Dead Woman Crossing by J.R. Adler (books on motivation .txt) 📗

far corner, a black bear stood still, her eyes the blackest of them all. Despite the onslaught of dead animals, The Trophy Room was the epitome of a dive bar. Even the New York City dive bars that were dive-y for the sake of placating to a bunch of hipsters who wanted to drink PBR because it was “ironic” couldn’t even come close. A couple of pool tables were off to the side with men tossing money on their next game. Gambling machines ran partially along the side of one wall. Each of them had an older man perched up to them with backs that appeared to be permanently curved. Ashtrays with small plumes of smoke emanating from them rested nearby the men. Kimberley coughed when she breathed in the thick cigarette smoke that created a haze over the entire bar.

The bar was full of local regulars that were proud to have a place they belonged. It didn’t take long, only mere seconds, for all eyes to be on Kimberley as if she were the main act of a performance who had just walked out on stage.

As Kimberley surveyed the bar, she knew Sam was right about one thing. This was the hot spot of Dead Woman Crossing, and like any hot spot, it attracted trouble. She could see it in some of the patrons, but most of all, she could see it in the bartender that stood behind the wraparound bar top. He was tall and lean save for the start of a beer belly that protruded from his ratty T-shirt. His hair was greasy and unkempt, just like the rest of his appearance. But what Kimberley noticed most about him were his eyes. They were like two large pieces of coal burning a hole into her.

Kimberley walked toward the bar unafraid of the barkeeper nor anyone else in the establishment. She had stared murderers and rapists in the eye back in the city. Some townie sleazeballs were nothing by comparison.

“You’re new here,” the bartender said, tossing a dirty stained rag over his shoulder as Kimberley bellied up to the bar.

It wasn’t a question, so Kimberley didn’t answer it. “What do you have on tap?”

“Miller Lite or Bud Light. But I’d recommend Bud if you want to fit in round here,” he said.

Kimberley couldn’t tell if he was trying to be friendly or combative, but she heeded his advice anyway. There was no sense in ruffling feathers right off the bat. There would be time for that should it come to it. “Bud it is.”

“ID?” The bartender raised his brows and held out his hand.

Kimberley rolled her eyes as she knew now he was giving her a hard time. “Really?”

She grabbed her ID from her back pocket, which was sandwiched between two credit cards, wrapped in a small wad of cash, and handed it over.

“Just making sure to uphold the law,” he jibed back. “Kimberley King,” he said, looking at the ID and then at her. His mouth curved deeper into a full sleazy grin.

“Chief Deputy King,” she corrected. “And your name?”

“Oh, we got ourselves a new badge in here, folks!” he yelled to the room. “Interesting.” He looked her up and down and licked his lips. “The name’s Ryan, and the pleasure is definitely all mine.” Ryan handed back her ID with a leer.

“Ryan, knock that off,” an older man sitting on a stool behind the bar said. He was potbellied with a bald head and broken capillaries on his face and nose.

“Sorry, Dad,” Ryan said in a hushed voice as he pulled a pint glass from beneath the bar, filling it to the brim with Bud Light. He set it down in front of her.

The old man got off his stool and walked the few steps over to Kimberley, standing beside Ryan. “Sorry about my son. I’m Jerry and I own this ’ere establishment. First rounds on me.”

“Thanks, Jerry. Appreciate it,” Kimberley said with a nod.

He gave a nod back, grabbing a few empty bottles of beer from the bar top and shuffled through a door into the back.

Kimberley took a seat at the far corner of the bar, as far from Ryan as possible. She wanted to leave right then and there but didn’t want to give any of them the satisfaction of making her feel uncomfortable, so she forced herself to stay, at least to finish her beer.

She wanted to drain the whole thing but instead sipped it carefully, watching her surroundings, observing how the patrons interacted with one another. Kimberley noticed that everyone in the bar essentially knew one another.

She caught nuggets of conversations as she surveyed the room.

“Where’s your old woman?”

“I left her home with the kids. This is me time. I’ve been working out on that damn farm all day.”

All of it sounded the same to Kimberley, complaining about their wives, their farm, or their sports team.

How could they live this way with everyone knowing nearly everything about you? Where you went to school. Who you’ve dated. Where you worked. All of their transgressions and flaws might as well be tattooed across their faces.

She took another sip of beer, her eyes peering over the pint glass at the pieces of coal staring back at her from across the bar. Ryan winked at her, causing Kimberley to visibly shiver. She looked away, but she still sensed him and all his smarminess. She turned the swivel part of her stool, focusing on the other side of the bar where the pool tables, dartboards, and gambling machines were set up. Nearly everything was in use aside from one lone slot machine that had a sign on it that read “Out of Order” in black marker.

At one pool table, two men and a woman played, although it appeared the woman was merely there for show, not to actually participate. She held the pool stick, but Kimberley never saw her shoot once, just a fixture for the men. At another table, two burly men that looked like