Beef cranes his bald head, suspicion furrowing his brow. “Wyatt here?” “Relax,” I say, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “Coast is clear.” No fighting for me. Not since I put my hand through the jukebox last year. Beef polishes a glass. “Drink?” “No.” I sidestep a couple dancing and belly up to the bar. “I’m here for—for someone.” Beef tosses a waitress a can of Bud, while saying, “You here for Jane?” “Jane?” I follow his eyeline and see bangles, sharp cheekbones, green eyes. Reese. She’s in a booth next to Lionel Wolfington. With a cheesy smile on his face, the asshole looks like he struck
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