A day passed. Two days passed in November. Thirsty and needing some time away from writing, I decided to go to Timbers, a local bar in the area owned by Matt and Briggs Daly, newlyweds after dating for the last three years. Three trucks were parked in the front, gravel lot. After parking next to one of them, I locked up my Mercedes and headed inside.
Timbers looked empty inside. Two college guys were throwing darts, buzzed. A man and woman in their late twenties smooched in a nearby booth. Rhett Aikens sang on the sound system. The place smelled like steak and beer and greasy fries; I didn’t mind.
Fuck! There he was again. I knew the strong back and wide shoulders and smooth looking neck. Plus, I knew the blond head of thick hair. Double f**k! Jack Manwood sat at the bar all by himself.
