RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,127

says morosely. “Only my father would find out and send more. For the Jacobis, money’s an infinite resource, springing from a well that will never run dry. Mercy loves it. And I hate it more than I can say. Ungrateful, right? There are so many people out there struggling to make ends meet, and I’m bitching that I have too much fucking money. God, I even make myself sick. Come on, let’s go.” He explodes from the car, jumping out so quickly that his door’s slammed closed and he’s already opening mine before I register that he’s gone.

The inside of Cosgrove’s is a confusion of mismatched paraphernalia. There are quirky, at-odds items everywhere, ranging from stuffed moose heads to Native American wall tapestries. From old black and white photographs of construction workers sitting on the ledges of half-built skyscrapers in the 1920s, to an English telephone box, sitting in the corner like it just inexplicably fell out of the fucking sky and landed there all by itself. The bar smells of stale beer and sawdust, but it’s a reassuring smell, and even the sticky film that covers the chairs, the tabletops, the bar’s worn counter, and pretty much everything else inside the building doesn’t detract from its weird, otherworldly charm.

Wren stands in the center of the quiet bar with his hands in his pockets, looking around like he just doesn’t know what to do with the place.

“There are customers,” he observes. “We don’t usually have those.”

A short, squat man bullies his way through a set of swinging saloon doors that presumably lead out back, his expression darkening when he sees Wren. “No text,” he grumbles, clattering behind the bar. “I thought we agreed you’d text before you showed up. Can’t just go showing up out of the blue, spyin’ on me,” he grouses.

“I agreed to no such thing,” Wren sighs wearily. “It’s my bar. I can show up whenever I feel like it. And I’m not spying on you, Patterson. We want breakfast. That’s all.”

Patterson squints at him. “We?”

Wren tips his head in my direction, where I’m leaning against the bar. Patterson sees me and lets out a sigh of relief. “Well, at least you didn’t bring those animals down here with you. That’s a small mercy.” He’s talking about Dashiell and Pax, I’m sure. Walking down the length of the bar, the old man stops in front of me, looking me up and down. “Got all your own teeth?” he asks.

I try not to let out a surprised laugh. “Yes, sir.”

“Then you ain’t from town. You got more money than sense and think the world still owes you?”

I shake my head gravely. “No, sir.”

“Then you probably ain’t from that school, either. I don’t know where he found you, pretty girl, but you look too nice for him. My advice? Get out now while you still can.”

I don’t even know what to say to that. I don’t tell him that I am a student at Wolf Hall, though. I feel like he’ll be less enamored with me if I correct his assumption. Wren stands behind me, growling under his breath. “She is too nice for me, but that’s none of your damn business, old man.”

We order a disgusting amount of food and eat it out back on a picnic bench, away from the prying eyes of the four customers in the bar. Once we’re done, Wren ushers me back into the car and tells me we’re leaving Mountain Lakes altogether. For the first time since I arrived at Wolf Hall, I leave the town, and I don’t look back.

30

WREN

Pre-Elodie, my best behavior looked very different to this. I would have reamed Patterson out for his sass, and I would have probably kicked everyone out of the bar, too. There have been so many times since Elodie became my girlfriend that I’ve curbed my anger and not lashed out. It’s gotten to the point that I’m even doing it when she’s not around, plagued by a conscience that I’ve paid little heed to up until now. Behind every action, every thought, and every word lies the nagging question: what would Elodie think of me if she could see me now?

It’s a burden, this shift in attitude. It doesn’t come naturally; it requires constant work, and the new restrictions I’ve placed upon myself chafe like nothing else.

She didn’t ask me to change.

She hasn’t really asked anything of me, but this gnawing desire to make her happy, to make her proud of me,