The music was turned down automatically when the ten-inch screen stereo that had been set up free of charge showed that he had a phone call.
Why was it that someone always seemed to call when he had better things to do or was simply in his groove?
He was tempted to simply reject the call and let the music continue, but there was always a chance that it was something important. Still, he hated the notion that everything had to stop because someone wanted to chat. He had no idea why no one bothered to simply send him a text so he could respond to it eventually when it suited him.
"Someone had better be dead," Taylor grumbled under his breath. "Or someone will be."
He pushed the call details to the HUD on the windscreen and narrowed his eyes. His frown became a grin before he tapped the button on the steering wheel that would answer the call.
"My man, Bungees. How the fuck are you?" he asked and very quickly came to terms with the fact that he would have to talk to someone today anyway. In this instance, the fact that he wanted to speak to the man certainly eased the process.
"Not too bad," Bungees voice came back at him from the speakers. "It's as hot as fuck out here but still not too bad. How about you?"
"I’m sitting in my truck with the AC on full blast, driving along the highway, and listening to some tunes," he replied. "I don’t have a thing to complain about."
"So, what's this I hear about you coming to Vegas?" Bobby—aka Bungees—asked. "Is it only to see me or do you plan to lose all your hard-earned cash at the craps tables? Because I'm happy with either one."
"I had a business proposition I wanted to run by you. It’s kind of the reason why I chose Vegas, actually. The business, that is. The fact that you are there is merely a happy coincidence if I'm honest."
"Are you sure you didn't choose Vegas because the girls are looser than the tax laws in the Cayman Islands?" the man retorted.
"It's not…only that," Taylor said and tried to stay honest to himself and his long-time friend. "It's the fact that the Zoo needs more biomass. At least in the desert, it won't have a city-full of people sitting on flora it doesn’t have to change to jungle to swallow like it would in fucking New York or LA. With that said…"
"Loose women is a close second?" The other man completed his statement for him.
"Well, yes, sure." He changed lanes to pass the minivan that looked like a family road trip from Missouri. "After everything that went down and sudden death, I'm not looking for anything long-term anyway. If the both of us or hell, all three of us agree to be adults and be in it for simple human comfort, I'm all for that shit. I know, it’s not very politically correct of me in this day and age but hey, if they don't want to be involved at all, I'm down for that too."
There was a pause on the other end. "It sounds like you've thought this shit through."
"What can I say, I like planning ahead in most aspects of my life." Taylor laughed, leaned back in the comfortable seat of the truck, and watched as the miles ticked by on the odometer. "So, what do you say, man? I know you have a job there, and from what I found out through flicking through the cable channels, apparently your own TV show on the Auto-TV channel as well. So if you're not interested, I completely understand."
"I don't think you do," Bungees replied. "But I'll forgive you for that without you even asking me. See, the owner of the auto shop I work at gets all kinds of money from the TV contract, but we don’t see much of it trickling down to us. Not only that, the kind of stress that goes into making the audiences happy…well, it's not as good as you might think."
"Fair enough." Taylor grimaced when his imagination expanded on the idea of having to pander to the public. "Look, I'll pull into town in a couple of hours. Do you want to have a drink when I get in?"
"I have a late shift tonight, my man, but maybe sometime tomorrow?" He sounded genuinely regretful. "I'll call you and let you know the when and the where."
"That sounds good to me. I’ll still get a drink, though. There’s nothing better to wash away the feeling that you get from driving all day."
"Why didn't you fly?"
"Do you think I'll trust my livelihood to the hands of movers?" he asked. "Now I know you're crazy."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." His friend laughed. "Anyway, it'll be good to see you again, Taylor. It'll be like the old days."
"Not too much like the old days, I hope," he responded. "Talk soon, Bungees."
The line clicked and the moment of silence that came over him before the music kicked in again was one of careful thought.
He couldn’t help but wonder if he had made the right decision in coming out there.
But FFDP came on and soon, he rocked out to the metal that was loud enough to lock out any other emotions and thoughts other than those conveyed by the people on the other side. You know, those with the musical talent.
There weren't many views that were more overwhelming than the sight of Las Vegas as the sun began to set. Say what you wanted about the place, it was a monument to the stubbornness of the people who set up a huge tourist city in the middle of the fucking Mojave Desert and made that shit work.
Essentially, they’d carved out a place in human history that would last for a long, long time.
All the glittering lights and brilliant views of the city weren't quite his scene, though, and while he did have money to spend, he knew better than to let any be funneled down the drain created by the local casinos and hotels.
Taylor cruised slowly along South Las Vegas Boulevard and grimaced, relieved that he’d opted to avoid the hotels crammed almost shoulder to shoulder. Instead, he’d chosen a smaller hotel he considered a safe and comfortable distance away and so was a little more affordable. Still, one had to at least see the Strip if you visited Vegas—which he’d done so had that out the way.
If it hadn’t taken thirty minutes to go five blocks, it might have been less frustrating.
Once out of the mess, he followed his GPS to Boulder Highway and Sam’s Town, relieved to watch the overwhelming neon fade into the distance in the rearview mirror. The three-star hotel complex obviously included the Vegas-requisite gambling hall with enough tables and slot machines to guarantee a good income, but he wasn't there for any of that. He needed somewhere to park his truck off the street and a room to spend the night before he met the realtor he'd contacted the day before to begin his search for a place to settle down in.
Check-in was quick and painless since they were a few months removed from the prime tourist time of year. He had hoped to be able to sleep in the truck but it had proven to be a bad idea. In turn, it meant he’d needed to find stops during his drive from DC to Vegas, and it had been tough going for a while.
But there he was in the hotel he thought he might maybe call home—for a while, at least. It smelled a little of cigarettes. There couldn’t be that many people who still smoked in the world, but they seemed to congregate there. The sounds of slot machines trying to lure people in to spend their hard-earned quarters were easy to resist as he completed check-in and headed up to his room.
Taylor wasn’t sure how long he’d need to wash the four-day drive off him, but however long it took him, he was left with the positive feeling that it was gone. He could focus on the next chapter of his life without looking back too far unless he chose to.
He stepped out of the shower, dried off quickly, and draped the hotel towel around his waist before he moved through the cloud of mist caused by the long shower and wiped his hand across the mirror.
His reflection revealed a certain gauntness to his features he didn’t really like. It was as if a haunted look lingered around the man in the mirror and Taylor didn’t actually feel that way. It was a little annoying but not enough to give him pause.
By force of habit, he rolled his shoulders and his neck in quick succession. He felt a little drained but not tired enough to warrant an early night.
“I need a fucking drink is what I need,” he grumbled.
Even though
he had no one to join him, it still felt like the way to go and he wasn’t in the mood to raid the overpriced minibar. He would ask the front desk if there were any sports bars in the area. That way, the attention would not be directed at any newcomers. He’d simply be one of a crowd.
Chapter Four
When he approached the woman at the front desk, she was willing to help. While she clearly wasn’t thrilled to hear that he wouldn’t spend his money at their particular establishment, they did have recommendations in the area around the hotel that might be more to his taste.
The clerk seemed very keen to push him toward one in particular. A pleasant little sports bar could be found around the next corner, she said. It had a kitchen so would see to any of his drinking, eating, or gambling needs. She even had a pamphlet that would give him fifty percent off his first drink at Jackson's Bar and Grill. It was a decent enough offer.
"Thanks, I guess," Taylor said and his gaze studied the coupon she'd handed to him, which included her signature. He logically assumed that the clerks who worked there might have the coupons on hand and would be offered free drinks or food for however many coupons with their signature on were handed in at the bar.
It was a neat system that many hotels and bars worked to help each other, and since it was mostly based on rewarding employees for good service, he was all for it.
There was also the part about having half off his first drink that definitely had appeal.
"No problem," she said with a broad smile and tilted her head to look at him with a smile. "I hope you enjoy yourself."
"Yeah, me too." He left the hotel and made his way toward the street.
As the sun had almost completely set, he could feel the temperatures around him drop sharply. He had felt the same thing out in the Sahara, where the lack of humidity in the air meant the heat that would bake anything beneath it dissipated quickly and temperatures fell to almost freezing sometimes.
Of course, the city around him and all the asphalt would hold onto the warmth for a few hours more, but it would could get hellishly cold before midnight.
He didn't mind, though. There was more than enough time to return to the hotel for a nice long rest before it became uncomfortable.
For now, though, he looked forward to getting slightly buzzed without the worry that he had to drive anywhere.
The establishment didn't look too impressive from the outside, but he didn't need it to. Stonework decorated the exterior with the name emblazoned in bright red neon above the entrance, along with advertisements for food, spirits, and video poker over the wooden awning.
A portrait of President Andrew Jackson was prominent beside the name, a little to the left. It seemed a little odd, especially when he realized that it was the same portrait as the one used on the twenty-dollar bill. They were clearly looking to make the name count and he decided he couldn’t fault them for that.
Taylor wondered if there was actually a Jackson involved in founding the business or if it was merely named after the president, but it seemed like an inane question and he shrugged it aside.
He strode through the entrance and the small lobby curved to the left to lead him into a room that was surprisingly well-lit for a bar. Or maybe he was simply used to the darker, more pub-like establishments they had around the Zoo.
It was a pleasant surprise to see that it was a Packer's bar, as evidenced by the helmets on display and the small shrine to the team on his left. The sight triggered one hell of a kick to the nostalgia bone he’d thought he kept well-hidden.
That alone was enough to encourage him to make a note to himself that he would return often if only to pay homage to the home team.
As he turned to the bar itself, he saw it was manned by only one bartender—a younger woman—and looked a little abandoned. It wasn’t entirely unexpected given the hour and the season. It would probably fill up with a vengeance come football season or maybe during the weekends when sports were on.
For the moment, they played a few reruns of the baseball games that were happening around the country, pre-season games for the most part although a few triple-A games were already deep into their seasons.
The bar itself had screens that enabled the patrons to indulge in the advertised video poker. An area in the back was designated for people who wanted to focus more on either the sports or the food aspects of the establishment, whereas the front was dedicated to drinking and gambling.
President Jackson made a few more appearances around the bar, as well as the same stonework he'd noticed on the outside, which gave it a nice, sturdy aesthetic.
Taylor was probably unlikely to do much gambling, but if he was still in Vegas come football season, he would definitely return for the opening game.
For now, though, he would simply have a drink or two.
The bartender smiled as he dropped onto one of the stools, grabbed a rag, and ran it across the bar top as she strode over. "Evening, stranger, how can I help you?"
He withdrew the coupon from his pocket and placed it on the bar top. "I don't suppose this is still valid."
She laughed, took it, and studied it carefully before she placed it in the cash drawer. "It sure is."
"Then I think I'll have a whiskey sour," he said. "And, for a drink that won't have half off, whatever you have on tap."
"Coming right up," she said, still smiling. It didn't feel fake, at least not to him. She seemed to enjoy her work. Maybe she would rather be at home in comfortable clothes and shoes but she didn't mind being there.
Or perhaps she was merely happy for the distraction from boredom. There were five, maybe six people in the entire establishment he could see and none of them looked like they had any real interest in keeping the bar busy.
"So where are you from?" she asked as she handed him the beer first.
"You can call me Taylor," he replied and took a sip from the stout that she put in front of him. "And I do hail originally from Madison, Wisconsin, but all over the place after that."
"That sounds fun," she replied. "I'm Alex, by the way. I’m a Green Bay native, myself."
"A woman after my own heart," he quipped with a chuckle, and he meant it too.
The girl was slim but not overly so, and her mostly flannel and jeans clothes left enough to the imagination to make her interesting.
She wore her straight, black hair short, barely shy of her shoulders, and the right side was shaved to reveal a couple of tattoos. One, in particular, trailed down to her neck. It looked like a black snake with wings draped down the body.
He was curious as to whether it was supposed to mean anything. He had a couple himself. One on his back read Semper Fidelis in strong black letters and his shoulder boasted his regiment's shield. There were a couple more here or there, mostly work he’d chosen without thought while he was drunk and then regretted it almost immediately.
Still, they were remnants of what he had done and been in the past and he'd never looked into removing them, no matter how embarrassing they might be. He was who he was, mistakes and all.
"So, how come you're with us here, Taylor?" Alex asked as she finished the whiskey sour and wiped her hands on a washcloth.
"You have all kinds of questions, don't you?" he asked with a small smile.
"Hey, I make most of my money on tips and people tip better when the cute bartender is talkative," she replied smoothly like she had expected the question. "So, will you answer the question or do you prefer that I ask another?"
"Nah, I'm good." His smile remained in place. "Well, I'm here to start a business. I only arrived today and I'm in the mood for a drink. How about you—what brings you out to Vegas?"
"Would you believe that I was shooting for Hollywood and landed in Vegas instead?" she asked and leaned closer.
"I have no reason not to believe you." For once, he phrased his words carefully. "I would be curious to hear what you hoped to accomplish in Hollywood. Or maybe still want to accomplish. You look like you have the will to succeed in what y
ou're interested in."
"Well, thanks for that." She laughed. "Anyway, I lied. I have a scholarship to finish my bachelor’s degree in econ at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, and I'm here merely to pay the bills before I graduate."
"Well, I guess you could still make your way to Hollywood and make a name for yourself as an ass-kicking economist or…uh, entrepreneur, something like that," he said, then took a sip of his beer first and another of the whiskey sour. "It depends on where you want to end up, I guess."
"How about you?"
"Well, I won’t go too deep into my past, but I do have a degree in mechanical engineering I intend to use."
"Paid for by the GI bill?"
"How'd you know?"
Alex shrugged. "I know a military man when I see one. It's like you guys look uncomfortable in clothes that aren't uniforms."
"Fair enough, but the Corps paid for my degree between tours," he explained. "They liked having someone who knew what they were doing running things from the front."
"I can understand that." She tilted her head and smiled her wide, genuine smile. "Did you see any action?"
"You have no idea." He deliberately stopped at that. It was better to keep some mystery and avoid the subject of where he'd seen the action. His train of thought was broken, however, when the entrance doors were yanked open and the ruckus the new arrivals caused in the parking lot spilled in.
They brought it quickly into the bar. There were six of them with expensive suits, haircuts, and watches and looked like they had left drunk behind about three hours before and were very good friends with stupid drunk.
"Hey, man, they can kick us out of the party," one of the frat boys shouted. "But they can't kick the party out of us!"
"Hey, barkeep," another shouted and swaggered to the bar. "I’ll need shots of tequila for my boys, and if you're willing to add strip club to this bar, there'll be one hell of a tip in it for ya."
The way he grabbed his crotch clearly indicated that he didn't mean a gratuity. The others in the group laughed uproariously. One fell back to land on one of the nearby stools and managed to topple it and a handful of others to the floor in a loud clatter. It only served to make them laugh harder.
Hired Killer (Cryptid Assassin Book 1) Page 4
