CHARLOTTE: Soul Sisters - Book One (The Soul Sisters 1)

by Nicole James

  Buffalo Beverage delivers the alcohol order every Wednesday morning, and the following week’s order has to be placed by 2p.m. on Monday. Don’t forget.

  The safe in the office has a till already made up for the cash register. I start every weekday with one hundred dollars. Most people use cards. If you have a problem with the POS system, that’s point-of-sale in case you didn’t know, there’s a phone number taped to the side. The combination to the safe is mom’s birthday.

  Shelly and Pete should be able to do everything without any supervision.

  Whatever you do, do not feed the stray dog. He’s actually not a stray but belongs to the jerk who lives in the brown shack behind the gas station. He’s an asshole, so just steer clear of him.

  Have fun on your fake vacation.

  Scarlett

  I glance over to the gas station and indeed see a brown shack in the distance behind it. I wonder if the guy she referred to works at that gas station. If he does, I’ll probably be running into him since it’s the only place around.

  I yank the door handle and climb out, stretching. It’s quiet out here, and the air smells fresh. The Spring Mountains stand in the distance, probably not too far of a drive. I step up onto the boardwalk and lean to the window to see inside. I cup my hand around my eyes, but it’s hard to tell much. There’s a bar on the right wall with a long mirror.

  Before I unlock it, I walk around the building to check out the house. It’s only set back about twenty yards.

  It’s cute, with several steps up to a little porch. I insert the key and open the door. There’s a tiny living room open to a dining area and kitchen in the back. The whole place is probably about the size of my living room. She’s painted everything cream colored, so it all has a shabby chic feel to it. To the left is a hall. I wander down it to find a bathroom with a claw-foot tub and one bedroom. The place is charming with a cottagey feel.

  Scarlett has an old wrought iron bed with a pretty white wedding ring quilt. I stroke my hand over it, and immediately know it’s one our mother made before she passed. Every stitch was done by hand. Mother made each of us one. Mine’s packed away in some box in my LA home, while Scarlett’s is lovingly displayed and used. I feel like such a shit daughter, and not for the first time.

  Guilt over the fact I wasn’t home when my mother passed floods me. A screw up that big doesn’t leave.

  I look at an antique dresser with an oval mirror. Photos stick out of the frame. Scarlett and a man, looking happy and in love. In one they’re at the bar, in another at a beach somewhere, and in one they’re in leather on a motorcycle up in the mountains. The first two are selfies, but the third someone took for them. Her smile is bright, like the girl I remember from our youth. I study the man’s strong face and warm eyes. He must have been the love of her life, and I ache all over for her.

  “I hope you were good to her, Buck,” I whisper. “You left her your bar, so I suppose you must have been.”

  I glance around the room, looking for more clues of the woman my sister has become. She feels like such a stranger now. There’s a collection of bracelets—the kind that stack up the wrist—displayed on a stand, there’s also a man’s watch and a heavy silver bracelet with a large turquoise stone—the kind a man would wear. A bottle of men’s cologne sits dead center. I suppose she keeps it for memories. I lift it to my nose and breathe it in, wondering what kind of a man he was. I hope he loved my sister well and fully.

  I set it down, feeling like I’m intruding, and backtrack to the door. Her red electric guitar sitting in a stand in the corner of the living room stops me. I stare at it for a long moment, then lock up and head to the bar. It’s quarter to two, so hopefully I have plenty of time to look around the bar before Shelly or Pete arrive.

  I walk out the door and head to the bar.

  I unlock the front door and walk in, then lock it behind me, not quite feeling safe just yet. I take in the space. The floor is rough-hewn wood planking. The bar top is shiny copper. It and the bar back with its long top and elaborate mirror are the only things that look like they hold any value. Everything else looks old and well used. There are round tables with wooden chairs scattered around the room, and a small stage takes up the left wall with an equally small dance floor. An old jukebox sits in the back of the bar on the other side of a pool table.

  I stroll that way and find a wall filled with photos of patrons partying in the bar. Most of them are of bikers, men and women, predominately young. I see a lot of the women in the photos have their hair braided like Scarlett had, and I now have, and many have bandanas wrapped around their heads, Willie Nelson style, or tied around their necks.

  I dig in Scarlett’s cross body bag and find a couple of dollar bills. I insert some into the jukebox and play music. It fills the silence and makes me envision the place full of the people pictured on the wall. I can almost hear the clack of the pool balls and patrons laughing.

  I walk behind the bar and catch my reflection in the mirror with my own braid and the straw cowboy hat. Do I look the part? I suppose I do. It’s like Scarlett is staring back at me.

  I slide the stainless top on a bottle cooler open and lean in to grab a bottle of beer. Despite the bar’s worn condition, everything is clean. I twist the top and down a portion, then out of curiosity, I draw half a draft beer and taste it, wondering if the beer will taste skunky, flat, or warm. I find it to be ice cold and perfect.

  I stare around at the place. Yes, I can handle some time here with nothing to worry about except pouring drinks and having fun. I down the rest of the beer, then get to work putting the chairs down from where they’re perched on the tables. I take that as a good sign that the floors were mopped last night.

  When I’m finished, I find the office in a hall behind the bar, as well as a storage room stacked with cases of beer. There’s a cluttered desk, and I spot a small safe on the floor behind it. I open it using my mother’s birthday. 12-21-69.

  There’s a prepared till, a few extra stacks of fives and ones, a bank deposit bag, and under that… a handgun.

  I freeze, staring at it, wondering what its presence means. I suppose running a bar like this a person might need it. I also wonder if I’ll ever have a need for it. It makes me wonder if Scarlett has a gun stashed somewhere in her house. A woman alone, out here in the middle of nowhere… I bet it’s a long wait for a cop to show up.

  I wonder if it’s loaded. I hesitate to touch it to find out. Instead, I decide to lock the safe back up. At least I know it’s there if I need it. I pray I won’t.

  There’s a rap at the window glass of the front door. I stand and move out to the bar. A girl has her hand cupped around her eyes as she peers in. She must spot me, because she waves. I unlock the door and step back. This must be Shelly. I have to remind myself I’m supposed to know her and most of the customers who walk in here.

  “What’d you lock the door for?” She brushes past me to stow her purse behind the bar, then pulls her long red hair up into a bun. With the hair tie between her teeth, she asks, “Well, how’d it go?”

  “How’d what go?”

  She gives me an exasperated look. “Lunch with your sister. I want to hear all the details. So spill.”

  I swallow. “It was nice. I mean we had a good talk.”

  Her brows lift. “A good talk? Seriously. Did you tell her?”

  “Tell her what?” Shit, I’ve got to quit asking questions I should know the answers to. I bite my lip. This is going to be harder than I thought. Back when we were kids, switching places for a prank was easy because I knew everything about Scarlett. Now I’m flying blind.

  Shelly jams her hand on her hip. “I thought you were going to tell her off.”

  I glance around the bar, looking for something to do, when everything is spotless. I grab a stack of coasters and tap them on the bar, like they need straightening. I shrug. “Oh, well, I did. I mean, of course I did. I laid into her. She apologized for how everything ended between us, and now”—I
lift a shoulder—“now we’re all good.”

  She frowns. “You’re all good?”

  “Yep.”

  Her eyes shift toward the jukebox. Taylor Swift’s Love Story is playing. “You haven’t played this song since Buck died.”

  Crap. “I just turned it on. It’s playing songs someone loaded last night, I guess.”

  “I wish you’d sing it again. I mean, I know it was you two’s song and all, but I always loved the way you sang it. And the crowd always loved it.”

  I shrug, not knowing what to say.

  “Wasn’t it the song you were singing when Buck first laid eyes on you?”

  I nod, because I think it’s the right answer.

  She steps to the cash register and digs some change out of a big glass jar I hadn’t noticed, then moves toward the back. “You really need to have the guy load it with some new stuff. I mean, I know there are songs in here that Buck loved. And I get you have an aversion to rotating them out, but we could update some stuff, couldn’t we?”

  “I suppose.”

  She drops some coins and punches in some selections.

  The door opens, and a man walks in. He’s tall and cute.

  “Ladies.”

  Shelly looks back over her shoulder. “Pete, call the vending guy and ask him to come load some new shit in this thing.”

  “Sure thing, Shel. Mind if I get ten steps in the door before you start giving me orders?”

  She blows him a kiss. I try to get the feel of their relationship by watching their body language. He winks back at her, and I wonder if these two have hooked up.

  It isn’t long before the thundering sound of motorcycles fills the air, and four bikes pull up outside. They park in front, backing their bikes to the boardwalk.

  A man and woman climb off each of the bikes and pull their helmets off.

  I move to the back end of the bar, putting Pete between us so I won’t be put on the spot if they ask for their usual.

  The first one through the door is a big guy with a happy smile. “Line us up, Pete.”

  Pete smiles. “You’re out early today, Scott.”

  “Yeah, Tina wanted to go up to the mountains this morning. It was a good ride.”

  Pete lines eight ice cold bottles of beer on the bar top and takes Scott’s credit card.

  “Start us a tab, will ya?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I stare at the bunch and wonder if Scarlett and Buck used to ride with them. Perhaps if he hadn’t died, they’d have been on that motorcycle in the photo, riding up to the mountains with them.

  “You doin’ okay, honey?” Scott meets my eyes.

  I suppose the fact that I haven’t greeted them warmly is telling.

  “Sure,” I reply, giving a half smile.

  “This one of those days?” He tilts his head to the side.

  I nod.

  He folds his arms, elbows to the bar, and stares down. “We all miss him, babe. We spotted some wild horses up in the mountains today. Buck always loved them, didn’t he?”

  I nod but don’t reply.

  The woman he referred to as Tina, who looks about my age, walks over toward me. Her long brown hair falls in a braid down her back. She motions me out from behind the bar, and I come, wondering what this is about. She loops her arm around my shoulders and walks me down the hall and out the back door. I take my cue from her, and we sit on the three wooden steps that lead to the dirt.

  She pulls a joint out of a pocket, dips her head to light it, and then passes it to me. I take it between my fingers, suck down a long drag, and pass it back.

  “You need to get out more. You can’t stay holed up here all the time. Buck wouldn’t want that.”

  I exhale, feeling the drug tingle through me. I stare at the little white house my sister lives in, and the horizon beyond, and say softly, “How do you know what he’d want? Maybe this is exactly what he’d want.”

  She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Come on, Scar. This is me. I know you. You’re a shell of who you used to be. Hell, you don’t even sing anymore.”

  I shrug. “Guess I’m just not feelin’ it.”

  “When’s the last time you picked up your guitar?”

  “I play. Mostly late at night.” I’m making up answers. I have no idea if they’re the truth, but they feel right somehow.

  “Do something for me?”

  I turn to look at her. All my career, I’ve heard words like those. Someone always asking for something, everyone wanting something from me. I have to mentally shake off my initial response, because I’m not Charlotte Justice right now. I’m just Scarlett, whose friend is concerned about her. “What’s that?”

  “Sing tomorrow night, like you always used to do on Friday nights.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  “We’re BFFs, and I normally wouldn’t pull this card, but you owe me one. I’m collecting. Tomorrow night. You’re singing.”

  I stare at this woman. She’s Scarlett’s best friend. I wonder why I owe her. I nod. “All right, Tina. But I’m only doing this because you’re making me.”

  She grins and passes the joint back. “Good enough.”

  I take another toke, wondering if this is a regular thing for Scarlett—getting high, or if it’s just a once in a while kind of deal. I pass the joint back and decide to make small talk. “So, how was your ride?”

  “Great. Of course we stopped to see Buck.”

  I turn to look at her, my eyes pinning hers.

  She dips her head. “I know, don’t give me that look. You know Scott misses him, too. He hung his Saint Christopher’s medal around the cross.” She huffs a laugh. “I told him it’s a little late for Saint Christopher’s help, but he just glared at me, said he wanted Buck to have it and wished he’d given it to him before…”

  Her eyes glaze, and it’s my turn to bump her shoulder. “Quit. You’re going to make us both cry.”

  She laughs and wipes her nose, her tears spilling down her cheeks. “Too late.”

  I wrap my arms around her and hug her.

  “He was one of the good ones,” she whispers.

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “But enough of this shit. I came out here to cheer you up. I guess I suck at being a friend. All I do is make it worse.”

  I shake my head. “Never.”

  She taps the end of the joint out and tucks it away, then stands. “Come on, let’s go back inside, drink a beer, and be badass bitches like the old days.”

  I follow her inside and let her buy me a beer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Charlotte—

  It’s a couple of hours after sundown, and the place is full. Through the course of conversation, I’ve learned that Tina and Scott have been together four years, since she was twenty-three and he was thirty. Scott and Buck served together in the Air Force. He also bought Buck’s motorcycle from Scarlett. They live thirteen miles north in Indian Springs, where Scott works at the base there, as a private contractor.

  I’ve picked up the names of the other couples in the group, too. Joe and Ellen, Bill and Rebecca, and Tom and Patty. They get together at least once a week for a ride.

  Finally, they stand to leave, and we all hug. I walk them outside and watch them pull out, waving them off.

  It’s a starry night, and I stand and listen as the roar of the motorcycles fades into the distance a moment before heading back inside.

  I let Shelly and Pete handle the bar, and I busy myself with cleaning up tables. The jukebox has been playing nonstop all night, but no one’s taken the stage, so I assume Scarlett hasn’t hired a band or anything. I heard someone mention open mic night tomorrow and assume that’s when Tina is going to want me to sing.

  I’m cleaning up the empties on the ledges around the pool table about twenty minutes later, when I hear more motorcycles roar up outside. I turn to see two single headlights turn in a sweep as they back their bikes in. I return to my work. I’m carrying a tray of empties to
the bar to toss when I see two men come through the door. They’ve got leather vests on, and when they move to the bar, I see the patches on the backs of those vests. They read Evil Dead MC across the top and Nevada across the bottom, with three skulls in the center.

  I wonder if they come in here often. I scan the room, taking in the glances customers are throwing in their direction. No one approaches them, and I wonder if they’ve ever been here before. I want so badly to ask, but Shelly and Pete would expect me to know the answer. Shelly waits on them, lines up two shot glasses, and fills them with Jack. They toss them back, and one lifts his chin for her to fill them again. She does and brings them each a bottle of beer.

  “This is a first,” Pete mutters as he passes me to ring up an order. I fiddle with some glasses and stand near him.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I’ve never seen them in here before, have you?”

  I shake my head, having no clue if Scarlett has or not. I glance at the reflection in the mirror. One has a full beard and long hair that brushes his shoulders; its brown and streaked with golden highlights from the sun. He doesn’t smile. The other has darker, shorter hair, though still unruly and also sports a full beard. They’re both probably in their thirties and are fit and muscular from what I can see of their bare tattooed arms under that leather. My gaze drops to the patches on their chests; one says VICE PRESIDENT, the other says SGT AT ARMS.

  The Vice President glances at the mirror and catches me looking.

  I move off to bus more tables. A few locals who arrived in pickup trucks are clearing out, and I can’t help wondering if it’s because of these two men sitting at the end of the bar, looking all badass. It’ll piss me off if they run off business.

  An elderly man in a worn cowboy hat shuffles toward the door. He pats my shoulder. “You take care, Scarlett, honey.”

  I turn and smile into his watery blue eyes surrounded by leathery skin that’s spent too much time in the sun. I wish I knew his name. “You too, sweetie.”

  He smiles and leaves.