Cooper

Jake nudges me with his elbow. “Your boy’s getting hit on at the bar.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” I say, tapping my boot on the scuffed floors. I’m about two seconds away from going over there.

“You know, if you glare any harder, you’ll hurt yourself.”

I take my eyes off Sam just long enough to scowl at Jake, who’s enjoying this way too much. “This is why I don’t like to go to clubs with him. It’s like this constantly. He’s a magnet. It’s better when he goes out with the girls. They insulate him from a lot of unwanted attention.”

Jake chuckles. “You have to admit he’s pretty to look at, no matter which way you swing. He’s bound to draw attention.”

I stiffen in my seat when Sam’s current admirer puts his hand on Sam’s lower back. “Son of a bitch.”

I start to stand, but Jake puts his hand on my arm. “Relax, Cooper. He’s fine.”

Sam deftly dodges his admirer as he accepts our drinks from the bartender and heads back to the table, juggling two bottles and a glass. Watching heads turn as he winds his way through the maze of tables, I can certainly understand the appeal. With his ripped jeans hanging low on his lean hips and that T-shirt showcasing his chiseled biceps and pecs, he’s a damn fine specimen of a man. And that red hair? Hell, it might as well be a flaming torch, because it gets him noticed wherever he goes. And those big brown eyes…. Damn.

“I see you made a new friend,” Jake says, as Sam hands him his glass of Coke.

Sam frowns as he hands me my beer. “Yeah. He just wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“What did he want?” I say, forcing my voice to remain neutral.

Sam rolls his eyes. “To show me the back alley.” And we all know what that means. Eyeing me closely, Sam reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Relax, big guy. I told him, ‘You see that silver fox over there? My ass belongs to him.’”

Jake chokes on his drink. “Shit man, are you kidding? You really said that?”

Sam grins, looking like a young devil. “Nah. But I did tell him I was with the ‘old guy.’ His words, not mine.” And then he winks at me just before taking a swig of his beer. “Now, I came here to have some fun, dammit. Who wants to play pool? Or darts? Or dance? I’m not picky.” He eyes us both expectantly.

“I’m sure as hell not dancing,” I say. “But I’ll play darts with you.” If it was up to me, we’d leave now and head back to our motel room. Here, I feel like I have to be on guard at all times—I’ve seen the ugly underbelly of small towns like this. I know what can happen. But Sam has led a sheltered life. He’s never experienced blatant hostility just because of who he is.

We cross the bar, skirting around the dance floor, which is swarming now with gyrating bodies, and find an open dart board. We collect our darts and move behind the line of tape stuck to the floor.

Sam nods at me to go first. “Age before beauty, babe.”

Smart ass. Shaking my head, I test the balance of the steel-tipped dart poised in my fingers. The dart board is standard issue—black and white with red and green rings. We don’t bother playing by the official rules, though. We have our own contest to see who can bury the most darts in the tiny bullseye out of three tries. I’d better win this game. I’m a former sharpshooter in the Marines. If I can’t hit the center of a dart board at eight feet, I don’t deserve to keep my job.

I throw my first dart and hit the bullseye dead center. Then I retrieve my dart, and Sam steps up to the line to take his shot. He nails the center spot too. So, after round one, we’re tied.

Round two. I throw my second dart and hit the bullseye, upping the pressure on Sam.

“Damn,” he says. “Not bad for an old guy.”

“Very funny.” After I retrieve my second dart, he toes the line and throws his second dart—and it’s a score. So, we’re tied, two and two. I notice we’ve attracted a bit of a crowd. The pool games have been put on pause, and some slightly flirtatious women have formed a lose circle around us, giggling and whispering to each other.

“Your turn, babe,” Sam says, prompting some snickers from the onlookers.

Just before I throw my third and final dart, Sam leans close and whispers in my ear. “If you win, I’ll give you a blow job when we get back to the motel. And if I win….” He pauses for effect. “If I win, you have to let me top you tonight.”

Holy shit. He’s not kidding.

Well, hell, if that’s not enough to make me lose my concentration, nothing is. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s topped me, and it certainly won’t be the last, but the thought definitely messes with my concentration.

Just as I’m poised to throw my final dart, hoping like hell for a third bullseye—at least a tie—I hear a glass-shattering crash and a loud cry as a server drops her tray. My dart goes wide, just missing the board, and ends up buried in the wall.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

I know before looking who that deep, bellicose voice belongs to. Billy Monroe has aged a hell of a lot since I last saw him standing on the Sweetwater River Bridge, but he hasn’t really changed much. He’s still a loud, obnoxious ass. The big difference this time, though, is I’m not a scared teenage boy.

Monroe is dressed in filthy jeans, equally filthy work boots, and beneath his leather jacket, he’s got on a blue flannel shirt that is straining to hold in his gut. And he’s not alone. He’s flanked by two younger men who look to be in their mid-thirties. Based on their regulation haircuts, I suspect they’re off-duty deputies.

“Get out of here, faggot!” Monroe yells, his face mottled with varying shades of red. “We don’t want your kind in here.”

It’s been a long time since anyone has dared to call me that to my face. I can feel my blood pressure spiking, but I do my best to ignore him as I retrieve my dart from the wall. I glance at Sam, who is clearly on alert and watching me closely, taking his cues from me. I can see that Jake is calmly making his way over here. Three against three. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the middle of a bar brawl.

“You don’t want to mess with me tonight, Billy,” I say, keeping my voice level. “I’m not in the mood.”

Billy Monroe looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel. It’s too warm in the bar to be wearing a heavy jacket like he is, so he must be carrying. His two pals are similarly dressed, and I have to assume they’re all armed.

“So, this is what a homophobic child-killer looks like,” Sam says, drawing out the words as he scowls at Monroe. Sam moves in beside me, shoulder to shoulder.

Monroe’s complexion turns a darker red. “I did not kill that boy!” He jabs his fat index finger in my direction. “You killed him, to shut him up, because that boy was going to expose you as the depraved monster you are. And now you’re back here in Sweetwater trying to ruin the reputations of three innocent, God-fearing men. Hell, Judd’s dead because of you!”

“Billy, you need to get outta my bar, right now!” The bartender points to the exit with a tire iron clenched in his fist. “All three of you boys, get out before I call the cops.”

“I am the cops, you idiot!” Monroe growls at the bartender.

The bartender shakes his head. “Not right now, you’re not. You’re out on leave. Now, get out!”

“What’s the matter with you, Frank?” Monroe says, taunting the guy. “Are you a homo lover too?”

The bartender bristles at Monroe’s slur, just as Jake moves in, pressing the muzzle of his gun to the back of Monroe’s head. “You heard the man,” Jake says in a low voice. “Get out.”

The room goes quiet—someone even mutes the sound system—as Monroe stands there fuming. Then the silence is broken by the distant wail of police sirens.

The fingers on Billy’s right hand begin to twitch, and I’m afraid he’s going to draw his gun. I step in front of Sam, to shield him.

“Don’t even think about it,” Jake warns, shoving his gun against the back of Billy’s skull.

One of Billy’s guys breaks the tension. “Come on, Billy,” he says, grabbing Billy’s arm and tugging him toward the exit. “The cops are coming. Let’s go.”

Billy pulls free of his friend’s grasp and heads toward the exit, motioning for his buddies to follow. Jake lowers his gun as he watches them leave.

We return to our table just as the deputies come inside. One of them we recognize—Deputy Williams. The other is a female deputy we haven’t seen before. Frank, the bartender, greets them and gives them an update.

Deputy Williams and his partner come to our table. “Everything all right?” Williams says, his hands propped on his waist just above his gun belt.

“So far,” I say.

Williams nods. “We’ll try to keep an eye on Billy. He’s pretty angry right now. I’m sure you can understand why.”

I nod. “What’s going on with the investigation?”

“The feds are here. Have they been by to see you yet?”

“Not yet,” I say.

“They will. Judd Franklin’s suicide note corroborates your story, Mr. Cooper, but they’ll need to interview you themselves. The feds are looking at murder charges. I think Billy’s worried. I know Roger is.”

“They should be,” I say.

* * *

When we arrive back at the motel, there’s a black sedan with darkly tinted windows parked in front of our rooms.

“Looks like the feds are here,” Jake says, parking the Escalade beside the sedan.

I wish I could keep the ugliness from my past out of Sam’s life, but unfortunately, I can’t. “I’ll go talk to them.” I look at Sam. “I want you to wait in Jake’s room.”