl on their face. The polar opposite of their partner, Jet is all sharp lines and sleek angles; almond eyes, tawny skin, dripping in black as always. They narrow their pitch black eyes on me and drop the crate loudly to the counter.

“It’s okay, I’m not into blondes, baby,” I whisper to them.

“You’re into anything that moves and fucks, Bird,” Jet snaps back.

They aren’t wrong.

“You’re extra grumpy today, what's up your ass?” I ask, sitting back on the stool and shaking my long hair back over my shoulders.

“Someone has been messing with the cameras in the back.” Jet’s never been one for beating around the bush. For as long as I’ve known them, they’ve shot straight and never minced their words.

When Bobby and Riggs' father bought the land it didn’t include the building across the street, over the years it had known many faces. Bikers owned it for a while which caused all kinds of problems, then it was empty for a while and when Yana died, Riggs’ mother, he was going to use the money from that settlement to buy the building. But Bowie’s parents got to it first, and we watched as she turned it into a backwoods bar for degenerates just like us.

Over time Koa and Bowie made a deal, creating a partnership without Riggs’ input. He still barely trusts Bowie, but she’s good folk to have around when trouble arises.

“Get me the tapes and I’ll give them to Murph.”

“That nerd is the only good thing about your family,” Jet pokes and I just laugh.

“I’d argue but you have a good case.” I give a little shrug as I finish the rest of the drink and Jet disappears again.

Bowie leans over the counter, lowering her voice. “You’ve been causing trouble of your own.” She flicks my nose with a long finger, her nails painted bright blue.

“I’m an angel,” I defend weakly.

“And I’m heterosexual.” Bowie rolls her eyes. “Spill.”

“Who’s the snitch?” I ask quietly, my smile never wavering.

“You know better than that,” she laughs.

“Jesse,” I groan. “I could duct tape his mouth shut and he’d still find a way to run it.”

“It’s a talent really,” Bowie teases.

“Cress is home,” I say watching her expression flicker with anxiety maybe, concern, intrigue? “It’s got Riggs in knots, everything is fucked up and…”

“You’re having the time of your life,” Bowie finishes my sentence.

“Sort of. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a while. Does that make me a bad person?” I ask her honestly.

“Birdie, baby, I’ve seen you do a handful of very terrible things, but you have never been a bad person,” she hums, sweeter than honey and honest too, mostly because she doesn’t have another setting. Growing up in a household full of men it was hard to find feminine energy like this. Cress is sweet, she’s funny and kind. Her heart is so big it would leap from her chest given the chance, but it’s not the same as having a friend.

Bowie is close enough. We don’t text, or spend hours on the phone together, and we don’t go out or go shopping, I don’t know—whatever girls do when they hang out. That’s not us. We sit in this bar and we drink until we can’t feel our fingertips. I tell her stories of bad hook ups and perfect races. She tells me about Jet, her parents and how she has everything she’s ever wanted in this bar.

“I don’t think I’ve seen Cress since the wake,” Bowie admits.

“She hasn’t really wanted to be around,” I say, running my finger up and down the empty glass as Bowie refills it.

“I don’t blame her,” she hums. “If my best friend killed my husband…” Always so blunt. “I don’t know what I would do…”

“Don’t worry, Jet’s safe,” I wink and Bowie laughs.