The ratty bar is called The Floorstander, although I have no clue why. There are no speakers anywhere, and I’ve never heard the term “floorstander” applied to anything but big home theater loudspeakers. Anyway, I guess it doesn’t matter, but it’s just one more thing about this town that doesn’t make sense.

“He’s over there.” Miller leans against the bar. “End of the bar, flat brim hat. Take a look.”

Slowly I turn my gaze in the direction Miller’s indicating. I spot a guy, maybe in his early thirties, sitting alone and sipping a beer. He’s wearing a flat-brimmed hat that’s completely black, no logos or lettering, and a plain white button-down shirt. He looks like a cross between a gangster and a day trader.

“You think he’ll help?” I ask him.

Miller just shrugs and sips his beer. I figure that’s about all I’ll get out of him, which is fine by me. I left Trace and Bill behind, since I’m afraid they’d be a little too obnoxious.

I take a deep breath and finish my whisky. “Be back soon,” I say. “And if not, tell my story.”

Miller nods and doesn’t smile at my joke. I sigh and stand up, patting him on the back before slowly ambling down toward the guy in the hat.

The crew went out again last night after we got back from interviewing the NA girls. They ended up here at the Floorstander, got good and drunk, but one good thing came of it: they met this guy.

Apparently he’s a local, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s two in the afternoon and he’s already sitting here, drinking a beer, completely alone. Plus, I doubt many tourists come to Sellersville, let alone to the Floorstander.

I sidle up next to him and sit down at the open stool to his right. “What’re you drinking?” I ask him casually.

He glances at me. “Not interested,” he says.

I smirk at him. “Not asking for that reason, buddy. If only you’d be so lucky.”

He turns halfway toward me. “Do I know you?”

“Nope,” I say. “My name’s Henry. I’m a reporter doing a little story on your town.”

He gives me that same look everyone gives me when I tell them I’m a reporter. He looks suspicious and mildly defensive, like I’m looking to get him in trouble or some shit like that. I don’t know what it is with this country and hating journalists, but we’re the people trying to find the truth buried in all the lies we’re constantly forced to read.

“Like I said, not interested.” He turns back to his drink.

“I just want to ask you some simple questions. Just trying to get a sense of this place, you know?”

“I don’t know shit. So please fuck off.”

I glance at Miller who gives me a nod. I sigh and lean forward. “Fifty bucks,” I say to him. “That’ll get you talking?”

He hesitates. “What do you want to know about?”

“One thing, really. There’s a group of guys always around town, gangster looking guys. What’s their deal?”

My hat-wearing friend’s face goes a bit dark. “You shouldn’t ask about them. Not in this town.”

“Why’s that?”

He leans back, arms crossed. “You’re liable to get your ass killed.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That dangerous, huh?”

“They’re called the Strips, and they don’t fuck around.”

“Strips?” I ask. “Not a badass name.”

“They got it from the strips of fentanyl they sell. And that’s all I can say.”

“How many people do they have?”

“Do I look like fucking Google? I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I keep my head down and I don’t fuck with them. So like I said, that’s all I’ll say.”

I look at him for a second then nod. “Okay then. Thanks.” I push back from the bar and stand.

“Wait,” he says, turning to me. “My fifty bucks.”

I snort. “You told me shit.”

“Hey, asshole.” I turn to go but he grabs my arm. “Wait, okay, hold on. There’s a rumor that they bought a politician. Everyone kind of knows it, right, since they don’t get arrested? Fucked up shit in this town.”

I frown. “Is that true?”

“Fuck if I know. Probably not, but it’s what people say. Now come on, fifty bucks.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out his money. I can smell the desperation rolling off him and I suspect he’s going to go running to the Strips as soon as we leave here to get his next fix. “Don’t overdose,” I say as he takes the cash from me.

“Sure, whatever.”

I walk away and motion for Miller to join me. We head back out into the parking lot, get into the van, and drive back to the hotel.

I can’t stop thinking about the look on that guy’s face as he told me about the bought politician. It was like he believed what he was saying, even though it’s pretty crazy to imagine that a small-time drug dealing outfit could bribe someone powerful. I know this town is corrupt and rotting from the inside but that’s still pretty insane.

Still, that’s at least decent information. I have a name and I can assume that they have a pretty powerful hold on this town. It’s a nice little bonus that they’re the ones dealing the opioids, makes my job a little bit easier. And it would explain why they were watching us at the church.

Gangs don’t like journalists poking around in their illegal activities. For obvious reasons.

I head back to my room and get to work. I’m going through the footage of the church interview, doing minor edits, that sort of thing. After a little bit, I hear a knock at my door that pulls me back into reality. I head over and open it, expecting to see Trace there, but instead it’s Vivian.

“Heard you had a meeting,” she says to me.

I shrug a little. “Just some local guy.”

“What did you find out?”

For a second, paranoia strikes. “Come inside,” I say, tugging her by the hand.

She doesn’t resist. I shut the door behind her and we head into my room. She sits on the chair and I sit at the end of the bed.

“Basic stuff,” I say to her. “Just what the gang’s called and what they do. And some rumor that they bought off a politician.”

She frowns a bit more. I love the creases next to her eyes, the way her lips pout outwards. “That can’t be true, right?”

“Who knows,” I say with a sigh.

“We’ll have to verify it. I mean, we can’t report that before getting the truth.”

“You’re right,” I say. “Solid ethics right there.”

“Thanks.” She crosses her arms. “What are you doing there?” She nods at my laptop.

“Edits on the church. Want to help?”

She nods and sits behind me as I start playback again. We fall into a comfortable rhythm, working on the job, and eventually I grab a couple drinks from the minibar. A few hours pass as we sip the cheap vodka from plastic cups, and I’m feeling a little loose.

She leans up against some pillows and watches me as I go through a particular part of the interview, frame by frame. “Does she look a little… I don’t know… stiff here?” I ask.

Viv shrugs. “I think you’re being a little too anal.”

I sigh. “Can’t help it. I’m a perfectionist sometimes.”

“Not such a bad thing.” She chews on the rim of her plastic cup.

“Can be. Perfection is impossible. So I’m just always…” I trail off a little bit.

“Frustrated?” she finishes.

“Exactly.”

“You weren’t always this way.” She cocks her head and finishes her drink. “In fact, I remember a guy that was pretty okay with good enough.”

I laugh a little. “I was different back then.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess we’ve all changed.”

“But I’m the same in a lot of ways.” I shift toward her. “For example, I’m still obsessed with Oreos.”

Her eyes go wide. “Are you kidding?”

“Not at all. They’re still my guilty pleasure.”

She cracks up laughing. When we were kids, I used to eat Oreo cookies constantly. I was, like, obsessed with them. I’d go through a package a week almost, and she’d always wonder about how I didn’t get fat. Truth is, I had to stop eating so many of them in college. Every now and then though, I love me a good Oreo.

“Glad to hear some things never change,” she says, grinning at me.

“What about you? I know you’ve changed, but what’s stayed the same?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, looking at the ceiling. “Ugh, god, okay. I still watch Big Brother.”

“No way,” I say. “You’re joking? That’s still on?”

“Sure is,” she says. “I can’t help it. I’m, like, too invested now.”

“It has to be on season thirty or something.”

“I don’t look at the season numbers,” she says. “It’s way too depressing.”

I lean toward her and put my hand casually on her leg as we fall into a conversation about growing up together. She laughs and runs her hand through her hair as I recall one particular weekend she watched an entire season of Big Brother.

“I had the flu,” she says, laughing at me.

“Still, an entire season in two days? That’s too much.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Hardly.” I squeeze her thigh and she doesn’t knock me off.

For a second, we’re staring into each other’s eyes. I remember exactly how it felt to kiss those lips, exactly what it meant when she let me touch her like this. Things always moved further from here, always ended up with my hands down the front of her jeans, making her feel good.

But we’re not kids anymore. She glances at the clock. “It’s already eight,” she says, sighing. “And I’m starving.”

“You want to grab dinner?”

“No, thanks,” she says, getting off the bed. I frown down at the spot where my hand was just on her leg. “I’ll grab something and eat in my room. I’ve got some stuff to do.”

“Sure,” I say. “Sounds good.”

She hesitates. “Today was fun,” she admits. “It’s good working with you.”

“I know,” I say, smirking at her.

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t ruin it, asshole.”

“It’s good working with you, too,” I admit.

“I know.” She laughs and leaves the room.

I watch the door for a bit, not sure what I’m feeling. She’s loosening up toward me, I can feel the hatred and the anger slowly burning off, but I don’t know what that means for the long-term. I don’t know if it’s just because we’re working together, or if she’s starting to feel everything I’m starting to feel.

It’s impossible to say. And it doesn’t help that this job is getting a little dangerous, what with the Strips watching out for us. I know I need to have my guard up, but she’s so damn distracting.

All I can think about it taking her back to my room and fucking her sweet, tight pussy deep and rough until her fingernails dig into the skin of my back.