Suddenly, in the swarming dark of the crowd, she could see Bethany’s golden, smooth head bobbing its way steadily toward them. She was wearing a darling off the shoulder red shirt, and the exposed shoulder was the kind of smooth, polished tan only money could buy.
“And that’s Franco Francone sitting on a stool over there,” Eli added, almost as a question. As if inventorying all the things that would mean something to Glory here in the Misty Cat at the moment.
“Yep. He’s sure hard to miss, isn’t he?” she said blithely, just as Bethany’s arm looped through Eli’s from behind.
“Hi, Glory!” Bethany beamed at Glory.
“Hi, Bethany!” Glory said brightly. She tried a smile, but she had a feeling she only managed to curl up part of her lip, which probably made her look either like Elvis or a rabid terrier.
Bethany looked startled. As well she might.
“Gotta go help Sherrie keep the customers drunk,” Glory said abruptly as she dove back toward the tables.
After last night, Eli really wasn’t feeling particularly charitable toward Glory. He’d resolved to have a perfectly pleasant if un-extraordinary evening with Bethany. Seeing Francone’s flawless mug and lanky body parked on a stool as he entered the Misty Cat had done nothing but solidify his resolve.
But as he watched the crowd swallow Glory up now, damned if there wasn’t that tug in his chest. As if that maddening woman kept his heart on a tether wrapped permanently around her wrist.
And it suddenly felt odd to have another arm looped through his. As though a new and unnecessary body part had been grafted onto his.
He smiled down at Bethany because it seemed the polite thing to do, and she smiled back, and that was nice.
Nevertheless. He watched the space where he’d last seen Glory.
And... there was something he had to do.
“Can I use your office to make a phone call, Glenn? I’ll see what I can do about that band.”
Eli could still hear muffledHOO HOO HOO HOOingthrough the door of Glenn’s office. He punched Deputy Owen Haggerty’s number into his phone. His heart was thudding steadily but hard, as if he was the one who was about to go onstage. As if he was about to commit a crime.
“Hey, Eli. Aren’t you on adate?”
Jesus. Everyone in town knew everything about everyone.
“Yeah,” he said shortly. “Listen, Haggerty? Will you call Deputy Becky Cameron over in Black Oak? A worried friend just reported a pack of guys with huge beards and tattoos and axes out on the highway near Prentiss. Parked in a bus. Out on I-5. Maybe send armed backup. Drugs might be involved.”
Not a bit of that statement was inaccurate. So help him.
There was no way a band didn’t have axes on them, for instance.
The six-string kind, that was.
And in this part of California, it was hard to know whether possessors of big bushy beards were ironic hipsters or meth-making neck-tattooed thugs. Cops in his part of the state were unlikely to give them the benefit of the doubt. And God help The Baby Owls if they had any drugs on their bus. Which, rock and roll being what it was, they probably did.
Ah, well.
Odds were pretty good that band was in for a long night, and it wouldn’t be anywhere near the Misty Cat. At least they’d be in out of the cold, if they had drugs on them. In a nice cozy sheriff station somewhere.
He ended the call.
Guilt pinged him, but only faintly. He felt something more like steely, unapologetic resolve. Life for a band on the road was grueling. Success was hard to come by and was in large part a crap shoot. But they were already on a billboard out on the highway and on Conan and Kimmel and radios and Spotify everywhere.
He might not be Franco Francone, but he could do this for Glory. At least this much.
He could let her do the rest.
And he could go try to enjoy his night with his date.
And if he knew Glory—and boy did he—he was positive he knew what she would do next.