just stopped talking to her, I guess. She was pretty broken up about it. I offered to make him into a voodoo doll but she was worried about attracting bad karma. I could still do it though, if you want me to.”
I slowly shake my head at Amber. “I’ll pass for now,” I say, turning toward the shop’s front door. “But thanks for the information. I had no idea.”
“No problem. Let’s just say you owe me one,” she says, slinking back to her corner and her book which I suspect may be the Satanic Verses.
“Owe you one?” I ask, wary.
“Don’t worry. I promise it won’t hurt…much.”
Amber turns back to her book and effectively ends the conversation. Owing Amber something is not a position I ever wanted to find myself in. If Luanne’s favor involves me picking up cutlets for cleavage enhancement, I’m guessing Amber’s favor will just involve cutting. I only hope I won’t be both assailant and victim.
I toss a fleeting and scared smile in Amber’s direction and head out of the Bath Shop, locking the door behind me. So Sam James and I have more in common than I thought. We’ve both been hurt by the people who were supposed to love us. Alright, in my case it was more of a ditto, but still. Is he really interested in starting a relationship with me, or am I doomed to end up another corpse in his field of forgotten girlfriends?
I collapse into the driver’s seat and Luanne’s errand list flutters to the ground. I don’t have time for dry-cleaning and breast enhancements. I need to uncover the truth about Sam’s past and what it means for our future. I turn my key in the ignition. There’s only one other person in this town who’s as suspicious of love as me. I just hope the whiskey hasn’t finally killed him.
If the nighttime clientele of The Cavern is raucous and grizzly, the afternoon group is pitiable with a hint of desperation. Tinted windows prevent the midday sun from filtering in and low-watt light bulbs offer a poor substitute. I squint into the semi darkness and spot Luanne at the far end of the bar. She’s in the midst of another argument with her Aunt Jo, a feisty seventy-four year old who’s been wearing the same red wig for the past three decades. She’s petite like Luanne and has the same fiery spirit as her great-niece. I’ve seen them in the throes of a fight before, and let’s just say Mohamed Ali himself wouldn’t stand a chance against these two.
I spot the man I’ve come to see and make my way over to him. His tattooed arms are resting against the bar, a bowl of half eaten peanuts between them. Hart’s tattoos are like pages ripped from a biography, a chronicle of his life and, by all indications, it’s been a rough and wild one.
“Hi,” I say, coming to stand next to the white haired ex-biker.
Hart, hand steady on an empty whiskey glass, turns his lined face to me. He couldn’t have known I’d show up there, but he doesn’t look surprised to see me. “Hello, darlin’. Have a seat.”
Hart turns back to the bar and waits as I take up residence on the stool next to him, the same stool I was sitting on when I got my first view of Sam James and the infamous dimple.
“I don’t know if you remember me from a couple of weeks ago?” I start.
“Luanne’s friend, the one with the broken heart. Ellie, is it?”
“Yes, that’s right.” I pause, not sure how to broach the subject of his great-nephew’s love life. “Hart, I wonder if I can ask you something about Sam.”
“Humph,” he grunts. “You want to know about his past. Want to know why I warned you off him.”
“How’d you guess?” I ask quietly.
Hart picks up his glass and swirls the few remaining drops clinging to the bottom. “I guess you could say I know a thing or two about heartbreak,” he says, his eyes trained on the residual liquor.
I came here seeking answers about Sam and his past, but I get the feeling that it’s Hart’s past that holds the answers I’m looking for. “Why do you come here every day?”
Hart turns to look at me, a wry smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “Darlin’ I can’t anymore leave this bar than I could leave a prison cell. I’m trapped, see? Imprisoned by my own stupid mistakes.”