Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Rian watched him curiously, lingering on the warmth in Damon’s face; on the quiet, dreamlike way he spoke. “Sounds like somewhere you wouldn’t mind going back to.”
“Maybe,” Damon said softly. “Kind of feels like next time, though, I don’t want to go alone.”
Rian’s eyes widened. His heart springboarded down into his stomach, then up again.
But before he could say anything, Damon gave him a thoughtful sidelong look, paired with an easy smile. “Buckle up. Let’s go see what’s out at Hank’s Roadhouse.”
“O-oh. Right.”
Rian fumbled into his seatbelt, and settled in; Damon fastened his as well, before starting the engine and pulling out of the small, steeply angled parking lot along one side of the hill, easing the Jeep Cherokee onto the wide paved lane that wound down the deeply forested slope, beneath a cathedral archway of black branches and golden leaves.
Comfortable silence settled; Rian leaned his head against the window and just let it be. He wasn’t sure what had changed with Damon, something easing over the course of late-night texts and time to think...but he liked this. How settled and slow and soft it felt; how nice it was to just relax as the Jeep rumbled its way down the hill and into the town, without a single breath of tension or resentment between them.
Omen was a collection of small cozy houses in that time-worn gray that seemed to belong specifically to the Atlantic, accented with the last bright traces of whatever color they had been painted last. Even the businesses were just small shops set up in the same type of buildings, homes that had been given glass storefronts advertising fresh seafood, antiques, craft supplies, flower arrangements, groceries, secondhand clothing, the one tiny “mini-mall” that was more a collection of converted buildings with several shops linked together and a food court that was just two diners with a shared patio full of cozy seating arrangements. The biggest attraction in Omen was the theatre, and even that had only three big screens indoors and one massive drive-in canvas hanging from the back wall of the concrete building, and a marquee that advertised showings at least six months behind every new release in the country.
The kind of town where everyone knew everyone, Rian thought.
And where people like him ran away to be known by no one at all.
The only bar inside the town limits was a small, friendly pub that stopped serving liquor by ten p.m., and they drove past it on the way along the main road to the bridge that led over the Mystic. Barely half a mile over the river’s choppy, almost metallic gray expanse, a hard-packed, well-worn dirt lane led into the trees, deep tire ruts grooved into it; Damon’s Jeep bounced into the ruts as he turned onto the road, easing down the curves of it until the main road vanished behind scrub brush and clusters of tired-looking trees.
Rian pulled from his drifting half-thoughts, though, as on the next turn the trees opened up into a broad clearing; Hank’s Roadhouse was a grimy single-story brick building with a black gabled roof that looked more like an abandoned smokehouse than anything else. The same logo from Chris’s T-shirt had been emblazoned on the side, spray-painted in jaunty graffiti, and the tiny windows were dark, the doors closed, the dirt lot surrounding the place empty of all but a few broken beer bottles and what looked like motorcycle racks.
Rian arched a brow. “Biker joint?”
“No self-respecting biker would be caught dead here.” Damon snorted. “Branding.”
He eased the Jeep forward a bit, then shifted gears, stretching one arm out to rest his hand against the back of the seat with his fingers tickling too breathlessly close to the nape of Rian’s neck as Damon twisted to look over his shoulder, backing the Jeep into a reverse arc.
“What are you doing?”
“Hiding,” Damon said, as he navigated the Jeep backward around the side of the building, and eased it into a crack in the trees, fallen twigs and brush crackling, the car jouncing as the Jeep scraped by with the branches around them scratched at the doors. Rian winced.
“You’re murdering your paint job.”
“Cars can be repainted,” Damon said. “Not that easy to fix Chris if something out here fucks him up worse.”
“...yeah.”
Rian held his tongue, then, as Damon managed to squeeze the Jeep back into a niche in the trees, mostly hidden by the brush but with enough of a view through the trees to keep an eye out for anyone pulling up to the bar. Damon killed the engine, then unsnapped and loosened his seatbelt, settling to slouch behind the wheel. Rian unbuckled his seatbelt, too, shifting a little toward Damon, propping his shoulder against the seat.
“So what now?” he asked.
“We wait,” Damon answered. “I wanted to get out here early enough that we wouldn’t be spotted pulling in. But it’ll probably be a bit before the owner shows up.”