through the glass. He’d tried to open the passenger door for me but couldn’t, since I wasn’t letting go.
When it came right down to it, accepting a ride with Landon wasn’t much better than accepting a ride with a random guy on the Internet. I knew him, but I didn’t know him. He was in a foul mood. He’d just taken me from the safety of my family’s business in Detroit.
Didn’t investigative television shows revolve around super scary situations like this?
Chapter 7
Okay, that part sounded crazy.
“My uncle owns this bar, Gabriella. It’s completely safe,” Landon tried to convince me through the window.
Finally, I released my grip and wiggled my fingers to help bring the blood flow back to them. He opened the door for me and grabbed my hand, helping me step out onto the broken, cracked sidewalk.
Because I’m nineteen, I haven’t been to many bars. I’ve been to the kind of bars that are also restaurants, where kids are welcome during lunch and dinner hours. I’ve been to countless concert venues, and yes there’s drinking, but since the bar is not onstage, I usually couldn’t even direct someone to it.
The building I followed Landon into was definitely a bar. The dark wood paneling made me feel like we’d fallen into a hole, and since we had to descend a few steps when we entered, I guess I could call it that. The decor screamed “dive bar,” or at least what I imagined a dive bar would look like.
Neon beer signs with logos representing every Detroit sports team, as well as a few Michigan college teams, filled the walls. A
Golden Tee
golf videogame loomed in a back corner next to a vintage
Pac-Man
table. A few two-person and four-person tables were scattered around the room, but one huge pool table dominated the entire place. Anyone sitting at a table would get a cue stick to the back of the head. Or to their face, depending on which seat they’d taken.
Landon sidled up to the bar and took the seat next to one of the three other patrons, so I would be able to sit without someone on the other side of me.
“Jesus, Landon, it’s three-thirty in the fucking afternoon.” An enormous man with a more-salt-than-pepper handlebar mustache growled the hostile greeting. He tromped toward us while wiping his hands on a dingy bar towel. As he walked, a ponytail that matched the color of his mustache swung back and forth.
“Yeah, Uncle Brian. I know.”
“Never gonna make it to the NHL with this kind of schedule. Don’t you have practice today?” Brian grabbed a tall beer glass, set it under the tap, and tipped the Pabst Blue Ribbon handle down.
“Had it this morning.”
“Oh, good. So does this fall under a clean eating routine?” He slid the beer in front of Landon and looked at me, his eyes and tone flicking from gruff irritation to warm and welcoming with a simple blink. Quick adjustments between customers: a successful business person’s ultimate trait. “What can I get you, sweetie?”
“Um, a Sprite?” I stammered at the abrupt change in his tone. “Please.”
He winked and pulled a glass from under the bar. Then he filled it by pressing a button on the soda gun.
“You been running?” Brian set my Sprite in front of me, but his question had been directed at Landon. At least I hoped so, because his brusque tone returned.
“Gaby, this is my uncle. Uncle Brian, this is Gaby.”
“Gaby, you say?” Brian’s eyebrows lifted.
Someone should write a book about Brian’s eyebrows. They had a personality all their own. Full and bushy with gray and white wiry hairs sticking out in every direction. Which totally fit him, because he didn’t look like an eyebrow-grooming kind of guy.
“Yes.” My voice caught on the word, a bubble of hope stuck in my throat at the thought that Landon might have mentioned me to his uncle. “Gaby Bertucci.”
Brian snatched a credit card receipt off the bar and tucked a pen behind his ear. “That’s where I knew the name. How’s your
When it came right down to it, accepting a ride with Landon wasn’t much better than accepting a ride with a random guy on the Internet. I knew him, but I didn’t know him. He was in a foul mood. He’d just taken me from the safety of my family’s business in Detroit.
Didn’t investigative television shows revolve around super scary situations like this?
Chapter 7
Okay, that part sounded crazy.
“My uncle owns this bar, Gabriella. It’s completely safe,” Landon tried to convince me through the window.
Finally, I released my grip and wiggled my fingers to help bring the blood flow back to them. He opened the door for me and grabbed my hand, helping me step out onto the broken, cracked sidewalk.
Because I’m nineteen, I haven’t been to many bars. I’ve been to the kind of bars that are also restaurants, where kids are welcome during lunch and dinner hours. I’ve been to countless concert venues, and yes there’s drinking, but since the bar is not onstage, I usually couldn’t even direct someone to it.
The building I followed Landon into was definitely a bar. The dark wood paneling made me feel like we’d fallen into a hole, and since we had to descend a few steps when we entered, I guess I could call it that. The decor screamed “dive bar,” or at least what I imagined a dive bar would look like.
Neon beer signs with logos representing every Detroit sports team, as well as a few Michigan college teams, filled the walls. A
Golden Tee
golf videogame loomed in a back corner next to a vintage
Pac-Man
table. A few two-person and four-person tables were scattered around the room, but one huge pool table dominated the entire place. Anyone sitting at a table would get a cue stick to the back of the head. Or to their face, depending on which seat they’d taken.
Landon sidled up to the bar and took the seat next to one of the three other patrons, so I would be able to sit without someone on the other side of me.
“Jesus, Landon, it’s three-thirty in the fucking afternoon.” An enormous man with a more-salt-than-pepper handlebar mustache growled the hostile greeting. He tromped toward us while wiping his hands on a dingy bar towel. As he walked, a ponytail that matched the color of his mustache swung back and forth.
“Yeah, Uncle Brian. I know.”
“Never gonna make it to the NHL with this kind of schedule. Don’t you have practice today?” Brian grabbed a tall beer glass, set it under the tap, and tipped the Pabst Blue Ribbon handle down.
“Had it this morning.”
“Oh, good. So does this fall under a clean eating routine?” He slid the beer in front of Landon and looked at me, his eyes and tone flicking from gruff irritation to warm and welcoming with a simple blink. Quick adjustments between customers: a successful business person’s ultimate trait. “What can I get you, sweetie?”
“Um, a Sprite?” I stammered at the abrupt change in his tone. “Please.”
He winked and pulled a glass from under the bar. Then he filled it by pressing a button on the soda gun.
“You been running?” Brian set my Sprite in front of me, but his question had been directed at Landon. At least I hoped so, because his brusque tone returned.
“Gaby, this is my uncle. Uncle Brian, this is Gaby.”
“Gaby, you say?” Brian’s eyebrows lifted.
Someone should write a book about Brian’s eyebrows. They had a personality all their own. Full and bushy with gray and white wiry hairs sticking out in every direction. Which totally fit him, because he didn’t look like an eyebrow-grooming kind of guy.
“Yes.” My voice caught on the word, a bubble of hope stuck in my throat at the thought that Landon might have mentioned me to his uncle. “Gaby Bertucci.”
Brian snatched a credit card receipt off the bar and tucked a pen behind his ear. “That’s where I knew the name. How’s your
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