RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,89
their attention. Really got it. They love a covert trip more than anything else in the world. Including Riot House parties. “How long are we gonna be gone for?” Dashiell queries, pretending to scrutinize a loose thread hanging from the cuff of his shirt.
“Three days. We leave tonight.”
“Wow. Well, someone’s feeling presumptuous, aren’t they? What if we don’t wanna go on this little jolly of yours? What if we don’t wanna miss two days of school?”
“Then I’d have wasted thirty thousand dollars. And you’d be the most confusing person in the world, because who doesn’t want to miss two days of school?”
“We haven’t filled out the paperwork with Harcourt,” Pax points out, taking a smoke out of a dogeared pack and lighting it.
“I took the liberty of completing it on your behalf this morning.”
“Asshole,” Dash groans. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“Come on, Lovett. Wouldn’t want to ruin my birthday now, would you?”
“That’s a low fucking blow.”
“At least it sounds like we’re flying first class,” Pax mumbles.
I grin. “Nothing but the best for my boys.”
“God, don’t you just hate it when he does that? It’s fucking terrifying when you smile.” Dash’s shoulders sag in resignation, though. He’s coming with me on my little sojourn. And if Dash is in, then so is Pax. The guy in question rubs a hand over his shaved head. “Fine. We’ll go where you command, no questions asked. But we are having a party when we get back, Wren. I get the feeling you’re gonna owe us one after this. And there had better be fucking strippers.”
Cosgrove’s is a squat, ugly building on the outskirts of Mountain Lakes—a bar, managed by a short, balding guy called Patterson, who has the misfortune of looking like Danny De Vito. The guy’s in his late fifties, has a penchant for polishing a glass at least three times before putting it back on a shelf, and does not like me in the slightest. Primarily because I’m underage and shouldn’t be drinking in his bar. But also, because I’m his boss.
He complains murderously under his breath when he sees me walk through the door into the empty establishment, his beady, almost black eyes boring a hole into the countertop as he studiously ignores me. “We’ve been over this,” I say, sitting myself down on a stool in front of him. “Pretending I don’t exist won’t make me go away. It’ll make me mad. Madder,” I say, correcting myself. “And I’m sure neither of us wanna be dealing with that today.”
“Shouldn’t you go lurk out the back?” Patterson grumbles. “Sheriff King likes to come in here drinking on a Saturday afternoon.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“He might. Wouldn’t wanna risk getting this place shut down now, would you?”
I laugh, theatrically pointing out the sea of empty seats that surround me. “Hell, Pat. Wouldn’t want to jeopardize the roaring trade we’ve been doing of late? It’ll make zero difference to me if this place closes its doors to the public. It didn’t make money before I bought it, and it hasn’t made a dime since either. You should be grateful I keep you gainfully employed on the off chance that I might wanna get out of the house.”
Patterson’s mouth twists to one side. He opens up the register and begins to count the money inside it, shuffling through rumpled bills and the same coins I’m sure have been sitting inside it since the dawn of fucking time. “I need more money for the float,” he says.
I squint at him, laying my hands flat on the bar; the wood’s splintered, the varnish worn off years ago. I should do something about the general state of disrepair in here, but Cosgrove’s is a dive bar. The cracks in the walls and the fact that you run the gambit of getting a splinter whenever you order a drink, well, that’s all just part of the charm of the place. “You do get how a float works, right? It’s there to make change for paying customers, not for you to dip into every time you wanna buy a pack of smokes.”
Patterson just glares at me. Mountain Lakes isn’t a thriving town. Used to be a logging town before the surrounding forests were designated national park land. Now, the only real industry here is the pulp mill three miles beyond the town limits. And Wolf Hall, of course. The people who don’t work at the mill, or tend the gardens, cook in the kitchens, or clean the hallways at the