Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
A girl sashays towards me. Having probably deduced that I’m a first-timer, she sways her hips in a seductive way and flashes a welcoming smile. She’s not topless and she’s not carrying a tray of drinks, but it’s pretty clear from her outfit that she’s a Mule Pit employee. Her dress is flapper-esque. Something reminiscent of the Roaring Twenties of the last century. Like maybe she lives in Disciple and this old thing was just hanging in her closet.
It’s not out of place—there are plenty of women wearing costumes in the same vein—but the Mule Pit is not some Revival knockoff, so while there’s a lot to like about the dress, there’s also a lot wrong with it. In fact, that’s the perfect way to describe everything about this place. Enticing, but for questionable reasons.
“Can I help you?” she says, coming to a halt just below me. Her West Virginia accent is present, but not thick.
“Yeah. I’m looking for a drink, I guess.”
She reaches up to me with an outstretched hand, enticing me to take it with twiddling fingers.
I slowly descend the last few steps, stopping right in front of her. She’s short, maybe five four, so I’m looking down on her as she looks up. Her eyes are hazel—a little bit gray, a little bit green, a little bit brown. Her hair is dark blonde, maybe even brown in a more normal light, and she comes off as wispy, but not skinny. Her arms, while long and willowy, are also defined. I deduce that her breasts are better than average, even though she’s not showing them off. And she’s young. Early twenties at the most.
So this is my first question. “How old are you?” Because the last thing I need to get involved with is an underage girl working in an illegal titty bar. You can’t be too careful about this stuff in my experience.
“Twenty. How old are you?” She says this playfully. Like maybe I’m too old for her and my answer might dictate how this encounter goes.
But it won’t. Even if I was sixty, it’s this girl’s job to make me happy so I’ll spend money. “Twenty-seven.”
She smiles. “Perfect. Old enough to know better, but young enough not to care.”
Which is an astute thing to say, in my opinion. But I don’t bother dwelling on it because she’s already slipping her arm into mine, leading me deeper into the club. “Come on. Let’s get you that drink.”
She doesn’t take me to either of the bars, but instead ducks through a beaded curtain and we enter a long, dark hallway with rooms along either side.
“I’m not looking for sex, so if that’s what you’re expecting, I’d rather have my drink at the bar.”
Her face, when she glances over her shoulder at me, is sweet and unaffected at my suggestion that she’s a whore. “I’m not looking for sex either. I’m just gettin’ us a private room where we can relax.”
Which is a lie. She’s gonna bill me for this private room, but whatever. There’s nothing wrong with this girl. She’s nice to look at, so I’m not inclined to object.
I have money. Not a lot, but I live on a compound where all my basic needs are paid for and even though I’m the new guy at Edge, Charlie Beaufort set me up a sweet signing bonus when I got out a prison. The motorcycle was part of it. And this money is practically burning a hole in my pocket. So whatever this girl has to offer, I can cover it.
Maybe I didn’t come in looking for a girl to fuck, but would it be so bad if I found one?
We duck through another curtain and enter what appears to be a living room with a black leather couch facing a giant screen hanging on the wall. A black-and-white movie is playing with the sound turned down.
“Have a seat and I’ll get you a drink.” She points to the couch. “Will it be beer or whiskey?”
“I’ll have the whiskey.”
She holds out her hand, palm up. “Cash or credit?”
I pull out my wallet, grab a fifty-dollar bill, and slap it onto her palm. “Cash.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but I catch something here. Disappointment? Was she hoping for my credit card so she could run up a bill? Is this place just some honeypot to shake down the locals?
I doubt it. If it were, word would’ve gotten out. And while I’m not from West Virginia, I am from Tennessee and the places aren’t much different. Strangers do not build speakeasy bars in the middle of a forest with a plan to fuck over the locals.
Not smart ones, anyway.
Whatever is happening here—and clearly there is something happening here—it’s not about stealing from the locals.
It’s probably mobster shit. Or whatever equivalent organized crime they have runnin’ West Virginia. Moonshining is my guess. Which makes sense, since this place is a bar.