“Nah, not anymore.” Greer stood, extending his upper body and hand across the bar, reaching for his cell. Mac effortlessly dodged his attempt, using his thumb to push the sidebar button to darken the screen.
“Go home, Greer.” Mac kept the phone just out of his reach. “Marisol, take Greer home for me.”
Mac was being a jerk. He handed Greer’s cell across the bar to Mac’s long-time employee and right-hand woman. Greer lost sight of the phone as he reached for his wallet, thumbing through the cash. “You know you don’t pay, you bastard. You worked that stipulation into our contract.”
Yep, that was right. He did do that. Greer’s grin split his lips, remembering the brilliance of that last-minute addition. He still put twenty dollars on the bar top. “I’m leaving a tip.”
“I was your waiter, drunk ass,” Mac barked then tightly wound the hand towel in his hands, popping Greer directly on his fingers when he reached to take the cash back. Greer’s outrage was immediate when the sudden sting spread across his knuckles. After years of practice, Mac’s snap had pinpoint accuracy.
“That fucking hurts! No wonder I had such bad service with your grizzly ass hovering so close. I was barely able to eat.” He managed to get the twenty back inside his wallet and pulled out a single dollar bill, making a show of leaving it on the bar top.
“It was a wonder you didn’t choke to death the way you inhaled that food.” Mac laughed.
Greer paid Mac no mind. He pushed off his stool and tried to tuck his wallet inside his back pocket. The unexpected towel pop hitting his ass had a sharper bite this time.
He shifted his balance, trying to get away from another strike. Greer shot Mac the middle finger, at least he hoped he had, and got a booming round of laughter that brought joy to Greer’s heart.
And with that, his evening here was done. He grabbed his jacket, slid it on, and walked toward the front doors in an awfully crooked straight line. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t quite navigate his steps. He kept veering off to the right as he went.
“Come on, Marisol,” Greer called out, trying to encourage Marisol to follow him out.
“Right here, boss,” she said, directly behind him. She was so close her breath tickled the back of his neck.
Marisol had been barely sixteen years old when Mac first hired her to bus tables. He and Mac had been straight out of college—new Southern Methodist University graduates—when Mac decided to open the bar. Greer had watched Marisol grow into a smart, accomplished young woman. She seemed to always be indifferent to her surroundings. He respected that about her. A trait he mimicked often.
“I can get home,” he said, turning to push the door open with his ass.
“Mac wants me to drive you. Here, take your phone,” she said, stepping past him, extending the cell phone as she went. The fresh, cool March air helped clear Greer’s foggy head enough to have him looking across the street at the quiet darkness of his neighborhood. The bright lights of the restaurants and other businesses lined this side of the street.
He had two blocks to walk. The liquor had helped dull some of the muscle pain. He could make it home, no problem.
“I got it,” he tried again, following behind Marisol at a slower pace. “Besides, now that I got my phone, I bet I can find someone to meet me there. Make sure I get inside safely.” In his inebriated state, Greer thought that was the funniest thing he’d ever said. He had to hold his side, laughing even as Marisol pointed him to the passenger side of Mac’s brand-new car. Her stone face never cracked under all his good jokes.
“The last time you walked home, I believe you were robbed. Isn’t that right?” The automatic locks released as she stared at him over the top of the car.
Exasperated, Greer threw his hands in the air. That was the disadvantage of having lived in the same area most of his life. Those well-established roots made sure all the people in his life never let him forget any of his transgressions. “That was years ago. I was dumb to take the shortcut. I’ve walked home a hundred times since then with no incident.”
“What happened to Skye? I thought she was going to settle you down.” Marisol’s perfectly arched brow lifted as she opened the driver’s side door.
Greer gave a dramatic roll of his eyes and followed her lead, opening the passenger side door. “That ship’s sailed. We’ve always been better friends than anything else.” He placed both hands on the top of the shiny red sports car, leaning forward, asking a heartfelt honest question. “Do you think I’m getting old?”
Marisol busted out with a loud cackle and dropped down into the driver’s seat. His eyes narrowed. Finally, he got a laugh out of her, but he didn’t know why. It took a second more before he lowered himself into the car and shut the door behind him. “You know, I was serious out there.”
“We all gotta grow up some time,” she said, pressing the ignition. The rumble of the engine vibrated the seat. “I heard you were Wild_Rider.”
Yup, his whole world was way too connected. He dropped his head back on the headrest, took a deep whiff of the new-car leather smell, and swiveled to look her way. “I kicked ass.”
“Like a man possessed,” she said as if that wasn’t a good thing. She tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder as she looked over at him. “What the hell, Greer, I could have used the year’s membership.”
“Then I’ll transfer my prize to you. I already paid for mine.” He nodded as if that solved every problem in the world. Mac’s new car was more luxury than flash. The seats were comfortable, lulling him into closing his eyes. The spinning started, but not too terrible. Maybe even a little calming for his always active brain. “So,” he paused. “The BikeBro is a big deal?”
“Yeah,” Marisol replied. “Especially around here, but Skye says they’re starting to break into Houston and Austin. I like it. Less money than the gym.” She pulled them out of the parking spot and drove slowly through the lot. If she went a certain way down an alley, they’d end at the beginning of his street. “I heard Secret’s taken an interest in them.”
“Hmmm.” News to him. That Secret/Wilder combination could really help the BikeBro’s social site. Dylan had money to spend. Tristan, of course, had more. He couldn’t remember hearing any whispering of BikeBro looking for investors.
Wait, no. He needed answers to something far more important. “Do you know Biker101?” His head never left the relaxing headrest, but he opened his eyes and rolled her way again.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to know who’s who because literally no one uses their own name,” she said, taking the corner onto his street a little too quickly. His stomach roiled as he reached for the dashboard to help keep himself in place. “They have an interactive mirror coming that’ll work directly with the box. It sounds really sick.”
“I haven’t heard that either.” Greer closed his eyes, lulled by the sultry tone of Marisol’s voice and the silence inside the car. He gave a big jaw-cracking yawn. “I’m slipping fast.”
“Then yes, you are getting old,” Marisol teased.
The perceived insult snapped his eyes open. She smiled again for the second time in five minutes. That had to be some sort of record. He hoped he remembered the momentous occasion tomorrow.