“Yeah, but is that the kind of place you want? You’d have to hire a fancy chef and pay him a mint. Then you’d have to deal with snooty customers. Plus, this place would need a serious overhaul. You’re talking about a major investment.”
I bite my lip. He’s right, and there’s only one place I know to go for that kind of investment, and it isn’t the local bank. I’m talking about the only place I could find to loan me the money to buy this bar. Even during COVID, when the owner was selling it for peanuts, just happy to get out of the losing business, I still didn’t have enough saved. Even with the substantial trust my mother left me when she died.
I’d waitressed here long enough to know that once the epidemic was over, the tourists would return, and this spot right on Main Street was prime real estate. This historic building, with its second-floor apartment, was perfect for me. I could live above the bar and run the place. It would be perfect. I knew it would be a cash cow again once the pandemic was over. At least, that’s what I believed the day I waited on one very special customer.
Five years earlier—
I heard the bikes before I saw them.
Wiping down the counter of the empty bar, I had plenty of time to gaze out the window onto Main.
Two bikes roared up, then slowed, and the riders backed their bikes to the curb right out front. I could clearly see the patches on their backs. The winged skull with the crooked crown and the top and bottom rockers. Royal Bastards, Colorado.
I’d heard of them before, seen them, even. So, I wasn’t really afraid when the two men walked through the door and took a seat at a table near the back.
Gathering myself, I pasted on a smile and approached. “What can I get you, gentlemen?”
The one with the president’s patch over his breast looked up with piercing blue eyes, his long blond hair flowing past his shoulders. He was in his late forties, or maybe even his early fifties. I was never very good at guessing ages. However old he was, he was still in his prime.
“Bring us a pitcher of draft and two shots of your top-shelf bourbon,” he ordered.
My eyes shifted to the second man. He was dark-haired, but probably close in age to his president. His patch read, vice president.
“Yes, sir.”
When I returned with a tray carrying their beer and shots, their quiet, murmured conversation stopped.
“Would you care for anything to eat?” I asked.
The president shook his head, and I withdrew.
With no one else in the bar, I studied the men. There was something appealing about them. They carried themselves with such authority and power—the kind that was understood on sight.
If the bar had been packed, men would have moved out of their way when they entered. I had the feeling they were thekind of men who’d own any room the moment they walked through the door.
Pete, the owner, was out back having a cigarette and probably calling the real estate agent he’d told me about. He’d informed me this morning he’d reached the end of his rope. He was so far in the red, he planned to sell the place and felt he’d be lucky if he could find a buyer to take over the balance of his mortgage.
Said he just wanted out and to go back to LA.
Pete never did much care for Durango and had only moved here chasing a woman who ended up breaking his heart.
Not long after that, he turned to the bottle, and the bar went to shit.
With his decision to sell, I knew I’d soon be out of a job, and no one in town was hiring. Not now, at the height of a worldwide pandemic.
I had thirty-five thousand of the trust my mother left me, most of the money that hadn’t become available to me until the day I turned twenty-four. I’d only had it for about six months, and I’d been so torn about what to do with it.
Every time I thought I’d figured out a plan, I changed my mind.
I knew one thing: that money was all I had, and I couldn’t afford to make a mistake and lose it all.
But today the decision seemed to be staring me in the face. This was my opportunity, and I had to grab it with both hands.
When Pete told me his plans to sell, and the amount left on the mortgage, I’d quickly gone into the bathroom and used my phone to pull up what a down payment on that amount would be.
Pete said his bank had told him that due to the pandemic, they were now offering loans with down payments as low asten percent because there were so many properties flooding the market.
Pete still owed $550,000 on the place. Even with a ten percent down payment, I’d still be short $20,000. If I wanted to make this work, I was going to need a partner or an investor.